Archive of Our Own

God damn, his head is fucking killing him.

Even with his eyes closed, Chris can't manage to avoid the way the harsh overhead lighting in the holding cell makes his head pound. He leans back against the cool cell wall behind him to try and find some relief, but the new angle only intensifies the throbbing in his skull and he lets out a pained groan at the unpleasant change. The sound gets the attention of the mumbling drunkard perched on the bench beside him who stops rambling for the first time since he arrived to turn and face Chris.

"Not our night, eh, pal?" the drunk slurs, nearly tipping over as he raises his hand and points sluggishly in Chris's general direction. "Y'don't look s'good, my man."

Chris scoffs at the remark, irritation evident in his tone, but he doesn't bother to tell him off. The guy is probably right, after all—he can only imagine what he must look like right now.

He wasn't given the opportunity to change before getting tossed into the drunk tank, so he's still wearing the same dark green shirt he was at the bar, a shirt that is now stained with blood and sticky with the remnants of a rum and Coke he never got to enjoy. Chris supposes that the overwhelming scent of booze emanating from his clothes is what landed him in the drunk tank in the first place, despite the fact that he's wearing much more alcohol than he'd actually consumed.

He brings a sore, bruised hand to his nostrils to check if his nose has stopped bleeding and finds an uncomfortable crust of dried blood there, then continues feeling upwards to assess the state of the rest of his face. By some miracle it doesn't feel like anything's broken, but that's about all he can tell by touch. He'll need to check himself out in the mirror to see how bad it looks and if he'll have any black eyes to try to hide from his fellow S.T.A.R.S. members tomorrow. Jill would probably let him borrow some makeup to cover up anything minor, but he has no clue how he'll explain away any major cuts or swelling.

And, of course, that's only if Jill doesn't break his nose herself once he calls her and asks her to come pick him up at whatever ungodly hour they choose to release him.

Chris can't help but let out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob as the reality of the situation settles in. His drunken companion wasn't kidding: it's really not his night.

Before he can spiral too far, the officer who escorted him to the cell earlier reappears on the other side of the iron bars just in front of him.

"Hey, green shirt," the officer says, knocking his club against the bars to get Chris's attention. "You're Redfield, right? Is this thing real?"

Chris looks up to see the officer holding his wallet open to where his S.T.A.R.S. ID card is on display within a clear protective pocket. He gives the officer an affirmative nod and silently hopes that he'll stop waving the wallet around before one of the condoms he'd stashed in there earlier falls out.

"Dude, you didn't tell us you were R.P.D.!" gasps the officer. "Why didn't you mention it when we picked you up?"

Chris offers a blank stare in response. "You never asked."

"Well, that's the kind of thing you're supposed to mention, man. You're definitely not supposed to be in there! Let me go talk to someone real quick about getting you out."

Now that's more like it. A wave of relief washes over him at the thought of finally going home; he's more than ready for this night to be over. There isn't a clock anywhere in sight, but he likely hasn't been here for more than an hour or two, so it shouldn't be too late in the evening—maybe Jill won't kill him after all. Chris watches the officer as he starts to leave, then pauses just before rounding out of sight.

"You know," the officer begins, leaning casually against the bars, "I have a buddy from the academy down in Raccoon, maybe you know him? I think he's a reserve officer, actually, but he tells me all about that crazy police station you guys have down there, says he's always getting lost on his way to the bathroom…" Whatever expression Chris's face is making right now must not be very friendly, because the officer trails off in the middle of his story and stands up straight. "Anyway, let me see what I can do for you real quick. You just hold tight; I'll be right back."

