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Researching bio-weapons in secret for Umbrella while pulling overtime as the S.T.A.R.S. Captain in Raccoon City had been less nerve-wracking than managing the wrapping up of Zeno's first kindergarten year. Wesker threw a desperate look at the overlapping color-coded notes that had expanded past the boundaries of the school calendar and conquered the surface of his fridge. A simple glance confirmed his worst suspicions. He had snacks to pack for the following day, summer courses to book before the end of the week, and he was socially obligated to approach the PTA to volunteer his labor for the end-of-year Summer Party.
He didn't even have work to look forward to, Chris had been keeping him updated on Quint's progress with the unredacted BSAA files, only to inform him that the moment the investigation crossed a specific confidentiality threshold, security protocols dictated he be cut from the project updates entirely. It was not the first time he had been locked out of an internal investigation, but the lack of resolution from something that had been his finding in the first place always felt insulting.
Under normal circumstances, he would have tried to bargain for higher clearance in exchange for more compliance, but he literally could not fit a counter-proposal into his current agenda. Every minute of his spare time had been absorbed by his new familial obligations and the ruthlessly competitive nature of pre-school summer placements. Wesker felt absolutely no sympathy for whoever designed the academic calendar.
Deadlines approached fast, and he could barely keep up with the sheer volume of multimedia school projects, tracing exercises, and handmade crafts Zeno took home from school every day. He had to confess a reluctant admiration for the school's efficiency at freeing its classrooms from tons of macaroni art by offloading the disposal to the families.
In order to keep a semblance of order in their home, he had to explain to Zeno the importance of balancing artistic expression with keeping a tidy personal space, so they picked a few favorite pieces to display, and took detailed pictures of the rest before recycling them.
The relentless administrative upkeep left him with virtually no time to vent to Redfield about his daily struggles, disrupting what had quickly become a comforting habit for Wesker.
In the wake of the end-of-year chaos, Wesker clung to their established routines more than ever. Every morning he prepared a balanced breakfast for Zeno and himself, took him to school, parked exactly two blocks away so that they could walk the remaining distance together. It provided them some time on their own so that Zeno could discuss his expectations for the day with him and allowed Wesker to escape the traffic that he already had to deal with at pick-up time.
He had not forgotten that his involvement in the school’s summer barbecue was expected. However, he had elected at the beginning of the year to keep himself entirely out of the class group chat, determined to avoid the mind-numbing chatter and digital distractions that were sure to follow. He had made certain the administrative office had his number strictly for genuine emergencies, preferring to be available for brief, efficient, in-person communication right after drop-off.
The only exception he'd ever made was to provide his number to Nora's mother, Jane, in order to organize a playdate that the children had long begged for. She had sworn not to distribute his number, and although she failed to understand his desire for absolute privacy, she had respected his boundaries.
Jessica, the class representative and leader of the PTA, saw the two of them round the corner at their usual precise time. She waved with irritating enthusiasm. Wesker acknowledged her presence with a single, terse nod and continued onward to the exact location where he usually bid goodbye to his son.
"Are you ready for another day of formal education?" he asked, looking down at the child.
Zeno turned and hugged his legs tightly. "Yes. See you later, papa," he said, the words muffled against the fabric of Wesker's trousers. He released his grip, scanning the schoolyard until he spotted Nora near the entrance, and immediately hurried in after her.
Wesker turned on his heels, bracing himself for his inevitable encounter with Jessica.
She approached him with a blinding smile and an armful of paper.
"Good morning, Albert. As you know we're putting the final touches on the planning of the Summer Party, and I wanted to ask you if you were willing to lend a hand. These events are only possible when everyone puts in the effort."
She never went straight to the point, an annoying habit that constantly vexed him, but he had almost a full academic year of practice tamping that irritation down.
"Yes. I apologize for not volunteering my services earlier," Wesker lied smoothly, because he had zero desire to do so, and only complied out of societal obligation. "I assume I still have time to contribute in some meaningful capacity? Perhaps financially?" He allowed the hope to linger in his tone. He'd much rather waste money than his time.
Jessica laughed dismissively. "Oh, don't worry, we can definitely find something for you to do." She reached into her designer bag, extracting an honest-to-god clipboard, and flipped through the pages with a manicured finger. "Let’s see. Ah! Here we go! We need someone to man the friendship bracelet making stand—"
She looked up, encountering a deadpan expression behind his sunglasses that screamed absolutely not, and quickly cleared her throat.
