Work Text:
The last thing Chris did before putting away his civilian phone was send a text to Wesker. It was 04:55 AM. The sky was still entirely pitch black, though the very first inkling of dawn was just beginning to bruise the horizon.
He had fully expected to switch the device into airplane mode without receiving a reply, but as his thumb reached for the toggle, the screen lit up with an immediate incoming notification.
Chris grinned to himself as he disconnected the network. He was incredibly pleased to see that Albert was actually awake to say goodbye to him. And trust the man to send a command instead of a conventional, sweet farewell.
It wouldn't have been Wesker otherwise.
He checked the straps on his pack one final time, ready to move the exact second his building's intercom buzzed.
When he finally returned days later—bruised, cut, tired as hell, but thoroughly satisfied by the success of the operation—he couldn't wait to turn his phone back on and check in. As usual after a rough mission, he didn't even bother to check what time it actually was. It was dark outside, and that was as far as his situational awareness extended. The military transport back to headquarters had been long and intensely boring, but at least the atmosphere had been cheerful; they were all battered, but the squad was in excellent spirits.
He sent off a quick update, assuming Wesker would see the notification whenever he woke up in the morning.
The moment he was home, Chris started stripping off his heavy, encrusted gear, profoundly grateful to be standing in his own apartment for some genuine privacy rather than using the communal open showers in the BSAA's locker rooms. The water pressure was notoriously worse at his place, but at least his bathroom had a lock on the door.
Chris didn't care about the time or if the rattling of the old pipes would wake his neighbors. He started the shower, adjusting the dial to the absolute hottest setting his body could tolerate, and waiting until it reached temperature before he stepped under the spray. Chris remained there for as long as possible to scrub away the foreign dirt, the dried blood, and the distinct stench of the mission. When the water finally began to trend toward lukewarm, he wrapped things up as quickly as he could, acutely aware that his temperamental water heater could turn his shower frigid at any second. Stepping out onto the bathmat, he felt decidedly cleaner and absolutely, bone-deep exhausted.
He inspected his face in the fogged mirror, applied some ointment to his minor cuts and bruises, rebandaged a deeper laceration on his left arm, and slipped into a pair of faded underwear with a completely busted elastic.
Sleep on missions barely counted as such; it was, at best, a few hours of dozing half-sitting up with a weapon in his lap. It was only when he finally felt safe in the familiar comfort of his own bed that he could succumb to deep sleep. He collapsed face-first onto the mattress and was dead to the world within minutes.
He woke up far too soon.
Roused from sleep by a combination of a pesky sunbeam hitting him directly in the eyes and the aggressive, repetitive buzzing of his phone beside him in bed, Chris picked up the call without even looking at the caller ID.
"What?" he groaned into the receiver, his voice thick, rough, and heavy with sleep.
"I woke you," was the response from the other end of the line. Wesker’s tone was quiet, almost bordering on apologetic.
"It's okay." Chris yawned heavily into his free hand, blinking hard against the bright light to gather his bearings. "What time is it?"
"Nearly lunchtime," Wesker informed him flatly. Which, in Wesker's mind, probably explained why he considered it socially acceptable to initiate a phone call without providing a prior text warning. Or perhaps he had texted beforehand, and Chris had simply slept right through the alert.
"Oh. Okay." His brain was still stubbornly refusing to come fully online. "Why'd you call?"
Wesker drew in a sharp, quiet breath over the line. "I simply wished to ascertain that you were still in one piece," he said calmly.
Chris let out a low chuckle, the profound, lingering tiredness in his muscles making the underlying sweetness of the gesture seem far funnier than it probably was. "Yup. Everything is accounted for, Albert. I've been cleared by the doc to go home."
A brief, heavy moment of silence stretched between them over the airwaves.
"I should let you return to your rest," Wesker murmured.
Chris hummed a soft negative, slowly rolling onto his back and staring up at the yellowed paint of the ceiling. "No, it's fine. I should probably get up anyway. Do something useful with my day off. Maybe drag my sorry ass out to get some food."
He could imagine Wesker's disapproving frown on his face when he heard the commentary. "Takeout hardly constitutes an adequate form of sustenance for recovery."
