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“I don't need anyone else.”
He said that once, didn't he? And he meant it with every fiber or his being. Wesker has been alone all his life – from the boys’ home, to getting his doctorate, to Umbrella, the military, S.T.A.R.S., everything else that followed after. He's been alone – other people just mere obstacles to overcome or tools to utilise and discard.
He tried to manufacture himself a companion with Jill, even though he'll never readily admit that to anyone. It felt good to steal something from Chris – his partner, his dearest friend, his companion – and turn her into something of his. Her hair going blonde in the process was really only the cherry on top.
But Wesker is no fool and he doesn't particularly enjoy fooling himself either – he knew he could never emulate what she and Chris had, what he, perhaps naively, perhaps childishly, has always craved and been envious of when watching their interactions in the office and their easy banter on and off the field during his time as their Captain. He knew that what he and Jill had was fake – a screen he put up over the ugliness of what he did to her, a mirage to simulate loyalty when it was just his own twisted will imposed on her, puppeteering her limbs and controlling her actions.
In all things, Wesker is, and has always been, alone. He's made his peace with that (no he hasn't) and he has revelled in it – he has succeeded alone where others failed together; what more do people need to see the proof of his excellence?
He's convinced himself that there is no dark abyss in his chest where the shape of another is missing, that the loneliness doesn't suffocate him sometimes when it's just him and his quiet, empty lab, that he doesn't crave the warm touch of another, the quiet understanding of someone else, of knowing that he is not alone in the world, that he is understood and accepted by at least one other soul on this wretched planet. Sometimes he thinks that his plans to reshape the world into something better are simply a reflection of his desire to destroy the world so that it may share in his misery – if he can't have companionship, then neither should everyone else. Let it all burn so he can dance in the ashes.
This was partly why he loathed Excella's advances and unwanted touches so much. Because it was all fake – feigned understanding and faux affection, all in the name of securing herself a top spot in Wesker's new world order. He respected her ambition, but he couldn't stand her presumption. He'd rather not be touched for the rest of eternity than feel false touches on his skin, looking to exploit his weakness.
“I don't need anyone else.”
But Wesker has been locked in an endless battle of wills with Chris for years, no end in sight to their dynamic even though, realistically, Wesker should have killed Chris a long time ago by now. He doesn't like looking too closely at the reason why but he knows it's there – hatred is just another side of love, isn't it? And it's always better to be hated than to be ignored – there is significance, importance, heavy emotion in hatred. You're always on their mind, dogging their footsteps even when you're not there, haunting their every failure to get rid of you, to extirpate you like a cancerous growth that is slowly taking over.
Would you rather be loved or feared?
Wesker would rather be hated. Love has never touched him and fear has never done him any good.
And so he's lived his entire life on his own. Tied to nothing, tethered to no one, belonging nowhere and having no home to return to. Nobody's son, nobody's friend, nobody's anything. He told himself it was better this way – fewer complications, no weaknesses to be exploited, no one to stand in his way with their fragile humanity and useless morals and fickle sentimentality.
And so that's how he dies, isn't it? When all your life you've been alone, when you've pushed and used and destroyed and killed everyone who's ever tried to cross that threshold into your inner life, when you've never once looked out for anyone but yourself, when betrayal has come more easily to you than compassion and mercy – what else can you expect but to die alone, in agony, consumed by hatred but, even worse, by fear. The fear of being forgotten, of becoming nothing but a speck in history, easily ignored and overlooked as a brief wrinkle in the natural order of things that was quickly smoothed over before long.
Wesker dies that day. He swears it. He still remembers the cold, dark fingers of death reaching out for him going all the way back to Spencer's Mansion in July of 1998 – while this is much more fiery and agonising, the end result is all the same. Coldness. Darkness. The inescapable, immutable nothingness that overtakes everything sooner or later and turns them into another part of itself.
But he doesn't stay dead. He wakes, gasping and burning from the inside out with phantom rivers of lava licking at his vulnerable flesh and burning through him like flame through dry kindling, and he sees you.
The wide, tearful eyes of his saviour are fixed upon him with disbelief and elation. The tears you wept are drying, still, on Wesker's skin – his naked chest, his sooty cheeks, his lips. You gaze at him like he's a miracle and he looks at you like you're the answer to all his prayers.
