Chapter Text
In hindsight, the Red Flag was always there. Chris just had to choose the most dubious path. He should have known he’d be haunted by that choice for his whole damn life.
It is the first date between him and Wesker. Chris stares at the wine glass on the dining table, nervous and alert, as if it were a cage of lab rats.
Chris isn’t the kind of young man people believe him to be, who tends to feel a lot of things but is unable to make any decisions—he knows what he’s doing. He is aware of his wants and adamant of his decisions. The moment he saw a recruit post for the Air Force, he made up his mind to sign up so he could provide for himself and Claire. The day he checked in at the Raccoon Police Department, Chris knew he wanted to stay. The day he locked eyes with the infamous S.T.A.R.S. Captain Albert Wesker, Chris decided, energetically, that he would get under the man’s sheets. Needless to say, Chris’ life has been the precipice of a series of sharp decisions. The 25-year-old young man has built his confidence from experiences and never once regretted his choices.
Until he sits himself in Wesker’s kitchen.
The tablecloth is of a firm, coffee-colored fabric with humble patterns, oozing Wesker’s iconic pragmatism. Chris believes if he drops his drink the fabric will simply absorb the spill and let it diminish. The expensive wine begins to warm, its redness overshadowed by his blushing cheeks. He feels his hands too big, too awkward, as if he is a primitive man bestowed with a civilized banquet. Across the table, Wesker watches him closely through his mysterious shades, making Chris’ instincts squirm, suggesting that is not a loving, coddling glance, but a predator’s of a dinner dish. Even Hannibal Lecter won’t be so rude to his guest on their first dining occasion.
“I apologize for the delay. I wasn’t aware the meeting had stretched till so late.” Wesker makes a display of hospitality. “Would you like a fresh glass of wine?”
Chris wants to say no thanks, but instead his mouth goes, “Sure, please.”
He peeks as Wesker turns around for the wine cabinet, and Chris makes a mental note to stop acting like a fucking virgin. He decides he can use the sight of Wesker’s torso moving under his dress shirt. Shortly, the Captain finds a pair of unused glasses and fills them with expensive white wine. There seems to be a trace of red in the clear liquid, but it might as well be Chris’s nervous imagination.
For a while, the blonde just lowers his head and enjoys his appetizer. Chris realizes he’s still holding that glass that is slowly growing lukewarm. To his chagrin, he has no appetite whatsoever, for his stomach keeps squirming like a whiny kid. The only good thing is Wesker dining across from him, all graceful and calm. One must admit that the way the blonde nibbles on delicacies with his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as slim, waxen fingers working silently makes a pretty nice view. Chris is grateful as much as incredible that their date hasn’t fucked up yet.
Hesitantly, Chris reaches for a toast. Wesker raises his head at the very moment and looks up at him with a hint of expectation.
“To...to the Alpha Team, I guess.”
“To the Alpha Team.” Wesker sounds slightly amused. “Thank you for joining me, Chris.”
It could have gone worse, thought Chris.
He tries to stuff himself with seafood. His tongue and teeth and every muscle in his mouth work mindless and whatever he munches on ends up a distasteful mesh. He feels his soul dying bit by bit. Suddenly, his teeth click on a hard shell and are hit by an acute pain, nearly driving the young man to spit it out, who wishes he doesn’t make any embarrassing sound. Wesker, on the other hand, appears to focus solely on the meal and politely ignores him.
Without a word, Chris quietly drops the shard on a napkin. He grimaces at the pink-ish blur.
Eventually the tortuous event comes to an end. The plate is almost empty. Wesker pauses as he notices Chris fidgets with his fork, and promptly sets his silvers down. “Looks like you enjoyed your dinner.” The blonde moves to fetch the dishes after smoothing the creases on his pants. “Please, allow me.”
“Wow, you really don’t have to—”
Chris yanks his dirty plate away from the host with a little too much force. As well as his luck for the evening goes, it clinks with his fork with a thud, and the fork sends his knife flying toward the brim of the dinner table, where everything edible is splattered like the dead remains they are. Before the situation turns for the worse, Chris catches the knife with trained reflexes.
He then loosens the grip, and sighs when he sees a crimson cut lying on the pad of his palm.
It only takes a moment for his wrist to get held and stabilized by the older man. To Chris’ apprehension, Wesker has closed up their distance with ease. The blonde’s lean figure stretches across the table length, their noses no more than centimeters away.
“Chris. Let me.”
Within seconds, Wesker moves to his side. Chris' hand sticks out stark-still in midair. The blonde tilts his shades and drops his head, observing the shallow, weeping wound with a chilling tenderness. Chris can almost taste the warmth and salt of Wesker’s presence. He slips in a small lick, dancing around the opening. Not missing a beat, he yields himself to uncontrolled suction.
What the actual sexy hell is this. Chris knows his brain must have ceased all function, because all he can think of is Wesker just nestles into my sweaty palm like nothing.
His heart elates like a balloon and oh how he wants to seize it, to let it lead him and make it right.
“Captain.” Almost coyly, Chris decides to ask. “Can I-can I kiss you?”
Breathlessly he watches as Wesker lifts his face from that wet spot, his pale blue pupils unsuspecting. Enticing.
“Chris, my boy,” Wesker purrs, “Let's dispose of the carcass first.”
To be continued...