"—or, we need a couple of men to haul in and assemble the backdrop for the photo booth." She nodded, apparently deciding for him. "If you're up for a little physical effort? And, of course, you can bring in any of the food items that still need to be claimed." She angled a tightly formatted Excel spreadsheet toward him.
Overwhelmed by the possibilities, Wesker took the path of least resistance. "I will manage the backdrop. And I can provide a selection of seasonal fruit."
"Very well, I'll write down your name." She scribbled his name in the allotted spaces, slid the clipboard back into her capacious bag, and handed him a neon-pink flyer from her stack. "It's next Wednesday," she told him, tapping the date in bold with a pointy pink nail. "Remember, it's at the big field at the back of the park. There's a map of the parking zones on the reverse side. Volunteers set up at 3:30, and the actual party activities start at 4:00," she specified, stopping her finger on the time at the bottom. "You can give the RSVP slip to Zeno any day this week after filling out the number of adults and children attending. Sarah will collect them on Friday so we can perform a headcount and organize the catering."
Wesker stared down at the blank fields on the slip. It was a straightforward answer. One adult. One child. "Understood. I will return it promptly. Thank you."
Jessica must have misinterpreted his momentary pause for social hesitation, because her smile softened into something deeply patronizing. "You know, Albert, it's a community celebration. We're not limiting the headcount strictly to the class itself. We're going to have siblings, extended families, all kinds of dynamics attending."
Wesker failed to grasp how that statement applied to him. "It is simply myself and Zeno," he stated flatly, folding the pink paper precisely into quarters to tuck it into his breast pocket.
"We're a very progressive and welcoming community, Albert. All kinds of partners are welcome," she insisted, leaning in slightly to deliver a pointed, knowing look.
Wesker’s brain paused to focus on that word. Partner. He was confused by her insistence, he did not have any business associates, and besides, what did that have to do with a school function?
"Hm. Good to know," he murmured, still perplexed by her persistence.
Jessica smiled warmly, entirely oblivious to Wesker's deepest thoughts, and patted his forearm. "Then I hope to see the three of you there."
Wesker's heart skipped a single beat. "Three?" he repeated, the word snapping out with cold precision.
"Yes, please do bring your partner! There is absolutely no need to be shy around us. You wouldn't be the only same-sex couple by the picnic tables."
His mind instantly launched a frantic retrospective analysis, replaying a year’s worth of peripheral interactions with the school, the playground, and the PTA. There was only a single variable in common: Chris Redfield.
It had to be the zoo. It was entirely, unequivocally Redfield’s fault. It was the man’s shameless, casual public amiability, intruding into his weekend plans, tossing passing remarks about their presumed friendship, and physically hoisting children onto his broad, ridiculous shoulders as if he belonged in his social circle.
Wesker completely bypassed the glaring logical fallacy that he had been the one to provide Chris with their itinerary in the first place. He chose to ignore that he had willingly permitted the man to linger in his orbit for the whole afternoon. No, this had to be a misunderstanding born entirely from Redfield’s total inability to maintain a professional, sterile distance in public, right down to the way he pulled the map out of his pocket with that casual indifference of his.
He was so profoundly stunned by the assumption that he was involved with the likes of Chris that he couldn't even muster his usual sarcasm.
"I... see," Wesker managed, his jaw locked tight as he took a step back. "I shall let you know."
He turned and walked away, his stride fast and determined. His immediate, hard-wired instinct was to pull his phone from his pocket and compose a blistering, multi-paragraph reprimand for Chris's sake. But the terrifying, realistic probability was that the idiot would find the entire situation amusing. Or worse yet, he could actually agree to turn up at the park and make things worse. So he stopped himself.
He spent the remainder of the morning funneling his absolute, simmering outrage into a display of ruthless administrative efficiency. He dispatched his tasks with mechanical precision, entirely offended by the reality that he was currently the main subject of the school gossip.
That afternoon he was still ruminating about Jessica's assumption that he had a male partner, let alone the fact that she thought it was Chris. Zeno pulled him out of his thoughts with an innocent request for a snack. Out of sheer muscle memory, Wesker sliced an apple into eighths, poured a glass of water, and sat next to the child, but his mind was miles away.
He remembered the invitation he had stuffed into his pocket in a daze, and took it out of his breast pocket to unfold it and straighten it on the table. Zeno recognized the pictures and some of the letters, sounding them out. "Is Uncle Chris coming to the party?" he asked.
Wesker looked at him, confused. "Why would he? He's not really your uncle."
