Work Text:
You glance at the clock in the corner of your laptop screen. 11:37a.m. The day was hardly beginning and you were already counting down the minutes until you could go home. Not because of the work, of course, you loved your job. In fact your own wishes to leave vex you, but your body had decided today was not your day. You weren’t even sure what you did this time to make your head throb, which made it all the more infuriating. Maybe if you had been up working late, hadn’t drank enough water, or god forbid skipped your medications you could understand. There was no room for error in your selfcare; any little misstep would be thrown back at you in the form of physical pain. But, despite your best efforts, the pain still came from time to time.
It started as static—uncomfortable, but not painful—across your eye, jaw, and cheek, but inevitably morphed into searing electricity zapping your face. At its worst it caused your hands to vibrate, vision blurring, cold sweat streaking your brow, and breathing to get shallow and labored. It wasn’t quite there yet, but without a chance to lay down for at least another six hours, you knew that’s the direction you were heading. You took slow, controlled breaths as you tried to focus on the article you were meant to be editing. Wesker was across from you at the same lab desk, typing away without a care. What you wouldn’t give to be able to simply exist—no fistfuls of pills, no monthly doctor appointments, no pain. While your boss seemed to possess a near infinite well of energy, every action came at a cost to you, like some constant stamina drain in a video game.
“You are going to make yourself bleed if you continue that.” Wesker’s voice cuts you from your stupor. He hasn’t stopped typing, but somehow noticed you digging your nails into your palms. You had discovered early on that the best distraction from pain was, ironically, more pain. You couldn’t get the burning in your face to go away, but you could at least control the intensity and duration your nails pierced into your skin; or your teeth bit the inside of your cheek; or even, on occasion, have someone else apply some “controlled pain” so to speak.
“Oh, uh yeah maybe. Thanks.” You say, more dismissive than you intended. Wesker knew you had some sort of health issue, it was impossible to hide from your employer completely, but you had refrained from sharing any details. You doubted he would care to hear, and the last thing you wanted was for him to think you were too weak to work with him. He was so picky about choosing postdocs, you had no doubt if he was aware of the extent of your illness you would be let go. Was it legal? Of course not, but he just needed to find some other petty grievance to use as an excuse and then everything you worked towards would go poof. Or, what almost felt like the worse option, he would begin to pity you. You hated the pitiful looks people gave you when you described your illness, it made you feel like one of those dogs in an SPCA advertisement. Instead of seeing you as smart and capable, they would treat you as if you were on the verge of falling to pieces at any second. Like somehow, after living in your body for decades, you didn’t know how to hold yourself together. You were a grown adult, for fucks sake, you could take care of yourself.
“You’re pale.” He says. You steal a glance from your own screen to see him looking at you now, calculating. “If you’re ill, go home. I don’t want it spreading.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine. I’m not fucking contagious.” You speak harsher than you would to him any other time, but when you felt so shitty it was hard to sound like anything other than a bit of a bitch.
“You may not be contagious, but you are certainly not fine.” It isn’t worded as a question, but you had learned over the last couple months when Wesker meant something as a question.
“I’m just in a bit of pain. There’s a reason for all those doctor’s appointments. It’ll pass.” You omitted the part where it would only pass if you went to lay down, take an obscene amount of ibuprofen, and do literally nothing for a while. Even then, the pain would pass when it decided to. Laying down just prevented it from getting worse.
Despite this, Wesker responded, “There is a sofa in my private office. Rest there until it passes.”
“No, no, I’m fine, really. I can handle it, I’ve done it for years, sir.” You’re a bit shocked by his proposition, but are still too stubborn to take the help.
“You are of no use in such a state. You and your work will suffer, don’t be obtuse.” He closes his laptop and stands, waiting for you to follow.
“I can’t promise it will pass any time soon, even laying down.” You say a bit meekly. The conversation was getting too close to revealing just how sick you were. Still, resting felt “weaker” to you than pushing through the pain until you could go home and cry in peace where no one else got to see it.
“Then you will rest in my office for the day. If I need anything from you, you will still be within reach. This isn’t a debate, little rabbit.” There was that damn nickname again, making your stomach flip each time he used it. The whole situation felt unprofessional; why the hell did he even seem to care so much? You didn’t take him for the type to be protective of his fellows, but you supposed it made some sense with how picky he is.
“Fine. Just until it’s bearable.” You sigh, packing away your laptop and standing to follow. Before you’re even out of the lab doors, Wesker has plucked your bag from you and thrown it over his shoulder without a word. He strolls past towards his office, and you drag yourself behind him. He lets you in, placing your bag next to the couch that sits opposite his desk. You take a seat as he produces a bottle of ibuprofen from his desk and hands it to you.
“Do you have water?” You nod, pulling out your water bottle and shaking it a bit, showing it’s half full. He hands you the painkillers but takes your water bottle once you’ve downed the medication, disappearing to fill it the rest of the way.
When he returns you’re laid flat against the couch, trying to focus on the stupid “visualization” exercises your doctors told you to do when you were in pain. It felt like bullshit, imagining undoing a knot in your mind wasn’t going to stop your nerves from firing off pain signals, but it at least gave you something to focus on instead of how embarrassing it was to be doted on by your boss. You couldn’t shake the feeling he was silently judging you for all this.
“I’m sorry” You mumble, eyes closed and brow scrunched.
“Why?” He says, like you were silly for even saying such a thing.
“For being so...pathetic.” You spit. The malice isn’t directed towards him though, only yourself. You hated yourself in moments like this, when your body reminded you how much dominion it held over your life. You just wanted to do your job like everyone else, damnit. Why did it have to make everything so hard?
He moves around you without a sound, as the next time he speaks you hear him crouched directly next to your head. “Do not speak about yourself in such a way. I do not work with pathetic people. Being ill has made you no less brilliant.” He places a palm on your cheek, soft as a ghost. The cool leather of his glove smothers the burning skin, and you can’t hold back a sigh at the bit of relief it provides. You open your eyes and see him peering down at you, a deep scowl on his face. “Have I made myself clear?”
You nod and his expression softens, thumb stroking your cheek. “S-sorry I...” You close your lids again, attempting to stop the tears pushing at your eyes.
“Shh shh shh, just rest now. I’ll be back in an hour, but call me if you need anything before then. Okay?”
“Wait could you—actually no. No never mind.” You’re already mortified, no matter how much you crave his company it would be too humiliating to ask.
“Tell me what you need” He says. An order, not a request.
“I just...It’s hard to be alone, when it’s like this. Just stuck with the pain and my thoughts...” You don’t really say what you want, but the implication is clear enough.
“So long as I am not needed in the lab or a meeting, I will work in here.” He stands to go retrieve his laptop, but before he leaves says something that makes your heart jump into your throat. “Please, be kind to yourself, my little rabbit.”
My little rabbit. That was new, and the possessiveness made you feel things for him you knew were inappropriate. Working with Dr. Wesker had been nothing like you expected but you knew one thing; you were so, unbelievably screwed.