Chris had to chuckle at that. "Well, my fridge is half empty, and the vegetables in my crisper have been there for so long they probably sprouted a civilization, so I have to brave the outside world to procure lunch." He yawned again and tried to conceal it.
Wesker huffed a breath, still clearly disappointed by his limited dietary options. "Stay put, Redfield. Text me your address, and I will be there within the hour."
Chris took the phone away from his ear to stare at the screen, as if that could help him in any way to understand what was happening. "Huh?"
"I will be bringing food. You stay in bed and maximize your rest. Do not attempt to clean on my account, I do not care about your untidiness," Wesker said, with an air of finality. Still, he remained on the line to wait for his verbal confirmation.
"Okay. I'll be waiting for you."
Wesker hung up on him with no goodbye.
It took Chris a few beats to completely absorb the conversation. He looked around and took a mental note of his place. It was not dirty, per se, but in the urgency of deployment and in his haste to go to sleep as soon as he returned, he had left significantly more chaos than usual. He looked at his open closet and saw at least two pairs of boots spilling out from the bottom.
With a grunt, Chris pulled himself upright and shoved the boots to the back of the closet with his foot, so that he could close the door. He walked into the bathroom to scoop up the socks that had missed the hamper entirely earlier, tossed them inside, and immediately reached for his toothbrush. Just in case.
Chris walked to the living area and did a quick visual check of the kitchen and living room. He picked up a pillow from the floor, emptied his ashtray, and tossed a detergent tablet in the dishwasher to run it again without even checking its contents. Deciding that it was good enough and that he should at least try to follow Wesker's advice to rest, he returned to the bedroom to go back to bed.
One last concession he made before slipping under the blanket was to take off the ratty underwear and change into a pair that wasn't falling apart. He also took out an oversized T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from the closet for later. With the heat of midday steadily creeping in past the best effort of his rattling window A/C unit, he didn't think it was a good idea to wear them yet.
He dropped his bulk back onto the mattress with a groan and pulled the blanket over his legs, closing his eyes to rest a little bit longer. He tried—and failed—not to spend the remaining minutes anticipating Wesker's proximity. Instead, he let the muffled drone of whatever police procedural his next-door neighbor was watching lull him back into a light doze.
Until the sharp, aggressive buzz of the intercom jolted him awake.
Chris grabbed his t-shirt and grimaced a little as he pulled it over his head, then tried to hop into his sweatpants while stumbling toward the door to buzz the main entrance open downstairs. His building didn't have a video intercom, but he didn't need to see who it was. The ring had come exactly fifty-seven minutes after their call; it couldn't be anyone else.
He checked in the peephole anyway and saw Wesker standing perfectly straight in front of his door, one finger poised next to the doorbell, his other hand holding a dark, medium-sized bag.
Chris didn't hesitate and opened the door, finding himself face-to-face with Wesker for the first time since he showed up at Wesker's door, basically blackmailed his way inside, and kissed him. He swallowed the saliva that pooled in his mouth and moved to the side to let him in.
Chris could feel Wesker's gaze on him through the sunglasses. He knew that he was a sight, and not a good one. The clothes hid most of the scrapes he'd brought home from the field, but in that heat, he couldn't conceal everything.
Wesker, on the other hand, looked impeccable, like he was immune to the humid summer weather that had followed him inside. His only concession to the extreme heat had been undoing the top three buttons of his shirt, which gaped open just enough to be distracting. Chris consciously tore his gaze away and forced it up to Wesker's face.
He didn't know what else to say. "Welcome."
"Thank you." Wesker's posture was stiff and uneasy, and he stood out like a sore thumb in Chris's messy apartment. "I brought you lunch."
Chris led the way to his small kitchen table and tried to pretend that Wesker's eyes weren't sweeping his apartment and taking in every detail of his living quarters. "I'll get some plates." He opened the cupboard to retrieve the porcelain dishes, while Wesker put the bag on the table and unzipped it, revealing a stack of glass containers frosted with steam.
"I have already eaten, Chris," Wesker told him, matter-of-factly, unstacking the containers and opening the lids. A mouthwatering aroma of chicken and rosemary filled the small kitchen and made Chris's stomach rumble.
"Water?" Chris asked, before he remembered his manners. "Would you like a glass?"
Wesker gave a single, curt nod, and Chris carefully stretched his arm to grab two matching glasses from the top shelf.
Chris cracked open a plastic bottle he had in the fridge and poured water for both of them, placing the glasses on the bare wood, then sat down at the table and looked at Wesker until he took the opposite chair.
The containers held at least two portions of a perfectly balanced meal: seasoned rice, grilled chicken with rosemary, and roasted vegetables. It didn't look like something whipped up on the spur of the moment.
Chris served himself and started eating, trying to maintain an air of dignity while he enjoyed the first taste of a proper home-cooked meal in a while. Wesker simply sat in front of him, studying the way he was eating—the pleased hums he made, the way he cut his meat, and how he piled way too much food on his fork before stuffing it in his mouth. In the end, Chris was too hungry to remain self-conscious about his eating habits, and Wesker didn't comment, he quietly picked up his glass and took tiny sips of his water, resting a bare forearm on the wood tabletop.
"It's so good," Chris complimented him after taking a big gulp of cold water. "Thank you so much."
Wesker's mouth quirked up minutely. "You're welcome, Chris."
The atmosphere in the room seemed to warm up, and it wasn't because of the struggling A/C in the apartment. With his hunger partially sated, Chris was finally able to let his gaze wander past the plate. His eyes couldn't help but stray down to the open gap of Wesker's shirt. He had never seen so much of the man's bare skin exposed before. It was so close and almost at eye level. He made a conscious effort to look back up at Wesker's face, knowing he'd been caught staring, but the way Albert watched him through the dark lenses betrayed that exact same intensity.
Chris took another sip of water to distract himself and forced the conversation onto safer ground. "So, I'm lucky that Zeno is off at school?"
Wesker set down his glass and clasped his hands on the table. "Yes. His summer program occupies his week, Monday to Thursday, from nine AM until three PM."
Chris did some quick calculations. Wesker didn't have to return home immediately. A world of possibilities suddenly opened up to him—the rare luxury of having a little time without the pressure of work or family, to finally put into practice the promise Wesker had extracted from him on the phone before deployment.
He took another bite of food, but realized he wasn't really that hungry anymore. His stomach had tightened, though for an entirely different reason now. "I think I'm done. That was way too much for one person."
Albert frowned slightly. "You can have the rest for dinner," he said, as if that had been the plan all along.
"Oh. Right. That's... really thoughtful." Chris got up, his hands moving aimlessly toward the table to put the lids back on, or perhaps to transfer the food into his own mismatched containers—he wasn't entirely sure, because Wesker stood up at the exact same moment, and all of Chris's focus immediately narrowed down to him.
"You're not leaving," Chris said, the words slipping out far too quickly.
"I simply wanted to help with the leftovers," Wesker replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Chris hadn't managed to keep it cool. Not even close. It was a far cry from the bold assuredness with which he had cornered Wesker in his own hallway a week before. But as he looked at the man and felt the tension grow between them, his confidence returned.
Chris took a single, deliberate step around the corner of the table, closing the remaining distance. Without a word, he grasped the open edges of Wesker's shirt with both hands, right where he'd subconsciously wanted to put them from the very moment Albert had crossed his threshold, and pulled him forward, crashing his mouth against Wesker's.
Albert responded immediately, placing one hand on the center of his back and the other on the nape of his neck, letting Chris dictate the pace of the kiss, responding just as enthusiastically.
Reassured that Wesker wasn't going anywhere, Chris slowed down and let himself truly savor Albert's mouth. Wesker was being gentle with him, probably by virtue of the assortment of bandages and green, black, and purple bruises he must have cataloged peeking from under his T-shirt. He could have been rougher, but Chris wasn't complaining when he got soft gasps in his mouth, and his tongue nibbled.
Chris didn't know how long he could have remained there, standing in his kitchen chasing Wesker's lips, but he wanted more and wanted to be comfortable. He let go of the linen he had creased in his iron grip and put his hands on Wesker's waist, pressing with his thumbs just above the leather belt, and pulled just a breath away. "Come to bed," he whispered.
He could feel Wesker tense slightly under his touch at the words.
"I need to lie down," Chris told him. A convenient excuse to provide them plausible deniability. He honestly needed the rest, and they could just kiss some more, but horizontally.
Wesker hesitated for a moment, a conflict apparent in his face. He was probably weighing in Chris's sincere need to rest against how much this move would shift their relationship so quickly. In the end, he must have convinced himself of Chris's need for comfort because he agreed and followed him into the small bedroom.
The bed was unmade from his nap, and Chris quickly pulled the blanket back up before he sat on the edge of the mattress. He extended one hand in invitation.
Albert did look out of place in his stuffy bedroom, all perfectly combed, clean, wearing ironed clothes and luxury fabrics as if he'd just stepped out of a European Yacht Club.
Wesker didn't immediately take his hand. He turned to the side and removed his sunglasses, closing the arms and putting them down gently on the nightstand with a click. Only then, with his amber eyes unshielded, did he accept Chris's invitation to climb on the bed. The bedsprings protested under his weight, and he had to give Chris a doubtful look while he toed off his loafers.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Chris didn't look at the rumpled pillows or make a move to lie down. Instead, he simply shifted his weight on the worn mattress, sliding closer, an inch at a time, until his faded sweatpants pressed flush against the crisp lines of Wesker’s trousers. The heat of Albert’s thigh against his own was immediate, heavy, and solid.
Slowly, Chris lifted his hand. His movements weren't rushed or aggressive this time; they were steady, his rough fingers reaching up to lightly brush against the line of Wesker's jaw, his thumb settling against the smooth skin of his cheek.
Wesker didn't pull away. He didn't blink. He just sat there, letting Chris hold his face, those striking eyes locking onto Chris’s with an intensity that felt almost physical.
Chris took a slow breath, just taking him in. He hadn't had a real chance to actually look at the man, free from the barrier of those dark lenses, since that first, disastrous kiss on his couch. But this time, Chris knew he wouldn't be rebuffed.
"Thank you for staying," Chris murmured, his voice dropping into a low, rough register.
Wesker’s gaze softened by a fraction of a millimeter, his hand rising to firmly grip Chris’s wrist, not to pull his hand down, but to anchor it there against his skin. "I had an opening in my schedule," Albert whispered, though his thumb was already tracing the inside of Chris's pulse point.
Chris let out a faint, breathless chuckle, his eyes dropping to Albert's mouth. "Yeah. Lucky for me."
Chris closed the last few inches of distance between himself and Wesker, tilting his head to press his lips firmly against Albert’s, and putting his other hand on Wesker's thigh for balance. Albert's breath hitched at the unexpected pressure, and Chris didn't move his hand at all, letting Albert get used to the touch while Chris licked his lips apart to deepen the kiss again.
It was not the most comfortable angle for them to be in, but Chris didn't want to push too far, yet. Albert's hand let go of his wrist and found its way to the nape of his neck, trailing in the short hair there.
As the kiss deepened, the awkward tilt of their torsos became impossible to maintain. Chris was leaning too far into Albert’s space for balance, his center of gravity completely giving way to the heat of the contact. Sensing the shift, the fingers tangled at the nape of Chris’s neck tightened, guiding him.
Wesker's other hand grasped his T-shirt, and he leaned backwards until his back touched the mattress, pulling Chris awkwardly down with him. Chris moved his other hand from Wesker's thigh to the mattress to hold his weight. They shifted to the center of the mattress, the bedsprings creaking accompanying their every movement, and Chris couldn't look away from Wesker's face, from his eyes, to his lips, wet with saliva and reddened by the friction with his stubble.
The room was too warm, the A/C in the other room didn't make much difference to the bedroom when he forgot to activate the fan by the door, but that didn't stop Chris from leaning down on Wesker, holding his body almost close enough to touch.
"This doesn't look like you resting," Albert murmured against his lips as he adjusted his limbs to fit against him.
"Shut up," Chris breathed back, a lazy grin brushing against Wesker's mouth before he leaned back down to claim it again.
He kept his weight braced on a forearm, hovering just a fraction above Albert’s chest to protect his own aching ribs, completely content to stay in this stifling, sun-streaked room forever if it meant chasing that mouth and exploring Wesker's torso with his other hand. Wesker’s hands shifted from holding the front of his t-shirt, his cool fingers sliding down the curve of Chris’s spine, tracing the broad muscles of his back with a slow, gentle touch.
