Chapter Text
Chris finally gets a taste of Wesker’s truer self when they’re out running an errand together. Over time, Wesker exposes who he really is- and what he really wants- in a way that Chris later recalls only as being a series of knuckles.
That morning, it’s Wesker’s hands fisted around the steering wheel of a police car, white knuckling it so hard that his skin goes waxy and purple. Chris’ eyes flicker over, following the curve of his fingers. Slender but strong; he’s seen them reverse a dislocated hip out in the field. He’s felt the crush of them on his own windpipe while practicing restraints. They curve around a cup of coffee like they’re trying to choke the ceramic to death, and they twitch when they hang at his sides, almost as though they dislike not being in use.
“…Why did you pull me out of work?” Chris asks hesitantly, eyes flickering over to Wesker’s face. Even from the side, he can’t see anything behind the dark sunglasses except for the frown pressed into his face.
With a glance at the rearview mirror, Wesker clicks on the whole affair. Flashing lights and screaming sirens.
“Somebody needs a clearer message,” he responds tightly.
“Okay…” Chris answers. He watches them snake a path through the traffic, cars pulling off to let them pass. He isn’t even sure that Wesker has the clearance to be using the alarm, let alone the vehicle, but he’s learned that it generally yields the same result to not even bother to ask.
An hour later, when they’re back in the car, parked in a no-stopping zone downtown, it’s Wesker’s knuckles again, scattered like a string of pearls running red on a marble floor. They’re cracked and bleeding, the skin pulling apart. Another man’s DNA is still fresh on his skin. He’s a little disheveled, strands of blonde hair splayed out of place, his back slamming against the seat as he jerks the car into drive.
“What the fuck,” Chris breathes out, wild shock in his eyes as he wrestles the seatbelt over his chest. “Wesker- what the fuck?”
“Christopher,” Wesker says, stopping to address him. He lifts the broken sunglasses onto his head and green blooms in the whites of his eyes, so minty and floral that Chris’ breathing immediately smooths out. “Do you trust my authority?”
Chris remembers the last twenty minutes in flashes.
Flashes of Wesker presenting his badge at the security desk and being led up the stairs. Not even looking at the man who greeted him at the door to one of the private offices; just grabbing him by the neck and walking him backwards into the open room, barking for Chris to guard the door behind them.
When he emerged, it was flushed and battered, red blooming bright across his pale jaw. A crack in one of the lenses of his glasses. An inturned bend to his shoulders, the posture of a predator, breath escaping his throat in ragged bursts.
“Jesus,” Chris had said, stiffening in shock. His hands had come up but not known what to do- whether they were meant to prepare to fight his captain off or help steady him on his feet.
He’d never seen Wesker like this before. Out in the field running STARS through drills, sure. Locked in an off-road combination drill that became a battle of wits, prediction, and tactical history, but never like this. Never something so brutal and unforgiving.
“Don’t gawk, Christopher,” Wesker had scoffed, swiping the blood from a burst nose across his face. “Or do. It’ll help with the sleight of hand.”
For fuck’s sake, Chris doesn’t even know if he would have noticed Wesker drop the wrapped parcel into his breast pocket if he hadn't preceded it with a remark.
“What is that?”
“Much needed information,” Wesker offers, looking around, distracted. With one great swing, he slams the door shut. “Many thanks to the penny-pinching CEO who decided to store it in an office building as opposed to a maximum security facility.”
“Wesker-”
“I did tell you why I asked you to accompany me, didn’t I?”
“I-”
“Barry is as competent at hosting barbeques as Jill is at doing things by the book. Rebecca is attentive and exceptionally intelligent, if a little naïve. Should I go on, or shall we skip to you?”
“Wesker,” Chris tries again, not sure what he’s bargaining for.
“You are the best member of my team, Chris.” Wesker’s arms drop at his sides but they don’t relax. There those fingers go, twitching like electrical impulses are zapping them over and over again. “You have a spine. You’re not afraid to go against the grain. Your center of gravity and your soundness of mind make you an invaluable asset. How long have we known each other in this capacity?”
Despite himself, Chris feels his chest buzz with the praise. It warms the spaces between his ribs and then keeps going, making him feel almost lightheaded. He opens his mouth and hears himself speak. “Five months.”
“Five months indeed,” Wesker nods. “Half a year, almost.”
“Wesker,” Chris begs, his superior’s name like a strangled whine on his tongue, and this time Wesker looks him over, his calculating brain so evident that Chris is surprised he can’t see the equations written across the dark lenses of the glasses.
“Let’s speak in private,” his captain offers.
And here they are now, in the car, driving away from the city, Wesker spinning a tale about the corruption of Chief Irons.
“Wait,” Chris says, slowing him down. He’s calmer now, the gears in his brain turning with something more than fuck fuck fuck fuck. “You think Irons is working with a company manufacturing bioweapons?”
“I know he is,” Wesker answers, teeth ground tightly together. “You might not understand this, Chris, but when you get to be my age, with all the experience I’ve had, you learn to question things. And that means snooping around your superiors sometimes.”
“Does that extend to you?” Chris asks wildly, trying to will his eyes to stop popping out of his head.
Slowly, a smile spreads across Wesker’s face. It’s a gentle one- still a smirk, but not so razor-sharp that Chris fears getting cut on it.
“Yes,” he says, taking his eyes off the road to look directly into Chris’ soul. “And that line of questioning is exactly why I have chosen you to be my right-hand man.” All at once, that smile ghosts off his lips, replaced by their usual tight grimace. “What I have on this thumb drive will show every project he’s signed off on and used RPD funding to finance. It’s not pretty, Chris, but the truth never is.”
When Chris looks at Wesker- at his desk, or demonstrating a series of kicks on a punching bag, or even gripping the steering wheel with his hands all cracked and bloody, Chris feels so small. Inadequate. Like he can only stand in the presence of greatness in order to ever taste it. Like he’ll never know what it is to embody authority.
When Chris makes decisions around the office, he feels so clunky and unsure. Arranges the goddamned office supplies and then questions his judgement. Reads his reports thrice over before submitting them, and then still frets about them at night. Laboriously click-clacks his way through the emails that Wesker asks him to send on his behalf, jittering each time he finally hits send.
He never used to be like this. In the airforce, he was so sure- so sure of himself.
But he was young then. Young, and mobilized, and never having to worry about stopping for so long that he'd have a chance to think. And he’s still young now- young enough to know all of the fucking things he doesn’t know about this world. And still, at the same time, not old enough to have the confidence and experience that he needs to be a competent leader.
Sometimes, Chris feels like he’d never known what it meant to have true power until he felt the cold shadow of Wesker falling over him.
It progresses so slowly that he doesn’t even realize it’s happening. Ultimately, it happens because Wesker has spent the last five months priming him for it.
Over the course of those next few days, Wesker breaks him in.
That day, it ends with another set of knuckles. Not Wesker’s, then, but this time, his own.
Wesker stops for coffee, swinging around a red-and-yellow-bricked McDonalds drive thru. On the way out of the parking lot, Chris hisses, scalding hot coffee splashing out of the loose lid and all over the top of his hand.
Wesker’s fingers flick out. He takes him by the wrist and brings Chris’ knuckles to his mouth.
With his tongue pressed flat to the burn, Wesker drinks the coffee out of his pores. Uses the muscle of his tongue to apply pressure to the wound. Soothes it with the cold spill of his saliva down the pulsing hot injury.
By the end of the week, he is completely and utterly a pet for Wesker. Completely reliant on him. Completely starry-eyed and trusting, ready to follow him wherever he goes, ready to adhere to any command he could give.
Then Wesker shows up at his house and dumps a dead body on the floor.