To you, he is a video game character come to life – or a hallucination caused by a severe mental breakdown as you keep insisting for a good while after he wakes up. To Wesker, you are the reason he is alive. Call it magic, call it divine intervention, call it fate – your genuine grief over his death, your desperate inner desire for him to get a second chance, to live again so that he may get the things he was deprived of that led him down the dark path he took, all of it seems to have coalesced into this: Wesker, alive and well, and sitting in your kitchen while you dazedly prepare some food for the both of you.
“I, uhm, I hope this is good enough? I didn't expect company and I've been neglecting restocking my fridge,” you apologise self-consciously as you put a plate of eggs and sausage in front of Wesker with a nervous smile.
Wesker looks down at the food, a foreign feeling stirring in his chest at the sight. The dish is nothing special – he's had Michelin star food all across the globe, the best food money can buy, the most decadent, professionally prepared dishes in the world – but it hits Wesker in that moment that he can't remember the last time he ate something made by someone else specifically for him in this manner. Not a chef trying to impress him, not an underpaid line cook completing an order – just an overwhelmed woman who scrounged up whatever edible things she could find in her fridge so she could feed him when his stomach growled embarrassingly mid-sentence half an hour ago.
“It's acceptable, dear,” Wesker says, the understatement of the century, before he picks up his knife and fork and takes a bite under your anxious gaze. And it is – perfectly acceptable. The eggs are a bit runnier than he prefers them and the sausage is burnt in places, but whether it's the hunger or something else, in that moment this seems like the best tasting food he's ever had in his life.
You smile, relieved, and as you sit down across from him to begin eating as well, you say a phrase that he's heard once or twice before when visiting your country but which he never bothered learning the meaning behind. His confusion and curiosity must show on his face because you get flustered, ducking your head as you fiddle with your cutlery.
“Sorry, I know Americans don't really say stuff like that so it must seem strange. It's, uhm, something we say before we eat? Like bon appetit, I suppose. It just slipped.”
“No, it's fine. I've heard it before. Never knew what it meant, though.”
“Well, now you know!”
The smile you give him is bright and unrestrained for a moment, kind, as if you're genuinely happy that you taught Wesker something new, and that foreign feeling rises up in his gut again as he shoves some more food into his mouth.
The sounds of cutlery scraping against your plates are the only things filling the silence and the kitchen while you eat. Wesker is still processing what has happened in the span of a few hours – he went from being on top of the world, to dying, to being resurrected on the floor of your bedroom in an alternate universe where his entire existence is a mere fabrication for people's entertainment. And you? He doubts you're having an easier time coming to terms with the fact that a fictional character whose death you were crying over an hour ago is now sitting in your house and eating your food in silence.
After you collect both of your plates and dump them in the sink, you stand hunched over it for a moment, palms propped on the edge of the sink as you look down, head bowed, probably trying to collect yourself and figure out your next move. Wesker watches you quietly, curious despite himself.
There is no urgency in his bones. For the first time since he left Umbrella, probably, he feels no need to plan or act or figure out next steps. All of it has already crashed and burned. Revenge is unattainable so long as he remains here, in this universe. And honestly? Wesker is tired. He is weary. Maybe he's earned a night or two of rest before he starts working on a way to go home, if there even is one.
So he sits and lets you work through things at your own pace, content to let someone else call the shots for the first time in his life.
“Alright. Do you want to take a shower? And get some rest or… something?”
“Yes, that would be acceptable.”
“Acceptable,” you echo, huffing, a trace of amusement in your voice. Wesker likes how you speak English – you're fluent, damn near native, and your accent is good, but it's clear you didn't grow up around English speakers. Your vowels are just a tad off sometimes, your consonants too sharp, and sometimes you emphasise sounds and syllables in a way that makes it clear you're using the instincts imposed on you by your native language. It's endearing, honestly. He thinks he'd like to listen to you talk about nonsense for hours. “Do you have any other words in your vocabulary?”
“Adequate. Satisfactory. Tolerable,” he teases.
“Okay, Mr. Merriam-Webster, no need to be an asshole.” You roll your eyes at him, some tension falling off your shoulders at the light banter, and oddly, it makes Wesker feel better too. He wants you to feel comfortable around him.
“I'm afraid that's all I've ever been, my dear,” he replies, and he doesn't mean for it to sound as heavy as it ends up being, doesn't mean to open something somber and real, but it seems like he still does when your eyes dim slightly and your mouth twists into a frown.
“That's not true,” you protest. “I mean– Obviously, I don't know you as, like, a person. But… I do know you, you know? And you are more than that. There is more to you than just evil and hatred, Albert Wesker. I wouldn't have cried so hard that I grieved you into existence otherwise.”
Wesker swallows in the wake of your words, working his jaw as he tries to figure out a way to answer. He feels exposed, flayed alive, dissected and observed in a way that he's never experienced before. He doesn't even know you yet he feels seen in a way he never has before. Is this what Chris felt with Jill? What Jill felt with Chris? What all the S.T.A.R.S. members and fellow Umbrella scientists and Birkin and Excella and all the rest of them felt every time they came together to be with the people they loved, be they partners or family or friends?
He feels foolish, sitting here and feeling these things for a woman he doesn't even know. But you… You cried him into being. Your tears slid, hot and bitter and full of adoration, straight onto his skin like life seeping into death, and brought him here. The universe wouldn't give you to him, him to you, if you weren't that missing piece he's been trying to live without his entire life. Surely.
In the end, he says nothing. You lead him to the bathroom and leave out some clothes for him – your brother's or father's or a friend of yours’, he doesn't quite catch the explanation – then leave him to it. When Wesker emerges from the shower feeling a bit more human, ironically enough, you give him your bed to sleep in and insist that you can figure something out for yourself. Were this any other situation, he would have taken the offer without comment and settled in to get some rest, uncaring of your discomfort. But it's not. And he cares.
“You will sleep with me. The bed is big enough to fit us both, don't be foolish.”
You look at him, blushing and wide eyed, but Wesker doesn't give you an opportunity to argue. He just issues his declaration then slides under the covers.
They smell like you, he notices as soon as he lays his head down on the pillow. A pleasant scent that he welcomes, letting it envelop him and cradle him almost as he heaves a deep breath and tries to sink into the moment and let the past wash away, at least for now.
“Alright then,” you mutter when it becomes apparent that he's in no mood to argue with you, then disappear into your bathroom quickly to change before you come back and join him on the mattress. “Good night, Albert.”
Albert. Excella was the last person who called him that – to simulate affection, importance, closeness. But he can't recall anyone ever calling him that with any degree of real familiarity and affection. He's always been just Wesker – throughout his youth, during his employment at Umbrella and the RPD, and onwards.
He doesn't mind it as much as he thought he might.
“Good night, dear.”
That's how your first day – and night – together goes. From there, things progress slowly but naturally. Wesker gets to know you. And the more he finds, the more he craves. He wants to know everything about you, how your mind works, what makes you tick. For once, his goal is not to find the best way to manipulate you or use you for his own gain – he's just interested in who you are for himself, to satisfy his curiosity.
And along the way he confirms what he didn't want to believe, what he struggled to accept during that first encounter: you do know him. You understand him in a way that nobody ever has before. He tried to get Chris to understand. He tried to make Jill understand. Excella thought she did. But you. You just do. Through all the similarities and differences you share, for all the ways you are the same yet entirely different – you understand him.
Weeks pass, months, and Wesker doesn't look for a way to return. Nor does he think up ways to make himself a God in this universe. He has no interest in ruling over a world that would despise him anyway – what would he do when he was inevitably successful with no one to stop him here, alone and lonely at the top? The Emperor of ashes.
No, he'd much rather stay here, domestic and banal, cradled in your arms. You worship him enough for the whole world. He's found his own little pocket of heaven right here in your lap, as your loving hands card through his blonde hair that he hasn't bothered to slick back in weeks, as you smile down at him and tell him that you want to take him to your family's place next weekend and introduce him as your boyfriend.
Wesker agrees, humming softly under your ministrations, and closes his eyes in contentment. He's home now. At long last.
And to think it only took him nearly fifty years to get here.