"Because he came to the zoo with us." Zeno replied simply. His logic was absolute: if Chris was invited to one family outing, why wouldn't he be invited to another? Wesker couldn't logically fault the deduction; he had to remind himself that for a five-year-old, it was actually an admirable display of cause-and-effect reasoning.
He attempted to demonstrate the fallacy of the premise. "He was not invited to the zoo. We encountered him by pure coincidence at the entrance," he said, entirely omitting the fact that he had personally volunteered their itinerary to Redfield beforehand. "And then we decided to spend time together."
Zeno nodded as if he understood. "We also met Nora and her mom," he compared, a baseline metric that made Wesker quietly proud of his analytical development. "But then we said goodbye. Uncle Chris stayed with us until we left, and you talked to him a lot."
Caught by his own flesh and blood—literally—Wesker found himself entirely out-maneuvered. Apparently, in the unquestionable logic of a kindergartner, spending an entire afternoon with Redfield constituted a binding precedent. If their interactions were distinct from a casual park greeting, it argued for the invitation, not against it.
One question still remained. "You are right. But how could Kaylee's mom know about Chris?" he asked more to himself than to Zeno; of course he was not relying on a five-year-old to solve the origin of that particular rumor.
Zeno’s face lit up. "I told everybody that he carried me and Nora on his shoulders at the zoo when we did show-and-tell! Nora said Chris was taller than her dad and she's never been so up high."
Ah. The security breach originated from inside his own house.
Another grim realization hit him. The gossip had already spread widely if Jessica had felt bold enough to approach him with it. If Zeno had revealed the information during circle time on Monday morning, it explained why the entire school infrastructure seemed to know.
"Maryam was also at the zoo," Zeno added, chewing thoughtfully, speaking of yet another classmate. "But I don't like her."
Splendid. More eyewitnesses to document his association with Redfield. The one time he decided to indulge Chris's persistent nosiness, the man had managed to dismantle, in a single afternoon, the reputation of an aloof loner he'd spent months carefully cultivating.
Wesker stuck the pink invitation onto the fridge door with a magnet. He would deal with the RSVP slip later, as soon as he could give Redfield a thoroughly articulate piece of his mind.
After putting Zeno to bed, Wesker went to the kitchen to tidy up as usual and found himself again face to face with the unfilled slip, while Jessica's voice looped in his head, repeatedly insisting that he bring his partner along.
He deliberated on it for far longer than he cared to admit, but eventually he took out his phone and started composing a text message for Redfield. He went through different rewrites to calibrate his explanation, hitting send only when he was completely satisfied with the result.
Chris's answer didn't take too long to arrive, but felt disappointingly off the mark.
Wesker decided to elaborate further but to omit his clone's responsibility in the confusion.
Not a moment later, his screen lit up with an incoming call from Redfield.
He answered, immediately greeted by the audio of a loud television commercial being quickly lowered and the distinct sound of a soft pillow being slammed against something solid.
"Look, if it’s causing a scene, I can just show up," Chris said, his voice carrying a slight, relaxed drawl. The background noise grew fainter. "I can clear up the misunderstanding to everyone in person. I’ll even put on my best shirt.”
Wesker heard a brief, muffled scuffle over the line before Chris spoke again. “Hold on, I’m sending you a picture right now. Tell me this isn’t a party shirt.”
Perplexed, Wesker pulled the phone away from his ear to check the chat. A blurry mirror selfie materialized in it. Redfield was wearing an obscenely patterned Hawaiian shirt, completely unbuttoned, clearly having just put it on for the purpose of showing it to him. The motion blur made it difficult to fully discern the pattern, but the visual assault was undeniable; the turquoise background clashed horribly with what he could only assume were pink flamingos.
Wesker pressed the phone back to his ear, his voice dropping into an austere register. "Dreadful. Must I remind you that the average parent at this institution exists several tax brackets above yours?"
Chris chuckled warmly at the verbal abuse, a surefire confirmation of his inebriated state. "Don't worry, I have more," he announced.
Wesker recoiled slightly at the prospect. A full minute of rustling fabric and muffled giggling bled through the speaker before his phone buzzed a second time. This image was entirely crisp, but the lack of distortion only highlighted the disaster. Chris had somehow managed to unearth three garments even more repulsive than the first. He was sporting a cherry-red shirt adorned with massive floral prints while holding two alternative monstrosities in lime green and bright orange on plastic hangers. Behind him, Wesker could glimpse an open closet cleanly split between muted tactical gear and a chaotic spectrum of colorful civilian clothes.
"That shirt is a crime against good taste, take it off," Wesker commanded, the words slipping out before he could fully filter the demand.
Over the line, Chris found the statement absolutely hilarious. "I hardly think showing up entirely shirtless to a kindergarten event is an acceptable alternative, Albert." The alcohol was undoubtedly responsible for this slip in familiarity.
Wesker lifted his sunglasses to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to find a way to reason with the other man. "Don't you own anything in a plain, neutral color?"
"Yeah, sure, just give me a moment."
More rustling ensued. When the device finally vibrated again, Wesker flipped back to the chat, expecting a basic cotton t-shirt.
Instead, his expectations were completely subverted.
Redfield’s face was completely omitted from the frame. The display was filled entirely by a raw, intensely physical close-up of a torso and arms. A gray tank top clung to his chest, heavily darkened by sweat at the collarbone, underarms, and abdomen. The lighting was low and deliberate, casting deep shadows along the ample, defined geometry of what were distinctly Chris’s muscles. It was clearly a saved photo taken with intention in a training facility rather than a live, goofy selfie like the previous ones.
Wesker studied the image in absolute, unbroken silence, his mind momentarily paralyzed by the shift in tone.
"Well?" Chris prompted over the line.
Wesker found his throat entirely dry, incapable of generating a crisp reply.
"Wait—fuck, sorry!" Chris’s voice suddenly spiked into a panicked scramble. On the screen, the image blinked out of existence, instantly replaced by a gray placeholder text announcing its deletion.
Before Wesker could process the sudden disappearance of the photo, a sharp, distinctive snort of laughter echoed clearly in the background of the call. It was a feminine pitch, entirely detached from Redfield's vocal cords.
A final photograph pinged in the chat. It was another live shot of Chris, now wearing a tightly fitted olive green t-shirt. It was plain, but the thin fabric still managed to map the exact contours of his shoulders and chest. More importantly, Wesker’s eyes locked onto the background mirror inside the open closet door.
Reflected perfectly in the glass was Jill Valentine. She was sitting on the edge of Chris's mattress, holding a half-empty beer bottle in one hand and operating Chris’s phone with the other, her features twisted into an expression of profound amusement.
"Better," Wesker managed, keeping his tone perfectly level, fighting back the foreign sensation of having been thoroughly caught off-guard. He was intensely aware of Valentine's role in this destabilizing experience. "Though perhaps still slightly inappropriate for a kindergarten event."
Chris huffed, the sound of groaning mattress springs indicating he had just dropped his bulk onto the bed beside his partner in crime. "I don't have anything else, unless you want me to show up in full tactical gear."
"Uh, maybe he does," he heard Jill’s muffled voice chuckle near the receiver.
Chris ignored her comment and continued. "That would certainly make the PTA clutch their pearls."
Wesker took a deep, steadying breath to clear his mind. He briefly considered offering Chris one of his tailored linen shirts to borrow, but after seeing the ample photographic evidence, it was clear that there was no way Redfield's muscles could be contained by his clothes. "Perhaps you require a whole new wardrobe," he suggested.
"Leave me your credit card, I'll go full Pretty Woman," Chris joked.
On the other end of the line, Valentine completely lost it, letting out a loud, unrestrained guffaw.
Perhaps it was an inside joke between them, for he had no frame of reference for it.
"I have no understanding of what you are talking about," Wesker stated flatly. His statement apparently sent Jill into another fit of hysterics, and this time, Chris joined in, his laughter vibrating deep through the speaker.
"Look, if you want me to have a makeover, you can pay for it," Chris explained, his voice still shaking with amusement. "You've seen the contents of the closet. You know what you're working with. Choose."
Feeling horribly restricted by the limited options, Wesker closed his eyes and made the only reasonable choice. "The plain green T-shirt. Those patterned shirts belong in a textile recycling bin." Or perhaps a fire, he mentally added, offended by the mere memory.
Chris chuckled, his tone settling into something smug. "Never." He hummed at Valentine. "By the way, Jill also agrees. I'll wear that one and we're gonna make those PTA moms green with envy."
Wesker severed the connection without a standard sign-off, staring into the quiet of his kitchen in shock. He had somehow agreed to the very thing he had been trying to avoid that morning. Chris had practically invited himself to the party, and worse still, Wesker had actively facilitated it by providing both permission and fashion advice.
Wesker had a fleeting, deeply disturbing premonition that he had authorized a total disaster.