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Chris rolled off the silk sheet with a pleasant, “oof”. Groaning, he rubbed his fingers against his brow as he tried to alleviate the headache that was banging against the roof of his skull.
How strange. He remembered the days where the second he came to awareness he would instantly reach for a blade. Of course, he had been sleeping in dingy inns compared to the plush, meticulous bedroom he was in now , but you never knew when danger would strike. Chris had gone soft; his mornings had become slow and lazy compared to the rigorous routines he used to have.
At least there was still a knife under his pillow, silk cover or not.
The man who was to blame for his new, luxurious mornings was currently standing in front of the vanity, brushing beeswax into his hair. Seeing that Chris was awake, he made a small noise and said, “The servants have set the morning meal. See it how you like.”
He hadn’t even turned around. Chris swore he had never met a man more vain than Albert Wesker. He put more time in his looks than some of the women that Chris had to unfortunately take out.
(And yes, some of them had been in front of a mirror. Sorry Margaret.)
Stretching, Chris yawned. “Are you not joining me?”
“I’m afraid I have a meeting with a rather important man, and he does not appreciate lateness,” Wesker said as he put the finishing touches on his hair.
A meeting? Was Wesker actually beginning to do work? Despite the man’s well off lifestyle, Chris hadn’t really seen Wesker doing any sort of labor. In the beginning of their relationship, he had wondered if the blonde had been some noble with his polished clothes and expensive taste. Yet there were no ties to any sort of nobility Chris had found, and nothing to show he was some sort of rich merchant (seeing that again, this man didn’t do any kind of work).
It is for that reason Chris had concluded Wesker to be some sort of son of a cast off baron or merchant that had his pockets full enough to live a lifestyle without toil until his last day.
Some people were just given more favor from the heavens, weren’t they?
(Bits of guts on your hands, and you wonder if the young maiden’s stomach was worth enough for the next day’s meal.)
He shoved those thoughts away. It was no matter now, Chris still had his work and he actually liked Wesker, who let him lay off a few of his more… darker jobs. “Would you like me to accompany you? You should actually use the mercenary that you pay for; currently you’re just wasting all your silver and throwing it into the river.”
“I wouldn’t call it wasting,” the man purred, “We had a wonderful night, did we not?”
Chris rolled his eyes. “I am not a courtesan. I meant use me for the work you actually hire me for? Like guarding you?”
A hum. “If I recall correctly, you hired yourself.” Wesker shoved the wax into the olive drawer. “I can protect myself just fine without you.”
The assassin furrowed his eyes. “I did not just ‘hire myself’; I simply saw your aptitude to find yourself in an increasingly more deadly situation. Like now,” he added as he snatched the ceramic cup from Wesker’s hand. Taking a sip, he spat the tea off to the side.
Wesker looked at him dryly. “Despite how I often share my spittle with you, I would rather not have it in my drinks.” He reached his hand out for the cup, silently requesting it back.
Instead, Chris poured the rest of the poisoned drink out of the window. “And this is exactly why I hired myself! This had wolfsbane in it.”
“Which is why I was not going to drink it,” the man sighed. “Chris, I can take care of myself fine. I have done so through all these years, I can live through one meeting without you.”
That only made Chris frown more. Despite the man’s supposedly unnoble status, Wesker sure did get a lot of assassination attempts. “I don’t understand why so many people have it out for you.”
“I am a rather irresistible man.”
Sometimes, Chris wondered what made him fall for Wesker. Definitely not his humor. “Wesker—”
He gave Chris a hard look. “Drop it, Chris.”
His mercenary glared back but did what he was told. “Fine, but don’t blame me when you choke on whatever food they feed you.”
“I won’t.” Wesker’s eyes still had an annoyed look in them and it made Chris a little guilty.
“I didn’t mean it,” Chris said, more gently. “I am just worried for you.” When he saw the irritation in the man’s face, he added, “Look, I’ll make it up to you; I’ll take you out for dinner.”
The expression on Wesker’s face turned to disgust. “To what? The tavern?”
“Excuse you, I’m from the tavern.” There was no offence in the words, rather humor as Chris wrapped his arms around the man. “Though I would understand if it is too… befouled for your pristine taste.”
Wesker’s face was still taught, but his shoulders relaxed, telling Chris he was off the hook. “Fine then.”
Surprised, Chris responded, “Really?” The offer had been made as a joke as he didn’t think Wesker would actually take it up.
“Were you jesting?” Wesker asked as he set the smoky quartz lens onto his face.
Chris had always found them slightly strange. He had never seen such things before he had met the blonde man, who had told him some years back that they had been bought from the East. Something about blocking out the sun. “No.” The only thing they blocked out for Chris was the man’s pretty, ice blue eyes. (Again, not something he would say to Wesker’s face.)
“Then it is settled, I’ll meet you back here tonight before we head off for the tavern.” As Wesker got up and headed for the door, the man paused. “What will you be doing until then?”
He shrugged. “Probably visit the inn, see if I can pick up a few other jobs alongside this one, seeing that I am not used very often.” Translating: Chris would go to headquarters and see if there were any new notes from the top.
Wesker made a lewd joke and Chris responded with a fond smile. The blonde made a move to leave, but the assassin caught the man’s arm to stop him.
Giving him an exasperated look, Wesker said, “Chris, I really cannot be late to—” He was interrupted as Chris pulled him in and pressed his lips into the other’s. Wesker made a surprised noise. “Chris.”
For such an indifferent person, Wesker sure did blush a lot when he was with him. It was almost too easy. Eventually, the man did give in.
They broke up after a while, with the blond’s face still flushed. “I do have to go now.”
Chris pushed a loose strand of hair back into place and shooed him off. Amused, he wondered how this so on ‘important man’ was going to react when he saw the rosy faced and disheveled Wesker.
Sometimes he felt a little guilty. Who was a person like Chris, who had the blood of more than dozens of victims on his hands, to be able to hold someone like Albert Wesker with the same hands. He acted like a rich, haughty noble half the time, but he was still Wesker, a man who hasn’t seen, hasn’t done, half the things Chris had to.
(And yet you still haven’t left the job, have you? Because even with all the thirty silvers in your pocket, you still don’t know what to do with yourself.
Who are you, Chris Redfield, if you don’t have red on you?)
And maybe that was why he loved Albert Wesker, because he was able to do something that Chris could never do after the age of four.
Chris hadn’t been lying to Wesker when he said he was heading off to the inn, just not to where the man thought he was going to.
The B.S.A.A. base of operation actually laid in what people would assume was the wine cellar. In truth, it was an actual old catacomb that some members had dug out until it was a complex path of rooms and halls.
Chris wondered vaguely, in his more drunken nights, how the residents of the town would feel if they knew that the worst of the world’s evils and cutthroats walked right under their busy market street.
Like Jill once told him, what people didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
He flicked a gold coin between his fingers. Ding! Click.
Click. Ding!
The main room was quieter than normal, but it was afternoon and people only started pooling in just before sun sets. They all found it the best time to collect their gold and wait for the night’s notes. Chris himself came in earlier than the rest, usually around the ninth hour.
A little secret for any newcomers to the job: want the first pick of your target? Notes are first come first serve.
But really, Chris had been hoping to ask around about a certain blonde man. The repeated assassination attempts had been getting on his nerves, he needed to see who had been putting the notes on his lover.
(Wesker was his.)
Absent-mindedly, he checked the board for anything new that might pique his interest. It was the usual numbers, there were a few new Umbrella merchants and ratted out spies, another few out for the so-called Organization. Slim-picking.
Nowadays, Chris was fortunate to be able to pick out his targets. He remembered the days (the ones long before his BSAA ones, where he was only a straggler in between the legs of drunken men) that whichever note that was hidden on the tavern’s board was the one he took, as long as he was tall enough to grasp it. Other times Chirs dwelled on what must have been the last thoughts of his victims, seeing the tiny hand on the knife that had killed them.
Lucky. Chris was lucky now.
On top of all of the others, one note stood above the rest. The Crown Prince, heir to Spencer, or the BSAA’s most wanted man.
Technically, if you overlooked the unlawfulness of their business, the BSAA worked directly under the Crown. The Kingdom had their Knights Guard and DSO, but anything dirty they wanted done? Anything under the table the monarchy didn’t want their people to see? Those coins were slid over to the BSAA, and their little note was stuck with wax and knives to the beaten wooden board in the main room. Easy, clean, and it got everyone home with full stomachs, whether that be with a hearty meal from the tavern or your own blood.
Now, weary traveler, whose death does the Crown so possibly desire so much to need to turn to dirty underfellows like Chris to do the deed? Well, nobody else but the want-to-be usurper Spencer and his little underground of Umbrella men.
(Really, what was an umbrella anyways?)
Besides their obvious rebellion against King Benford, the insurrectionists also had a vast amount of crimes under their belt, from the provision of unregulated materials to the selling of their own notes against the Crown.
It is the BSAA's purpose, among others, to keep the Kingdom safe, just… in the darker parts of the underground where people didn’t prefer to see. The knights get the praise and honor, Chris and the rest of his assassin friends get the gold that kept them fed.
Click. Ding!
“What, is your big old duke not feeding you enough?” called a familiar voice from behind you.
Chris snorted a response as he turned around to face Jill Valentine, the BSAA most valuable asset and the most wanted criminal of Racoon. “For the last time, he’s not a duke.”
Jill’s eyes went towards the roof. “No, I forgot. Just the son of some rich far off king or whatever you said. I still don’t know what blessed dice you rolled to get a lucky break like him.”
“You’re working a job tonight?” Chris tried to change the subject.
“Who’s not?” she scoffed as she ripped off a note from the board. “Not all of us get a plush mansion to return to at night. Unless—” she looked up from the parchment in her hands, squinting at him. “Do you really not know?”
“Know what?”
“The advance tonight.” At Chris’ confused gaze, she gestured down the flickering opening. “Go talk to Clive; I don’t want to explain it.”
Internally, he let out an annoyed breath, walking down the catacomb. Chris liked his independence; he didn’t join the guild to report to a master.
And somehow he always ended up back here.
His hand rapped against the wooden table, making Clive glance up. “Redfield,” the Master of the BSAA commented, neither unpleasant nor friendly, “What brings you down here?”
“Jill said I should talk to you,” he replied, his eyes darting around the room. Clive was relatively defenseless, except for the knife he had in his belt and the larger blade that Chris knew the man had hidden under the table. The room itself told another story, with two shadowed figures guarding the doorway and another behind the shelf (Was he really thinking Chris didn’t see him?). “She mentioned an ‘advance tonight’? How come I wasn’t made aware of this?”
Clive raised his eyebrows. “It is widely known knowledge, though perhaps not for you, seeing you don’t join us for our congregations.”
The assassin sat himself on the table. “Well I’m here now, so lay it on me.”
“I really don’t have the—”
Chris leaned in so his shadow loomed over the other man. “Make some.”
He heard the other men moving towards him, but Clive raised his hand to gesture to them to stop. “It is fine.” Shifting his eyes back to Chris, he said. “I’m not in the mood for your wild game Redfield, so I’ll keep it short. We found the Prince.”
Stillness. “What?”
“That is what our attack is for tonight,” Clive explained. “During the first sleep, Umbrella will flock to the Spencer Estate. We heard that Spencer’s heir and he himself will be there. Therefore, the attack.”
Was it really that simple? After all these years of chasing, wrong corners or wrong targets, was the heir really just going to walk into their hands? “Where did you get the news from?”
“Does it matter?” Clive said impatiently, waving his quill at Chris. “Look, Redfield, I really do not care if you take the note or not, there are enough going out tonight that it does not matter. At the end of their day, the heir is dead, and the Crown, myself, and the sell-sword goes to bed constantly. Are we done?”
Slowly, Chris slid off the table. “Yes,” was the cautious reply. He gave the guards a half-hearted wave of the hand as he hurried off.
The BSAA. He doesn’t remember when he joined the guild, was it before or after he met Wesker? Chris had still been taking any job he could find back then, so probably before. He had never really cared for their ideology. Fighting the dirtier wars for the Crown? Please.
The guild were only their loyal dogs, the gold they slipped the scraps they threw under the table.
(But you stayed, didn’t you?)
And yet, he stayed, and even if he didn’t care for the guild itself, he cared for the people. Sheva, Rebecca, Piers, Jill.
Should he warn them? Tell them they’re walking into a trap?
No, he shouldn’t. He was not even sure it’s a trap. For all he knew, the heir really will show at the Estate today, and their eternal war against Umbrella will finally finish.
(And where would you go then?)
Flip a coin, he told himself. Heads, he would warn his friends, tails, he kept quiet.
Click. A gold coin spun through the air, gleaning against the dim candlelights of the catacombs. Ding!
Heads.
He kept quiet and flipped the coin until it landed back on tails. Click. Ding!
Chris returned to Wesker’s estate around the twelfth hour. Flopping onto the bed (it had to be softer than clouds!)He found a piece of parchment laying on his pillow.
Sorry dear, it read with perfect, scrawling handwriting, I will not be able to make it tonight. I’m afraid my little meet-up is taking longer than expected. I will make it up to you soon, unless you still want to take me to that mangled old tavern of yours.
– Wesker
A fond smile crossed his face as he placed the parchment back onto the pillow. It was alright, Chris doubted he could enjoy the evening anyway, too busy worrying about the attack.
Oh, he was free now, wasn't he? Theoretically, Chris had the time to head over the estate and try his hands on the Prince. If it wasn’t a trap, of course. No, he shan’t go, it would be such a waste of time, and he didn’t need the annoyance of the consequences of murdering Spencer’s heir to get in the way of him and Wesker.
He settled back in bed. This was fine.
Chris flicked the gold coin between his fingers, restless.
(Their blood will still be on your hands, Chris Redfield, directly or indirectly. Sin of omission.)
No, they chose that for themself, and who was Chris to try to stop them?
(Ah, once you get your plush and lavish lifestyle, you abandon the rest? Above them all now, aren’t you?)
Shut up. He slammed his fist against the bedrest, wincing as the ornately carved wood broke and splintered off into his arm. Ouch.
As he wrapped his wound, he reflected on his decision to keep silent. It wasn’t exactly because he didn’t want to tell them, it was more that he already knew their reactions.
Jill would probably scoff and call him complacent, Sheva, less so than Jill, but would probably frown at him disbelieving. Piers and Rebecaa might agree to his reason, but he doubted they would listen. It wasn’t like Chris had any actual proof, all of this being just a gut feeling of his.
(Or are you just leav—)
Chris groaned just to quiet his thoughts. Do you want me to go to the death trap willingly?!
(And now you’re feeling sorry for yourself. Oh poor Redfield, his conscience is telling him to do one good thing in his miserable, cowardly life.)
“I’m not a coward!” he snapped.
(But isn’t that what you’re doing? Running away once again. It’s the BSAA first, and then it’ll be your friends. Who’s next? Your precious–)
He smacked his head against his fist. If only that would work to actually silent his thoughts.
A drink. A drink would shut it all up.
(The inn, the bar, and a blonde head that was raising an eyebrow at him. There are parchment posted behind him, and Chris knew if he peels them off he would find the faces of dead men.
He wondered what he was doing here. He of all people cannot be doing this, he doesn’t deserve to be next to people, and he definitely doesn’t deserve to have someone actually care for him.
But the blood was dripping from every corner, darkness’s hand colder than the winter night, and his guilt a burdensome weight. Most of all, in this room packed with hundred other townsmen, Chris felt so alone. )
And so Chris was a guilty coward with his pockets filled with thirty silver coins, but somehow, someone found the ability to love him, so maybe Chris could find it in himself to do the same. But not like this. Not as the man he is.
So to the mansion he went into Death’s open arm.
Hey, maybe he would try his options. Afterall, Wesker technically just stood him up tonight.
After taking a quick stop to the back of the tavern (where Chris hid most of his gear that wasn’t absolutely necessary), he changed into the thicker, leather clothes and strapped his multiple blades into place. The setting sun told him he still had some time to sneak out the walls and head up the mountain, so he went out and around to go buy himself a new cloak (the other one had been ripped apart by the castle dogs).
One new, mottled black cloak later, Chris carefully scaled up the wall. It was easier than facing the guards themselves, and it saved him the time from the traffic of the main roads. He dropped himself with a grace that was very unlike the man of his size.
He hadn’t been in the Estate in a long while, but he was confident that he could find his way.
It was the time of year where the weather wasn’t warm or cold. There was still snow higher up the mountains, but you could see the budding plants coming up from beyond the white.
Chris felt the mansion before he saw it. The forest around had gone quiet, the low whistle of birds and rustling of animals fading away long before the building appeared in his sight.
It was beautiful in the way that the night was beautiful. Intricacy that laid in shadows, all of its secrets never to be truly seen. It would be peaceful too, if not for the sense of dread that was settling at the pit of his stomach.
The door opened with a large creak that grated on his nerves. What was with creepy old doors and their ominous noises?
A fact about entering a new environment: your eyes take time to adjust to a sudden change of light, like a total darkness or flash of light. Your ears need to recover if it is blasted with a large noise or zero into a low hum of breaths.
But smell? It hits you full on.
So the first thing that Chris realized as he stepped into the dank room was the smell of copper.
His hands creeped for the blade at his side, but he couldn’t sense anyone, or anything in that matter, in the immediate vicinity. The entrance was empty.
Was the smell of blood so strong that it could appear rooms away?
Unease. And Fear. Boy, had it been a long time since he felt fear. When was the last time? When he was twelve? Or the time that he had failed in the assasination of the Princess and almost caught?
(He could almost feel those hands now, centimeters away from his shirt, reaching— Chris was going to get caught. He was going to hang—
Chris was going to die.)
Yes, it had been a long time since Chris feared the knocking of a skeleton hand on the door.
(And now you have something you fear to lose too. Then again, better him than you, isn’t that right?)
He needs to turn back and walk out, right now. There was still going back, Chris could still get out of this.
Instead, he yanked the blade out of his sheath and followed the smell of copper.
The farther in he headed down the halls, the louder the noises became. At first it was the odd sound of clattering, then there was the familiar noise of a body hitting the ground.
The screaming came right after that.
Chris had to stop himself from breaking into a run. He was sure that he could keep his steps quiet, but less so on if the sudden movement might attract any unwanted attention.
He kept his prudent advance.
Almost halfway down the floors was when Chris ran into the first person.
They were running down one of the hallways, shaking so much that Chris almost thought they were ill. He was only a few steps away when he could make out the figure’s face.
Enrico, if Chris remembered correctly. The man’s name was Enrico. A highly regarded BSAA agent, it was a stark contrast to who Chris was facing now.
Seeing Chris, the man shoved a blade at him. “Get away!”
He raised his arm up placidly. “It’s only me, Redfield. You’re okay.”
“No!” the man yelled. Chris winced. It was like the man wanted to get caught.
“Quiet down,” he hissed.
Enrico looked at him with almost crazed eyes. “Don’t go down there, Redfield.”
“What’s down there?” Chris tried to coax an answer out.
The arm holding the blade was quivering. “A monster,” Enrico whispered, “Don’t go down there; only monsters and deadmen walk out.”
A sudden strike from the shadows, if Chris was any lesser of a man, he wouldn’t have seen it. But his eyes had been trained for years to see such movement, trained to watch from the corner of his eyes of surprises or threats. But also—
The movement had been a gesture of an actor, a flourish that was exaggerated for their audience. He was supposed to see it.
Red began dripping from Enrico’s throat, and it fell on the floor in small drops and splatters. The assassin started choking, a hand reaching for his own throat, but it was already too late.
With one last dreadful look at Chris, he collapsed to the floor and away from life.
Even before he heard the noise of the body falling, Chris’ hands had already tightened around the blade. His eyes searched the room for the source of Enrico’s killer, but there was no one there.
His eyes returned to the body in front, and for what seemed like the hundredth time, Chris asked himself if he should turn back.
(Ah, the coward’s move once again?)
He continues on, if only to spite the voice.
(Or prove me right. )
It was at the final floor when the bodies began to pile up, one after the other. Chris didn’t even know that the guild had so many assassins. Maybe the Crown had hired mercenaries from outside the kingdom.
Some of the bodies were already cold, others still warm, and still others that were awake, gurgling the last of their lives and staring at Chris with pleading eyes.
There was nothing else he could do but to put them out of their misery.
Ahead of the mound of bodies, the assassin spotted the shadow of a figure. The heir, Chris, recognized almost instantaneously, he had seen that silhouette almost a hundred times in the notes that were posted around Racoon.
Clive hadn’t been lying then, just severely underestimating his target. A rookie’s or an egotist’s move.
Foot sliding against the slick, red floor, Chris launches himself from the ground. He doesn’t waste his time on words— he only spoke once he was assured that those words would be the last to whoever was unfortunate enough to hear them.
He saw it all then, the arc of the blade, the exact location it would fall, how long it would take for his target to bleed out judging on their body size. Chris often came off as a natural fool to many who met him (which was not exactly untrue), but boy, was he good at his job.
You had to be, if you wanted to survive.
Chris saw the red before it was there, he could already feel the thick, warm liquid in his hands, it was fate, it was inevitable. Death came with the reaper, he came with Death, and whoever meets Chris would meet the end.
He thrust the blade at the heir of the usurper, the Crown’s most wanted man, and the Killer of his Guild. Chris saw it now, the eyes, he could already see the empty look of dead man’s eyes as the head turn round—
The head turns round, and the Reaper of Racoon meets the face of his lover.
(Because, Chris, you always knew that Albert Wesker’s blood would stain you. The only question was when.)
There was the thrust of the blade, its arc, the time it took for a man to fall out, the warmth of copper, and the last image to be seen, this was the truth, this was fate that could not be changed.
It was the inevitability of his life.
But the thrust of the blade did not come, the arc did not fall, there was no dropping of body or sticky copper, and there was no final image. There was no truth.
Between the smoky grey lens, the eyes of a reaper found the eyes of his love, and could not find it in himself to finish the inevitable.
Oh i don’t know what the heck im writing and i need to write more.
Paradox, an argument that apparently derives self-contradictory conclusions by valid deduction from acceptable premises.
“What,” he whispered between his teeth.
Familiar, pale lips that Chris had kissed a hundred times twitched up into smirk. “Hello, love.”
Heads lolled to the side, watching him with the blank look that Chris saw more than he saw alive. Some of his fellows, others his rivals, and still others he did not care much for.
Others, he thought, under the mound of limp limbs and agape mouths, were his friends. Was it Sheva under that pile of men, was it Jill that was hanging halfway from the loft?
Two hands came wrapping around his throat. One was the same that Chris always saw, pale and soft and unweathered like his own that were filled with scars from too many mistaken cuts and purposeful wounds. The hand that would brush up against him in fondness during their shared dinners together or before they fell into the land of dreams.
The other hand was its opposite, covered in a black leather glove, bloodied with the red of the BSAA’s sellswords. It smeared onto Chris’ skin as it pressed down upon his throat, choking, so unlike the hand that fondled through his hair. Oh, there was no air in Chris’ lungs, he couldn’t breath, he was going to die.
(In some way, he’s happier this way. Really, if his nightmares were of Wesker’s blood on his own hands, this was practically the bliss of dreams.)
He felt the world blacking around, Death’s awaiting arms, and Albert’s face. It could’ve been Chris hallucinating in his final moments, but he could swear his expression was one of confusion.
You know, Chris believed in heaven.
People were surprised to hear this (at least, the people who were alive enough to respond), because you never really expect the Reaper to have any beliefs in an afterlife, especially a good one.
But it was the truth, Chris believed in heaven. He didn’t really know if that was more of a strong conviction in his head that there must be something after, or just wishful thinking (because he had some souls to apologize to, and others to reunite with).
Imagine his surprise, however, when the world came back not in heavenly choruses and golden gates, but sheets that were soft as clouds underneath him.
He was not dead, he was only dreaming. A nightmare.
Only there were ropes around his arms, the coolness of a metal shackle on his right leg. This was not safe.
Reflexively, he tried to reach with bound arms to the knife under his pillow. A strong hand clamped around his wrist.
Someone was here.
No. The hand was familiar.
There was something covering his eyes. Soft fabric, tied taut around his face.
“My, my, Christopher,” a soothing voice came from above him, “the moment you wake, you reach for the blade.”
The words came out without thinking. “Albert.”
A hum. “Did you really think I was going to let you keep your knife under the pillow?” Chris felt a cold point at his chin, tipping it up. His knife. “Then again, I took it away moons ago, and you never noticed. Not very vigilant, for the most famed killer of Racoon.”
Moons? Had the blade really been gone for so long that Chris had never even noticed its disappearance? When was the last time he checked?
(You’ve grown soft.)
The knife was always there because Chris had been worried that someone would’ve attacked them in the depths of the night (not that he needed one to protect them, he could’ve strangled anyone who would even dare with one hand), but he had never expected Wesker to be the one to take it out.
(You never expected a thing.)
“Oh Christopher,” his lover (were they still lovers?) sighed. “Were you really so foolish to think I never knew? You left your track so obvious, always saying you were heading off the inn when it is common knowledge that it's the BSAA’s guildhall. Even this knife has the guild’s crest stamped in the metal.”
Chris almost chuckled at those words, wondering what Clive would think when he found out his precious little BSAA was just ‘common knowledge’ in Wesker’s words. Probably break out in a fit of rage.
Hot breath against his ear. “But really, I always knew. Since the day we met at that tavern.”
…What?
Wesker must’ve seen the silent question in his lips; Chris could already imagine the smirk crossed over his face. “You must be asking,” pride flushed through the traitor’s voice. “Why would I risk myself to be a BSAA assassin? The answer is, I just thought it’d be fun. You’d be my little toy. Imagine it, the Reaper playing into my own hands. ” A sinking of the feather stuffed bed as Wesker leaned back behind him. “Father was so boring. Crown this, crown that. Little did he know of my own ambitions.” A short cackle. “In between all those words, he never paid much attention to what his heir was doing. I bet he’s regretting it now.”
A dryness in his mouth. Was Spencer— “What did you do to him?”
“Cut him here, just so.” Chris felt the knife’s blade at his throat, slowly cutting against his skin as a small trickle of blood dripped down his chest. “A faster death than he deserved, really, but I had to prepare for my next show.”
Chris could feel the pounding headache against his skull. It was probably caused by the mix of an empty stomach, no sleep, and getting knocked out by one Albert Wesker. “The BSAA, I presume?”
“Ah, so he does learn. Yes, my play is for the Crown, or in actuality, their mangled little dog.” A finger began brushing against his cheek, and if Chris was none the wiser, he would say it was fond. “Easier than I would’ve thought, funnily enough. I tipped your master off myself, and everything set itself together.”
So Wesker was playing a game with the Crown. “Why?” Because why target the guild that was nothing but mud under the common people’s feet, when he could’ve targeted the golden boys Knights or the famed DSO? He would’ve won so much more in the long run, especially if he was aiming for the throne itself.
“What do you mean, ‘why?’” Irritation crept into Wesker’s perfectly controlled words. “‘Why’ do I set up this elaborate trap for the BSAA?” A scoff. “Because of you.”
“Me,” he repeated slowly. He could already feel the pangs in his skull pounding harder.
“Yes, ‘you’! Because how dare the BSAA even think they can just send their puppy off and expect him to seduce me of all people,” the heir (or was he even the heir anymore, if he had taken Spencer’s place) seethed. “The arrogance!”
Wesker rattled on more and more about the BSAA, but really Chris could care less. He wanted to hit his head against the bedrest.
After a long while of listening to the man’s complaints, Chris asked. “Did it work?”
The blonde stopped midsentence. “What are you saying?”
“The seducing. Did it work or not?”
Wesker snapped back immediately. “Of course not, you fool! You tripped over your first five words!”
More griping and explaining about how he only stayed because Chris was his little ‘experiment’. The man was starting to sound almost defensive.
Yet the assassin couldn’t find much in him to care. The pounding of his head would not go away, and couldn’t even try to rub his brow to alleviate it. Interrupting Wesker, he said, “Did you kill them?”
A pause. “Who?”
“Sheva. Jill.” Who knows who else.
Another beat. And then the hand that had been fingering his cheek seized his jaw. Ouch.
“After all of this, you’re asking about your friends?!”
“Yes,” he retorted back. The ache in his head was not helped by the new companion of one smushed jaw. “Did you hurt them?”
(Because what if it was Jill’s blood that was on Wesker’s glove? What would Chris do then?)
Sharp nails digging into the soft skin of his face as Wesker hissed. “I skinned them, Redfield, I skinned them slowly and let them bleed out against a carpet of their own flesh. I’m going to make it a rug.”
“So you didn’t.”
“What? No I just—”
“You were lying,” Chris responded dryly. “This is your ‘I’m making a joke at your own expense’ voice. Therefore, you didn’t hurt them.” A breath. “You really could’ve just told me, Al, your jokes aren’t too funny.”
Wesker shoved his head away. “Stop it with that pet name!”
“Sure, love.” Chris said in exasperation as he clenched his eyes shut. So his friends were fine. That was good. Clive had either listened to his own suspicions, or had already known, if Chris’ suspicions of him being cohorts with Wesker correct, and kept his more valuable assets away from the mansion.
Jill must’ve been furious.
(They’re alive.)
A wave of exhaustion hit him at that moment as the night’s events flew at him in full force. His lover was the traitor to the Crown with Clive probably being one as well, half the BSAA was dead, but his friends were fine and he was back in bed with Wesker. Who was probably going to kill him, but currently Chris was too tired to really care.
He dropped his head onto Wesker’s shoulders, burying his nose into the nook of the man’s neck. It was cold, but that was usual, and Chris never minded it. He smelled distinctively of the beeswax, expensive perfumes, and bits of copper. The last one was an outlier, but was nothing compared to Chris' years as an assassin.
It felt like home.
(And it had been a long time since Chris had a home.)
He could feel Wesker’s body freeze up under him. “What are you doing?”
Chris grumbled in lieu of a reply.
“I can kill you right now,” Wesker threatened.
Ignoring him, Chris only buried his head deeper into the crook. “What do you want, Wesker?” he asked finally. “Is it that? Killing me? Because I’m right here.”
A beat . “Why?” the man growled. “You can’t just die!”
“That’s what humans do, Albert,” was said in a matter-in-fact voice.
“You can’t just give up.”
He groaned. “Yes I can. Now tell me what you want so I can go to sleep. Or you can kill me. Preferably before my headache becomes the killer.”
Chris heard the man take a deep breath, as if calming himself. “What I want,” the man said, “is for you to tell me why.”
TELL ME WHY AIN’T NOTHING BUT A HEARTACHE
“Why what?”
“Why would you play such a long game!” Wesker snapped. “All those dinners with me, trailing me and pretending to be my loyal guard, staring down all my chefs to make sure I wasn’t poisoned. All those tender nights, all those kisses goodbye, you had me at armslength.”
“Is there a question there?”
“Yes!” the man had begun grasping at his shirt. Oh, Chris wasn’t in his leathers anymore, someone had changed his clothes. Was it Wesker? “All those days, our long game of pretending you cared, and you never even did anything.”
Don’t tell him. Was Wesker feeling betrayed?
His lover continued on. “Do you know why tonight happened, Christopher? Because I got tired of being played! I knew you were lying from the start, but you never made your move. This whole show? The BSAA agents? It was done so I could finally force you to make your move. And what do you do? You just gave up!”
Oh my, Wesker really was feeling salty. For the second time that night, he wanted to break down in laughter.
Wait. If Wesker was feeling salty, that meant the man had actually cared. He actually was feeling deceived because of Chris.
“You can’t be serious,” the assassin said as he sat upright. “You fell in love with me. Despite knowing that I was from the BSAA.”
“No! How many times do I have to tell you, you’re my plaything, my toy—”
“You actually fell in love with your assassin,” Chris reveled in amazement. “The great heir of Spencer the usurper, fell in love with the BSAA cutthroat. Knowingly. “
“You weren’t even doing your job!” Oh, Chris bet that man was blushing if he could see past the blindfold. He really was too easy. “You didn’t even let any of the other assassins try to kill me!”
“I’m not letting you drink nightshade.”
“Exactly that! Why would you go through such lengths to pretend to love me when you didn’t even try!”
Oh.
Albert Wesker almost sounded hurt.
Chris softened his tone. “I wasn’t pretending.” The blonde snorted. “I wasn’t!” he insisted again. “I do care. I do love you, Al.”
Wesker’s hand tightened against his scalp. “Shut up!
“And unlike you, I wasn’t playing anybody,” the Reaper of Racoon said, disregarding the man’s previous words. “I really just wanted to be your lover. To me, what we had was real—though I don’t know about you, seeing that you keep calling me a toy. But I appeared to you that day of my own accord, no Clive or BSAA sent me.”
“So you just wanted to play me as well.”
Chris rolled his eyes under the fabric. “Not everyone is as weird as you. And I didn’t even know you were the heir in the first place.”
A long silence. “What?”
“I mean, how was I supposed to know?” Chris reasoned. “It’s not like the face in the notes even looks like you.”
Suddenly, he was slammed down against the broken bedrest. “You can’t be serious right now,” Wesker’s voice was shaking with fury. “You’re lying.”
“No, I genuinely just thought you were some pretty looking, wealthy man, that I managed to grab at the tavern.” Honest answer, Chris swore.
The blindfold was ripped from his face, and Chris' head jerked back. Man, maybe warn the person next time?
Oh, Chris could see again.
He glanced up to the body above him. Yep, his pretty, wealthy lover who just happened to be the most wanted man of the Crown.
Eyes laced with anger, the man shoved a note in Chris’ face. “There are hundreds of my notes everywhere, how could you not have known?!”
Chris shrugged. “Again, the drawing doesn’t look like you. That got your nose all wrong.”
“It has my name. All over it.”
The assassin squinted at the note again. Was that…?
Looking up at Wesker, he said, “I can’t read.”
Wesker stared at him. Chris stared back.
“What do you mean you can’t read?!” the man spluttered.
Chris raised his eyebrow. “No one ever taught me. I was an assassin at the age of four, love, I don’t have time or the money to be taught.
“How– What–” Look who was stumbling over their words now, Wesker. “How do you read the notes?”
“There are pictures for a reason,” was the simple answer. Chris really needed to go to sleep. He sunk into the silk sheets and tried to close his eyes.
Wesker was still baffled. “Did no one, not even the BSAA mention my name?”
“They might’ve, but we usually just called you ‘the heir’ or ‘the prince’. And it was not like I was actively listening to their conversations. I don’t even go to their meetings.”
He could feel Wesker’s gaze boring into him. “Why are you even part of the BSAA? You don’t listen to Clive, don’t have their ideals, don't care to attend their meetings, and don’t even know who your most wanted target is. What’s the point of even being in it?”
Ah, the question Chris asked himself everyday. Lucky day for Wesker, however, Chris had the answer for a while. “Because I don’t know what else to do with myself.”
“You don’t know what to do with yourself,” Wesker repeated.
Another shrug. “It’s the truth. I’ve been an assassin my whole life, I don’t see myself doing anything else. “
“You could’ve left. Been a mercenary. Maybe even a knight,” Wesker tried to argue. “Money couldn’t have been the problem, you’ve been with me for years.”
Chris hummed. “Lay down,” he said as he tried to pull the man into the bed. Wesker gave a futile struggle before falling next to him. He continued explaining. “The thing is, Al, there will always be red on me. Blood of the guilty, blood of the innocent. Doesn’t matter, it would always be there.”
Deadpan, Wesker replied, “And being in the BSAA of all places helped?”
“It was for some kind of purpose. At least there, I could’ve pretended all the killing I was doing was for something, instead of me just feeling lost.”
A sort of quiet engulfed them, but it wasn’t awkward. It was the sort of comfortable silence that Chris always loved, because it was a peace he usually lacked, but it wasn’t quiet either, Wesker’s presence a guard against the screaming of his mind.
“Would you go back to the BSAA now?”
“Maybe,” the assassin said honestly. “Probably not.”
Chris felt the man lean closer. “Would you come if I hire you? Actually, not the little game we were pretending, but my actual guard.”
“I was your actual guard!” he exclaimed before quieting down. “I don’t know, but its too late, or early, to say. We can talk about this later.”
A mumble of a response. Was Wesker drifting off to sleep?
“Could you take me chains off? They’re getting a little uncomfortable.” Chris would rather not have to sleep in shackles more than he already has.
More mumbling. “No,” were the muffled words into Chris’ chest. “Don’t want you,” something Chris couldn’t make out. “Run away.”
“I’m not going to,” the assasin said annoyed. No use, the man was already asleep.
Sometimes, Chris really wondered why he loved Albert Wesker.
Five years later...
Pounding of footsteps behind, Leon could hear the the clattering of the knight’s metal suits chasing after him.
He ducked over the corner and laid himself flat against the wall. Soon, the racket of the armor fell away and Leon was left to the pure, eerie silence of the castle. Taking a deep breath, he sent a prayer of thanks to the heavens.
If you had told Leon six years ago that his life in the future would be spent being hunted like a traitor, he would’ve laughed in your face.
Look at him now.
After the death of King Benfordd of the rise of Wesker, the knights of the fallen monarchy were hunted down like game. What little men were left after the original decree had soon escaped the kingdom
The few people had stayed were already hidden away in fear of having the same fate as their friends. For Leon to have found any remnants of the Old Guard had been a miracle, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t wish to have a few more men to join his rebellion.
This day had been planned impeccably for the last three years. Every men had a job, every task had a backup, every route had two entrances and five exits. Leon knew it in his bones that his sword, the same sword that was gifted to him by the deceased king, would be the one to slice Wesker’s head off once and for all.
And then Leon had stood in the throne room, once painted in golden lights and fond memories, the room of his purpose, with the sword struck through the plush, red fabric of the chair.
It gleaned in the dim light, not a single speck of blood to be seen.
(His king’s smile dropped away as Benford’s head went rolling off, only for a dark, satisfied look of the Usurper to replace it.)
Another blade had appeared under his throat. Leon had recognized it, faintly, as the Imperial standard, signified with the black coloration of metal and the engraved stars of the constellation Serpens.
But no, the stars weren’t aligned in that familiar snakelike pattern, but rather a triangular fashion. It formed a familiar dog.
Canus Major. Orion’s loyal dog.
It all the man’s fame, no one had ever saw his face. Really, more people had came out alive seeing the imposter king’s face than his dog.
Well, until Leon.
His face had been grizzled over with bits of hair, more wrinkles and scars around his the features, but Leon could never mistake the look in the man’s eyes.
Chris Redfield, as Leon lived and breathed.
Well, not for much longer, if the rebel didn’t get out of here anytime soon. He poked his head out of the corner: coast clear. With a sigh of relief, Leon made to leave.
A muscular arm engulfed his neck. “Going anywhere, Leon?”
Nevermind, Leon’s plans on a happy, peaceful life by the seaside was now ruined forever (or really, all his plans on actually living, not that he was complaining too much). “Bingo night.”
A chuckle. “Never lost your sense of humor, did you?”
“No, but it seems you lost your sanity,” was his irritated reply.
The chokehold around his neck only got tighter. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know,” Leon bited back, “the whole, working for Albert Wesker thing ring a bell?”
“Well, I don’t really know about working for him,” Redfield mused. “It’s more like a make sure he doesn’t get himself in any foolish messes that might get himself killed. Happens more than you think.”
Leon glanced around his surroundings. If he could just make it down that hallway and take a right, he knew there would be an exit down the stairs to the Main Room, or better yet, the cellars underground. However, that would require getting out of here, which would also required the impossible task of breaking out of Redfield’s grip.
He needed a distraction. “What would your sister thing of this?”
“Claire?” Redfield asked. “Oh, have you seen her recently? I know the two of you were close when you were in the Knights Guard.” The man seem almost fond recounting the memory.
“Yes. But she never mentioned anything about you being Wesker’s dog.”
The bigger man chuckled. “I wouldn’t say I’m his dog, per say, more his probably wiser guardian. The whole dog thing came from rumors.”
And then something happened that shook Leon’s whole ginormous worldview for the second time that night (and no, it wasn’t that he liked men, he knew that ever since he laid eyes on one Luis Serra), but Redfield loosened his grip.
Instantly, Leon pushed himself away. Wesker’s dog only raised his arms in surrender, the same stupid grin on his face. “Hey, hey, off so fast?”
“Why are you doing this?” the rebel rasped through his sore throat.
Redfield raised his eyebrow. “Letting you go? I mean, I was never going to kill you Leon, we were friends last time I checked. And Claire would never speak to me again if I did.”
He growled. “No! I meant why would you ever work for him? He killed Benford, not to mention the massacre of the Old Guard and your own BSAA.”
“Oh,” the smile on his face turn sadder. “You meant that.”
“What else would I mean?!”
The Reaper of Racoon, Guard Dog of the Imposter King, and one of Leon’s best friends looked up to him with his terrible, warm brown eyes and simply said, “Because I love him.”
Any response Leon had dried out at those words.
Seeing the expression on the rebels face, Redfield only gave him a small nod. “You know I wouldn’t have played this whole cat and mouse game with your otherwise, right?”
Leon licked his dried lips. Honestly, he hadn’t known what he thought when he saw that the man holding the blade of Sirius had been Redfield himself. He opened his mouth to say more, but the sound of clanking armor came back once again.
Redfield’s head jerked to the side. “That’s your cue, Leon. I suggest you get out of here as fast as those big old legs of yours would take you, less you wanted to actually get hanged.”
As quick as the rats that Leon used to hunt when he was a child, he darted to the opening. He would have to take the windows out, he supposed. Might as well do a flip while he was at it.
Before launching off, Leon paused and looked around. He had one last question for his friend.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “Why do you love him?”
Redfield, who had gone back to twirling a gold coin between his fingers, looked up in surprise. “What?”
The rebel glanced anxiously through the window. He still had time. “Why could you love Albert Wesker, after everything? I don’t exactly see any endearing traits in him.”
“Because of he’s more wealthy beyond belief,” Redfield joked and Leon rolled his eyes.
Click. The old reaper flicked the gold coin up into the air, and Leon watch it glimmer against the moon’s bright glow. Tone become more serious, Redfield continued, “But really, I didn’t stop loving him after I saw the truth.”
Ding! The coin began its descent, and a large palm caught it. “You really should go now, Leon, the guards are almost here.”
Leon pursed his lips. “That really isn’t much of an answer.”
Chris let out an exasperated breath. “Fine, how about this. He started loving me despite knowing everything,” a melancholic laugh. “Heavy, blood money ladened pockets and probably out to get him, somehow that foolish man still fell for me. Insane, no?
Leon wanted to ask more, but Redfield was right, the noise was getting louder and louder by the moment, and soon they would be around the corner. Regretfully, he gave Redfield an exaggerated wave as he jumped out the window, but not before he heard the man’s final words.
“I love him because he saw the whole truth since the beginning, and still found it in him to love me.”
And Leon could never fault his friend for that.