Chris watches him leave fully this time before closing his eyes again, distantly registering his drunk cellmate mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like that lucky son of a bitch. Sitting tight he can do, Chris thinks as he reclines against the cell wall again, his head throbbing in protest once more. Where the fuck else could I possibly go?

~~~

It's not more than 20 minutes before the officer returns. Chris sits up a bit too quickly at the sound of the officer's heavy footfall echoing on the cement floor and winces as the cell door opens with a loud clang.

"Alright, Redfield, you're free to go," the officer beams, looking rather pleased with himself. "My partner called down to the R.P.D. to make sure everything checked out, and you've got the all clear."

Chris can't think of anything he'd rather hear right now. He's about to stand up and stretch when the officer continues speaking, stopping him dead in his tracks.

"You got pretty lucky, actually! She managed to catch your captain just as he was heading out for the night. They had a bit of a chat and got everything all sorted—he'll be here in about half an hour to pick you up."

Surely he didn't hear that correctly. Did he just say captain?

Completely oblivious to the bombshell he just dropped, the officer tries to strike up another casual conversation. "Say, do you guys always work this late over in S.T.A.R.S.? I guess you must, what with it being a tactical unit and all. Heh, bet the pay makes up for it, though. I just wish we had something cool like that up here…"

Whatever the officer says after that, Chris doesn't hear. Lucky? He feels like someone just doused him with ice water. The dull, pounding ache that's plagued his head has spread through the rest of his body as pure dread courses through his veins. If he stands up now, he's definitely going to be sick. What could possibly be lucky about Albert Wesker seeing him in this state?

Chris knows that the officer is still speaking, attempting to engage him in a bit of professional banter as an apology for locking him up, but he can't bring himself to focus on a word he says. Does he have any idea what he's just done? Chris could have taken care of this on his own. Jill would have lectured him all the way home, but he knows she would have been caring and discreet, especially when it came to the… finer details of his predicament. Or he could have called Barry, who might not have understood everything, but would want to make sure Chris got home safe, no matter what. Hell, he's probably let a few local cab drivers off with warnings who he could have called to cash in a favor or two. But no, it had to be Wesker, the absolute last person he wants to see right now.

Professionally, it's a disaster.

While Chris isn't exactly a stranger to butting up against authority figures and being disciplined for his behavior, this job was supposed to be different. It already is different. It's the first time he's really felt like he found the right fit for him. He loves the city, loves the work, loves his coworkers—and, for once in his goddamn life, he respects his leadership. Wesker, as scary as he can be sometimes, is an effective and dependable leader who listens to his team and trusts them when it counts. He may be a hard-ass, but Chris has never worked under anyone who's had as much respect for his subordinates as he commands in return, or who's understood his strengths and weaknesses like Wesker does. The thought of losing the best gig he's ever had, working under the best boss he's ever had, over a fucking bar fight of all things makes his stomach lurch.

Personally, it's… Chris doesn't even want to think about it.

It's not exactly a secret that he's become somewhat of a teacher's pet since joining the team. Wesker put a lot of faith in him when he chose Chris to be his point man, and with that came increased responsibility and attention—all of which went directly to his head (and some other places, as well). He eagerly soaked up every bit of praise—every "Chris, you did a fine job" or "Chris, you make me proud"—like a greedy sponge, and he did whatever he could to hear more. Jill loved to make fun of him whenever his cheeks would color at Wesker's approval, and Brad had called him a kiss-ass on more than one occasion. But he can say goodbye to all of that now. Wesker is going to take one look at the sorry state he's found himself in and he'll figure out what all of his other superiors have known all along: that Chris Redfield is a disappointment.

At some point the chatty officer must have realized that Chris wasn't paying him any attention, because he suddenly clears his throat as he moves to loudly close the cell door.

"So, uh, do you want to wait it out in here or up in front?" the officer says, gesturing to the waiting area he'd passed through earlier on his way in.

Chris finally makes eye contact with the officer and recognizes pity in his expression. Does he really look that pathetic? "Just leave me in here," he replies after a moment.

The officer shrugs in response as he re-locks the cell door. "Suit yourself," he says, walking just out of view. "I'll come grab you when your captain gets here."

Only when Chris can't hear the trudge of his boots anymore does he finally respond.

"I really wish you wouldn't."

~~~

The sound of a door alarm chiming in the distance rouses Chris from his wallowing. It sounds a whole lot like the final bell tolling for him—a death knell for his dignity. He looks around his cell one last time and finds that the drunkard has passed out on the bench beside him, a thin stream of drool pouring from his mouth and a peaceful expression on his face. Must be nice, Chris muses.

From where he's sitting, he can just barely hear the officer on duty loudly greet whoever it is who walked through the front door, but he can't make out the visitor's hushed responses.

Not like it matters, though. He already knows exactly who it is.

His suspicions are confirmed when the unmistakable clack of Wesker's boots joins the boisterous officer's booming footsteps as the pair begin to traverse the hallway leading to his cell. Their conversation becomes clearer as they approach, although Wesker's comments are still too quiet to hear.

"…Yeah, we've got him in back. Picked him up at a local bar after the owner called. He got in a fight with one of the other patrons. Knocked him clean out…"

Damn right, he did.

"…Nah, he's not too beat up. I don't think he broke anything, except maybe his nose. Nothing like the other guy, though. Phew, you shoulda seen him! They took him all the way down to Spencer Memorial for observation since he was bleeding pretty bad, and, y'know, you guys have all that fancy Umbrella stuff down there. That's gotta be pretty nice, right? Our local hospital doesn't really have much…"

Under different circumstances, Chris would have found their exchange hilarious. He can't see either party just yet, but he can picture Wesker's icy glare as he listens to the officer drone on, bothering him with unnecessary details and idle chit-chat. It must be a particularly menacing one this time, because the officer suddenly veers back on topic.

"…A-anyway, we'll get the other guy's story when he wakes up, but for now yours is free to go. I just need you to sign this."

Wesker and the officer finally come into view as the officer hands him a clipboard. Wesker stops just in front of where Chris is sitting and looks him over, no doubt taking in his disheveled appearance. He signs the form and then hands it back without ever taking his eyes off of Chris. He does his best to avoid Wesker's gaze, but the scrutiny makes his face burn nevertheless.

"Cool, he's all yours," the officer says as he opens the cell door and motions for Chris to get up.

Oh, if only that were true.

Chris finally exits the cell and watches as the officer closes the door behind him. He scurries off as soon as the door is closed, but not before shooting Chris a sympathetic look and wishing both him and Wesker a pleasant evening. He can only shake his head in return. It took less than five minutes of interacting with Wesker for him to understand why Chris was so morose—Chris is going to have to make it through a 30 minute car ride with him.

When he can't avoid it any longer, Chris turns to face Wesker head on. He's still wearing his dark blue S.T.A.R.S. uniform, sunglasses and all, and what's visible of his expression is frustratingly blank. He doesn't say a single word. Instead, Wesker gives him a curt nod, heel turns towards the exit, and walks off down the hallway at a brisk pace, like he's expecting Chris to follow if he knows what's good for him.

Chris matches his stride but follows a few paces behind, maintaining as much distance as possible before the confines of Wesker's vehicle force them into close proximity. The officer at least has the courtesy to look remorseful about the whole affair and silently pretends to busy himself with whatever files are open on his desk as Chris approaches to collect his confiscated belongings. Before he can even double check that all of his stuff is still there, however, the door alarm chimes behind him, signaling that Wesker has already left without him.

Chris barely manages to slip through the door before it closes as he rushes after Wesker, who doesn't stop walking even for a moment. He doesn't even turn around to make sure Chris is still following—if he didn't know any better, he'd think that his captain was going to drive off without him. He spots Wesker entering his car near the end of the parking lot and picks up the pace, shivering as the cold midnight air rushes against his skin, making the hair on his forearms stand on end. If it were up to him, he'd grab a cigarette from his bag of belongings to warm himself up, but he knows Wesker hates it when he smokes and he's in enough shit as it is, so he settles for shoving his hands into the snug pockets of his uncomfortably tight jeans.

