For Writing

You’re so absorbed in your dilemma that you almost don’t hear the door open. Still holding one of the poorly aged cookbooks you move towards the front desk- and see a face you haven’t seen in weeks.

“Mr. Ross?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” He startles dramatically, almost dropping an armful of papers. “I forgot…” He trails off, fishing his satchel out from behind the desk and stuffing the now rumpled papers in. “How’ve you been, uh…” He pauses, snaps his fingers.

For some reason, it hurts. You barely knew him, had only seen him a handful of times, despite now having worked at R.P.D. almost two months. But you had liked him well enough, had at least mentally defended him against your more disillusioned coworkers. But as he struggles to recall your name when he’s the one who hired you, you just find yourself disappointed.

“I’m good.” You end his suffering, at least. “How’s the, um, appraising going?”

Ross preens, straightening his back and touching his chest. “Very well, thank you. I got word from Brian-- Chief Irons-- that I’ll be able to start working on cleaning up the third floor as well.”

“Oh, that’s great.” You have no idea what that really means for him, but he’s happy about it, so you just go with it.

Ross- for the first time since entering the room- looks around. His brow furrows in concentration as he turns in place, getting a full view. “You’ve… been busy.” He says at last. Sweat gathers at the back of your neck. It’s not a compliment. Not until- “It looks nice.”

“Thank you.” You cautiously answer.

Ross’s eyes drop to your hands, to the cookbook you’re still holding. “Dinner plans?” You don’t know what expression you make, but Ross’s thick eyebrows rocket halfway up to his brow line. “Perhaps a date?”

You don’t even know what to say. You clutch the book closer, but know there’s no point in denying it. As long as he doesn’t know who it’s fine. You- you can lie. A friend from school, that’s all, that’ll work--

Ross holds up one finger. “Listen, if you want to impress someone, you have two options. If they are a friend or a business partner, make something French. Bœuf à la Bourguignonne. If you want them to love you, make something Italian.”

“Oh. I mean, I don’t know if he likes--”

“No, no, everyone- and I mean everyone loves a good risotto.” He says it and motions widely with his hands- which makes his watch twist on his wrist. He spins it- “Ah, shit. I’ve got to run. