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The dilapidated halls of the RCPD creaked and groaned under Chris’ heavy work boots. The tiles and brickwork were crumbling and crawling with dark, unidentifiable stains. Soot, maybe, or dirt, or grime from the plague that had swept through.
Much of the building had been devastated by the bombs, walls lying slumped across the ground and shards from shattered windows splashed across the tiles, the metal foundation of the building peeking out like skeletal remains long after a burial. There were, surprisingly, no spiderwebs that he could see. Even the insects refused to make a home here.
Chris stood among the wreckage and breathed through his cigarette, filling his lungs with the smog instead of the scent of dirt and decay. The nicotine burned pleasantly in his throat. It probably looked like a chimney after the full pack he’d sucked dry today, but he always seemed to bounce back no matter how much he indulged - maybe a lingering effect from his infection all those years ago, the same way Jill looked younger than her years after everything she'd been through. It would have been wishful thinking to think their constant exposure to viruses hadn’t affected them in some way.
Leon had come through here, and he and his team were hunting for his trail. But Chris found himself distracted by the nostalgia of these surroundings, his gaze sliding across the floor with bittersweet recollection rather than the cold assessment that was required of him. The almost three years he’d spent walking these halls felt like a lifetime.
His feet drifted through the hall he’d walked thousands of times during his stint with S.T.A.R.S., past the library, past exits that could have taken him somewhere less bittersweet. He stopped in the doorway of his old workplace, and he looked.
After all these years, it was strange to see his jacket still on its hook, clinging onto life. Much like its owner. Unsalvageable, obviously, but still there, the faded Made in Heaven lettering peeling at the edges yet somehow still perfectly intelligible.
Rebecca’s medical bag hung from a hook, the white faded to a greyish-yellow. Jill’s cap sat on her desk, threadbare and crusted with filth. The posters they’d stuck in the cabinet were just as bright and garish as he remembered.
The monitors, the keyboards, the lamps, the cabinet - everything was still here, covered in a thick layer of dust that made it look almost grey. This place had felt like a second home to him, once; more so than the room he’d been assigned at the Academy, more so than his bed in the Air Force barracks, more so than the BSAA headquarters. He’d kept some of his most valuable things here because he’d known they would be safe among the people he’d come to regard as close friends. They were still his closest friends, provided they had survived the mansion. Provided they had survived Wesker.
Wesker.
His gaze drifted to Wesker’s office, remarkably intact considering the bombs and the ravages of time. Though he hadn’t yet entered, he could see a photo frame at the far end of the room, one he knew, even without closer inspection, depicted the entire S.T.A.R.S. team at their peak, their faces bright and unknowing. Above it, the S.T.A.R.S. symbol loomed, a once-proud monument to their elite force.
He stubbed out his cigarette before he entered. Wesker had never liked him smoking in his office.
As he stepped inside, Chris ran his fingers along the wall, dust gathering on his fingertips.
That wall had seen many a back, sometimes his, sometimes Wesker's, depending on who was hungrier for it that day. Chris had been so awkward at first, uncertain and inexperienced, wet and clumsy. While his classmates had spent their late teens chasing relationships, he'd buried himself in textbooks in preparation to enter the Air Force Academy - he'd been on track for it since he was fifteen, after interviewing (by force) a recruitment officer who had dropped by the school looking for students closer to graduation.
"You have no idea what you're doing," Wesker had observed after their first kiss.
Embarrassing, but true. It took weeks for Chris to really figure out how you were supposed to kiss someone without it being so wet and awkward.
That remark had been followed up with, "But I appreciate the enthusiasm,” so enthusiasm could make up for a lot, apparently.
A smile threatened the corners of Chris' mouth. He forced it down, shaking off the memory.
The desk was his next stop, a piece of furniture that had seen his back, his chest, his side, his ass - every part of him, in whatever position Wesker had wanted him in. The first time they’d (he quickly scrubbed away the thought made love) fucked here, he’d insisted on lying on his back so he could see Wesker’s face, had even plucked away Wesker’s sunglasses and let his hands drift into Wesker’s hair. The most profound thing was that Wesker had let him. He’d leaned into Chris' touch and kissed him, been so gentle, so patient, so kind, treating Chris like he was precious instead of expendable. Chris had believed his act wholeheartedly.
Sharing so much of each other and still being betrayed had left a wound that refused to scab over… and yet, the memories brought him a strange comfort, like slipping into something old and warm. Something a little ragged at the edges, with holes someone had tried and failed to patch up, but still comfortingly familiar, a perfect fit.
He couldn’t resist the urge to let his hands wander over its ragged surface. Though the quality of the grain had changed, it still felt achingly familiar under his palms. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear Wesker pulling the blinds shut, the metallic hiss followed by Wesker drifting toward his desk, where Chris would wait for him with his legs spread and wanting. He could almost smell their shared sweat and taste the cheap coffee from their staff room on Wesker’s tongue. Then came the warmth of his hands, the certainty of his touch. When Wesker had been inside him, Chris had never felt more complete.
Chris opened his eyes again. Ruins surrounded him.
Footsteps crunched up to the entrance, and Chris turned, hand flying to the butt of his gun. His heartbeat surged despite him recognising the cadence of those footsteps as coming from one of his own men. He knew what the tread of a soldier sounded like.
Umber Eyes peeked into Wesker’s office. “Oh, there you are. We’ve found a lead, sir; looks like we need to head to the orphanage.” He stood straight, at attention. “Are we authorised to pursue?”
The frantic beating of his heart eased off at the sight of Umber Eyes.
“Go ahead,” said Chris, nodding toward the exit. “I’ll catch up.”
Umber Eyes gave the office a pointed look, seeming to recognise the significance, before turning to leave. Chris would follow eventually. His team was more than competent enough to handle the situation without him. Sometimes, he felt a little… superfluous, but maybe that was his age talking, the fear that he was growing too old for this line of work and that his role would be better taken over by someone younger. But he knew he’d probably persist in it until he died.
He gave Wesker’s desk one last, lingering look before leaving, the shadows seeming deeper with every step away.