But as the kiss deepened and grew heavier, that carefully budgeted restraint slipped just a fraction. Driven by the mounting intensity, Wesker's palm slid further down, seeking leverage against Chris's lower flank to pull their torsos completely flush together and eliminate the remaining space between them.
His hand pressed flat and firm right over Chris's lower left ribs, and a sharp jolt of pain blossomed from the center of the largest of the bruises on his body. Chris didn't scream or jerk away, as he was too thoroughly into the moment to stop completely, but his entire body instantly went as stiff as a board. A tight, sharp breath hitched violently in the back of his throat, fracturing the kiss. His fingers tightened uncomfortably into the cream linen of Wesker's shirt, his grip changing from a passionate pull to a desperate, bracing hold as a sudden wave of nausea rolled through his stomach.
Albert pulled away from him and eased the pressure on his flank, grabbing the hem of Chris's T-shirt and slowly lifting it until it revealed the green-purple edge of a huge bruise.
"Chris," he started, firmly, the moment slipping away from them. "I thought you said the doctor cleared you before sending you home." Wesker lifted the hem of the T-shirt further, twisting under him to get a better look at the large bruise. His face showed concern and disappointment.
Chris tried to flash him his most roguish grin, despite the lingering discomfort. "Yeah. I was discharged with the order to take it easy. But nothing's broken."
Albert still looked unconvinced.
"I've had imaging done, it's confirmed."
"What happened to you? Did you get thrown against a wall?"
Chris bit his lip. "Well, something like that. But no concussion or cracked ribs, relax."
Wesker didn't look like he was relaxing; on the contrary, he looked annoyed. "You should have disclosed your injuries before dragging me to bed." He carefully pushed Chris's body away from him so that he could sit up on the mattress and put some distance between them. "Remove your T-shirt. I need to see the true extent of the damage." His tone was not open to negotiation, but not really severe.
Chris sighed and complied. He adjusted his stance to sit up cross-legged in front of Wesker on his mattress and pulled off his T-shirt, holding back a grunt of discomfort at the way his muscles shifted and pulled around the injury. He let his arms down so that Albert could have a proper look at the huge collection of bruises that covered most of his left flank, where his body armor had redistributed a violent impact. Then he carefully twisted around so that Wesker could also see his back.
"You are certainly resilient," Wesker commented now that he could see the full scope of the injuries he brought home while still claiming to be in one piece. "And extraordinarily stubborn."
Chris shrugged, smiling his most charming smile. "I was motivated."
"To kiss me."
"Yes. I've been thinking about it since our call. And we finally had the chance to do it without being interrupted or having to sneak around, I didn't want to waste it." His sincerity equally annoyed and endeared him in Wesker's eyes. He could see it in his face.
"Sentiment noted," Albert said, but with a hint of longing in his voice. "Have you got any ointment for contusions? Painkillers?"
Realizing that the kissing window had officially been closed on their afternoon, Chris pointed at the bathroom. "Med-kit is in the cupboard," he said, and Wesker got up to fetch it, the bedsprings giving a brief, final creak as his weight left the frame.
Wesker returned from the bathroom with the med-kit, retrieving the tubes of ointment and a fresh roll of medical tape. He sat back down on the edge of the mattress, his movements precise and efficient as he worked the cold cream into Chris's skin. He checked the edge of the bandage Chris had wrapped on himself earlier with a practiced, steady hand.
“If this is your idea of coming home in one piece," Wesker murmured, his voice low and tight, "I hate to think how you return from missions where you aren’t.”
Chris tried to shrug, but stopped himself when his shoulders protested. ”Sometimes I get to have a few extra days off out of it. They even wave off my paperwork if I’m stuck in the medical wing.”
Wesker suddenly pressed a fraction too hard on a particularly deep, plum-colored sensitive spot along his upper back. Chris gasped, his spine going rigid from the sudden, sharp spike of pain. He twisted his head around to glare over his shoulder, entirely certain the man had done it on purpose.
”This is not a joking matter, Redfield," Wesker scolded smoothly, his expression dead serious. "Your physical integrity is also a concern of mine, now.”
Chris's irritation evaporated instantly, a genuine, tired smile pulling at his lips at the quiet concession. Wesker had practically admitted he had skin in the game. ”But this was a good mission," Chris insisted softly, his voice dropping into something warmer. "No hospital stays for anyone. I'm happy.”
Wesker gave a low, noncommittal grunt, capping the tube of ointment with a sharp click.
”Done. You can dress again," Albert said, wiping his hands on a clean towel. He leveled a sharp gaze downward. "Unless you are hiding more injuries under your sweatpants.” He looked at him accusingly, rather than seductively.
Chris knew better than to try to lie to him. "No, only a few minor bruises and scrapes. Nothing that will prevent me from spending tomorrow with my butt glued to an office chair writing the report.”
Wesker helped him back into his t-shirt, his hands surprisingly gentle as he guided the fabric over Chris's tender shoulders, before settling close to him on the edge of the mattress. He still hadn't put his glasses back on. The intense heat from before had entirely evaporated, but a deep, quiet intimacy remained in its place.
Albert reached out, his long, cool fingers sliding over Chris's palm, taking his hand in his. He stared at their joined fingers for a moment before looking up. “You’re back at work tomorrow,” he confirmed, a low, distinct note of disappointment coloring his voice.
”Yeah," Chris murmured, squeezing Albert's hand back. "And these bruises are not going to fade in the next few days. So... what are we going to do?”
"We adapt," Wesker replied, his analytical mind clearly working through the variables. "Zeno's schedule remains unchanged, and your work hours too, I suppose." He took a slow, deep breath, his eyes fixed on their joined hands as he mentally calculated their timelines, trying to find any usable overlap.
"We could do dinner," Chris told him. He hadn't just been thinking about kissing Wesker over the last week; he had been actively planning how to make this relationship actually work. "The three of us. Like after the picnic. We have dinner together, then Zeno goes to bed and the two of us can have some time alone."
Wesker considered his words, and his expression shifted into something softer, unguarded. The inclusion of Zeno seemed to stir something in him that Chris struggled to identify. "You could have proposed to come over after bedtime was over. Why?"
Chris knew he was being tested and that the only good answer was the truth. "Because I want to be in his life too, Albert. Just like I told you before. I enjoy spending time with the two of you."
Wesker looked at him for a longer moment, and when he was satisfied by his sincerity, he nodded. "Okay. Friday evening, dinner is served at seven PM sharp. Don’t be late."
Chris grinned, satisfied by his little victory. "And I could join you on your excursions on weekends, as I did at the zoo? But this time we're gonna be honest with ourselves and call it a date."
Albert nodded again in approval. "You've thought about this," he remarked.
Chris couldn't deny it. "I had a lot of time to kill on the transport back."
Wesker squeezed his hand in approval. "Then this is how we're going to go about things for the time being. Dinner Friday evening, and you're going to join Zeno and me at the museum on Sunday," he sounded satisfied with their little plan. "We can discuss the details by phone."
It sounded like an end to their time together.
"I should be on my way," Wesker told him, but without really making the move to get up.
"I'll walk you to the door," Chris offered, and Albert squeezed his hand one last time before he got up.
"Let me fix this up first." Wesker grabbed the med-kit and put it back in the bathroom where he had found it earlier, stopping a moment in front of the mirror to adjust his hair and clothes before he returned to the bedroom and let Chris lead him back to the other room, where Chris gestured at the containers still on the table.
"Give me a moment to transfer the food to my fridge, and I'll give you back your stuff."
Albert shook his head. "Just bring it back to me on Friday."
"Right, that's a smart idea."
Wesker raised an eyebrow in mockery. "You are 100% certain you did not suffer any head injury."
"Positive, I'd remember if I hit my head."
Wesker did not laugh at his joke.
But when they got to the front door, Wesker turned to him and hesitated for a beat. Chris took a chance and leaned forward to press their lips together one last time. "Call me tonight," Chris asked.
Albert smiled softly and then put his sunglasses back on before he opened the door to the landing and walked out. Chris stood in the open doorway for a few seconds, listening to Wesker's light steps fading down the stairwell until the main building door finally clicked shut downstairs. Only then did he close his own door and walk to the kitchen to put the leftovers in the fridge, feeling fully taken care of.
The only thing left to do was rest. Until Friday.