Oh, right… he'd been so preoccupied with how royally fucked this whole night was that he forgot about his questionable attire. Not only is he wearing his tightest pair of jeans (that he'd hoped he wouldn't be wearing for this long), but his bloodstained shirt is unbuttoned at least two buttons beyond what is considered appropriate to wear in front of your boss. He feels a deep red flush bloom across the exposed skin of his chest, no longer cold against the frigid air as the humiliation sets in.

There's basically no way Wesker didn't notice. It doesn't exactly take a genius to put together what Chris's intentions were for the evening, and Wesker is pretty damn smart. He can already hear his captain's voice scolding him in his head, telling him that what he's wearing is obscene, that it's entirely unbecoming of a S.T.A.R.S. member, even off-duty. He hastily fastens a few of the buttons as he approaches the passenger-side door of Wesker's vehicle, but the damage has surely been done.

He takes a deep breath and wills himself to enter the vehicle. At this point, he can only hope that Wesker takes pity on him and chooses not to acknowledge it. Either way, it's shaping up to be a long, uncomfortable trip.

~~~

The ride is mercifully quiet for the first five or so miles. It's started to drizzle outside, and Chris occupies his time by staring at the droplets that patter against the passenger-side window, willing his head to stop pounding and pointedly not looking in his captain's direction. Maybe they can spend the whole ride in silence, listening to only the sound of rain against metal and glass.

"Are you alright?" Wesker asks suddenly, tone devoid of any recognizable emotion.

So much for silence. Chris responds with a sardonic thumbs-up, still not meeting his gaze. "Never better."

Wesker continues, unamused. "Would you care to explain what exactly happened tonight?"

"Not particularly." Chris has no interest in thinking about the night's events ever again, let alone relaying them to his boss. One particularly aggressive rain drop splatters against the window right by his head, and he watches as it races the other droplets to the bottom.

"This isn't a friendly inquiry, Redfield; you've put me in a rather difficult position that I cannot afford to be in," Wesker snaps. "Your talkative friend may have let you off the hook for now, but if the man you assaulted while intoxicated files a complaint with the R.P.D., I'm confident that Irons will not do the same. I need to know exactly what to expect should there be a formal investigation."

Chris can't help the way his shoulders sag at the confirmation that Wesker isn't actually concerned about his personal well-being, even though he saw it coming a mile away. He's right, though—Irons will have his head if Wesker doesn't take it for himself first.

"I wasn't even drunk… barely drank anything. It was just a fight." Chris shrugs as he speaks, hoping that he comes across as collected and unbothered. "Look, I know I fucked up, ok? If he asks, you can tell Irons whatever you want. The details don't matter." Involuntarily, his leg begins to bounce as he waits for a response. Great work, Chris, real unbothered.

"Chris, you are one of my best men, and I would like to keep it that way, but if you want to be obstinate about this, then have it your way. We'll leave the judgement to Irons; he's such a big fan of yours, after all."

The compliment would usually make his head spin, but all Chris hears is the disappointment dripping from Wesker's words. It's like he's twelve years old again, staring at the floor of his bedroom while his father scolds him for making yet another mess of his room. If you're ok with living like this, then so be it, his father used to say. Your mother and I are not always going to be around to pick up after you, you know. A searing pain rips through his skull as he shakes off the memory.

There's really only one way out of this. Chris slides his hands down his face and takes a deep breath.

"I've just been a little… frustrated lately," he says, hoping that Wesker catches his meaning without prying further, "so I figured I'd actually go out for once, just to blow off some steam."

"And 'blowing off steam' entailed traveling well outside city limits to batter civilians? Raccoon City has many bars. You could purchase a punching bag."

"Oh, fuck off, that's not what I meant and you know it," Chris spits. "Besides, I work in Raccoon. I'm not going to hang around at a local bar until I run into someone I know from work, or worse, someone I put away. You've been here longer than I have, you should know what I mean."

Wesker doesn't respond. Maybe he doesn't know what Chris means. The team has never been able to get the captain to join them for after-work drinks on the few occasions they've all gone out together—maybe Wesker didn't go out like that, or at least not for the same reasons he does. Or perhaps he simply doesn't care, the easy confidence he's earned over the course of his career allowing him to walk into whatever bar he pleases and talk up any patron there without worry.

For a moment, Chris wonders what that would even look like. Would he finally take off his sunglasses? Let his perfectly styled hair come a bit loose after an evening of drinks, a subtle rosy hue coloring his sharp, pale features? Maybe then he would lean in close to whisper into his quarry's ear—let me take you home—and that would be that.

Chris finally spares his captain a glance and finds him wearing a frown that's even deeper than usual, the same kind he'd see when he used to barrel into the S.T.A.R.S. office fifteen minutes late and smelling of cigarettes. I expect more from you, Wesker had said to him once after he'd been tardy more days of the week than not. Am I wrong to do so? You don't seem to expect much from yourself. Chris bought a new alarm clock the next day just so he'd never have to hear those words again. Now he wishes Wesker would say something, anything. Instead, all he hears is the pouring rain.

Fuck it. If Wesker has nothing to say, then Chris will give him something to talk about.

"Alright, fine. You wanna know what I was doing out there? What really fucking happened?" he says, his voice louder than he means it to be. "I'd heard from—well, it doesn't matter—I'd heard that there was a bar a bit outside of town that was made for… that was what I was looking for. So I went. And it was… nice, actually." He swallows, his throat suddenly dry at the realization that he can't keep his story ambiguous anymore. "Or at least it was nice until I offered to buy some guy a drink."

With that, the cat is officially out of the bag. Chris stops speaking and braces himself for vitriol that never comes. When Wesker says nothing, he cautiously continues his story.

"I guess he must have been lost. Maybe he was already drunk or something, I don't know, but he definitely didn't know where he was, because the guy freaked out on me. Asked me if I was some kind of faggot." He can barely get the words out without his voice cracking. "I told him to take a good look around at what kind of bar he was in, but that must have set him off, because he threw my drink in my face and called me a freak…" His next words come out just above a whisper. "I didn't want to hurt him, really. I just wanted to go home. I shoved him backward, just to get a little distance, but he punched me, right in the nose… so I decked him. And then I fucking lost it. I don't even know what came over me, I just—"

Once the words start tumbling out, Chris can't seem to stop them. "—One night. I wanted one night where I could let my guard down. I went so far out of my way to have a singular night where I could be myself, be with others who understand me, but it's always the same. Back home, the air force, here—I don't know why I'm surprised anymore. It just hurts every time, I guess. And now you know. About tonight, about me. So tell Irons whatever you want, or fire me yourself if you have to. All I want is a chance to say goodbye to everyone before I go."

The full weight of everything he's just said hits him all at once like a shotgun blast straight to the chest. Telling people he's gay has never been easy for him at the best of times, and this is as bad as it gets. Not only has he had to tell his boss his biggest secret—a secret that just got him assaulted—but it's probably going to get him fired from the most important job he's ever had.

Chris tries to calm himself down, but his face is numb and his heart feels like it's about to pound right out of his chest. The thought of leaving his teammates is almost too much to bear. He thinks about Jill especially, how heartbreaking it would be to say goodbye to one of the most incredible women he's ever known. They've grown so close in such a short amount of time, and she's one of the few people he knows he can truly be himself around without any fear of judgement.

He thinks back to the day he came out to her, sitting in her kitchenette as she brewed him a cup of tea. He'd been so nervous that he nearly spilled it everywhere as he stammered out his confession. Oh my god, she'd said, holding back laughter with a brilliant smile on her face, I thought you were going to ask me out and I'd have to let you down gently! Of course I still love you, Chris; I will no matter what.

The rain outside has subsided since entering Raccoon City proper, but Chris's vision is so blurry he can hardly make out his surroundings. A hot tear streaks down his face and he quickly reaches up to wipe it away before Wesker sees him crying in his passenger seat, if that's even possible at this point. He's not even sure when the tears started forming; it's possible that Wesker noticed before he did. Chris tries to stop any more from falling, but it's not much use. Laying himself bare like this has left him angry, embarrassed, and profoundly empty. But worst of all, Wesker still hasn't said a goddamn word.

It's just as well, Chris thinks. Perhaps his captain has just enough respect left for him to let him keep his dignity intact before he's tossed aside. Or maybe he's too disgusted with him to even speak. Without the patter of rain against the windshield to cut through the silence, he only has the faint hum of the engine to help quiet his thoughts, which doesn't help very much. He's so deep within his own head that it startles him when Wesker finally speaks.

"When the officer on the phone told me where you were and what had happened, I'd wondered if you went to Jessie's."

Chris is yanked out of his thoughts hard enough to give him whiplash. That's… that's exactly where he was. How did Wesker know the name of the bar—the gay bar—he was at?

"If memory serves me correctly," Wesker adds, "a few other bars with similar facades have opened up along that street recently. I'm not surprised that someone stumbled in unaware, perhaps from out of town."

None of this makes any sense to Chris. Does this mean…?

"You asked me earlier if I knew what you meant. Well, I do. Perhaps more than you would expect." Wesker pauses for a moment, then continues. "There are certain things you cannot be in Raccoon City—at least, not in our line of work. I know it's not a simple thing to keep parts of yourself hidden for so long, and what it's like to want to share those parts with someone who understands. I know how rare that kind of connection can be."

Chris practically feels his whole world come to a stop, or at least he thinks he does until he realizes that the car has finally stopped moving, parked directly outside of his apartment complex.

It's then that Wesker finally looks at him, and Chris holds his gaze in return. He's been so caught up in his own head that he hadn't noticed that Wesker had removed his glasses at some point and was looking at him with a sympathetic glint in his piercing blue eyes, an earnestness there he's never seen before. He feels his face flush at the eye contact and begins to look away, but Wesker has other plans.

"Chris, look at me." He follows the order immediately and Wesker takes the opportunity to grab Chris's face with one hand, gently pinching the tip of his chin between his thumb and forefinger. He lets Wesker carefully tilt his head in different directions and watches in awe as his captain's eyes roam across his face, searching for something. "Take the day off tomorrow; you have a black eye forming that you won't want to answer questions about. You'll have the weekend to find a way to look presentable and get your story straight."

"O-okay," Chris breathes out, his focus entirely narrowed down to the point of contact between them. Every nerve in his body buzzes with anticipation.

Wesker angles his chin back to the center and locks eyes with him once more. "As for Irons, let me deal with him if it comes to that. I will let him know that I've already administered my own discipline and that no further action is required, as I do not expect this pattern of behavior to continue." Wesker suddenly changes the grip on his chin, now cupping his whole hand underneath his jaw, then tightens his hold as he pulls Chris's face towards his own. "This behavior will not continue, am I correct?"

"Yeah," Chris pants, eager and breathless, head in a daze. "Yes, of course, Captain. Always."

Wesker brings his other hand to Chris's face and uses his thumb to softly wipe a tear from Chris's cheek that he didn't even realize was there. "Good man. Just as I expected."

A euphoric warmth floods his whole body, traveling down his spine like a bolt of electricity before settling low and heavy in his gut, making him squirm in his seat. Chris nearly whines as he feels Wesker release him from his grip to unlock the passenger-side door for him to leave, and he immediately mourns the contact. He desperately wants to feel Wesker's hands on him again—anywhere, everywhere—but even in his current state he recognizes the gesture as his signal to leave. Eager not to overstay his welcome, he reaches for the handle, clammy hands shaking the whole time.

"Oh, and Chris?" Wesker speaks up just before he opens the door. "I'm sorry. About what happened to you."

"Thanks, Wesker. I really mean it." If he doesn't get out of the car now, he gets the feeling that he's never going to, so he yanks on the handle and exits swiftly without looking back. He makes a beeline for the stairs that lead up to his apartment and traverses them quickly before fumbling with his keys as he hastily unlocks his front door. Only once he's inside of his messy apartment does he hear Wesker begin to drive away. He stands in his entryway and listens to the sound of his engine as it fades into the distance, eventually leaving him in silence.

Once Wesker is completely gone, he makes his way to his bathroom and finally takes a look at himself in the mirror. His appearance makes him wince, a reddish-purple splotch already forming under his left eye and his nose swollen and crusted with blood. He pokes and prods at the various injuries on his face before bringing his hand to rest at the same spot on his chin that Wesker had touched earlier. He closes his eyes and applies pressure, remembering what the touch had felt like and mulling over everything his captain had said. It was a lot to process, and he doesn't dare get his hopes up about some of the implications, but one thing stands out above all else: Wesker understands him.

When he opens his eyes and looks in the mirror once more, he sees himself smiling genuinely for the first time that night.

Umbrella's operation has its roots so deeply embedded in Spencer Memorial Hospital that it's light work for Wesker to acquire the patient record of the man Chris deemed worthy of a drink two nights ago. He thumbs through it as he sips his morning coffee, a printout of the man's criminal record next to it on his desk. His chart indicates that he was treated for a grade 3 concussion, a fractured orbital socket, and a broken nose, as well as multiple facial lacerations and rib contusions—all injuries consistent with what Wesker can only imagine was a furious beat down.

It's a pity he wasn't there to see it, unprofessional though it may have been. He's only managed to observe the notorious Redfield temper in small bursts, as Chris's eagerness to please him often overrides his hot-headed nature, but without Wesker's tight leash to reign him in, it must have been a sight to behold.

Wesker places his mug on his desk and closes his eyes, imagining what it must have been like: Chris swinging wildly at the man helpless on the floor beneath him, his own blood pouring from his nose and dripping onto his chest, a beautiful contrast next to his dark green shirt. Oh, what he would have done to see the righteous fury in Chris's eyes as his rage overtook his better judgement. He thinks about what all that strength and passion would be like if it were pointed in the proper direction, with the right hand there to guide him. The things they could accomplish together if Chris would just…

He opens his eyes and reaches for the man's criminal record. It's largely unremarkable as far as criminals go. As predicted, the man is from out of town and likely was not familiar with the area. His rap sheet—public intoxication, disorderly conduct, violation of restraining order, domestic battery—paints a decent picture of the kind of scumbag he is, but these types are a dime a dozen in any bar across the country. What catches his eye, though, is his brief physical description. He's tall and in his mid 30s with blond hair, light blue eyes, and, if his blurry mugshot is anything to go by, rather pale skin.

Something dark and possessive swirls in his chest at the thought of Chris involving himself with this man, and he takes another sip of his coffee to swallow it back down. Chris is free to seek the company of whoever he'd like; it's absolutely no concern of his. So why does he feel like throwing his coffee mug across the room? He settles instead for dumping all of the files pertaining to the man into his trashcan and then pouring the contents of his mug on top.

Still, his thoughts wander back to that night, back to Chris. He recalls how miserable and out of it Chris had looked when Wesker first arrived and how wracked with anxiety he was on the ride home. He thinks of the way Chris could barely hold it together as he explained what the man had done to him, the fear in his expression when he thought his time in S.T.A.R.S. was over. And he remembers the look of utter devotion on Chris's face when he held it in his hands and laid his worries to rest.

Wesker abruptly picks up his phone and dials one of his closest contacts at Spencer Memorial, an indescribable longing roaring within him as he waits for the person on the other end of the line to answer. Eventually, she picks up.

"Hello, dear," Wesker drawls, a wry smile spreading across his face. "I have a present for you."

~~~

When a nurse comes by the next morning to check on the man who hurt Chris, he's no longer there.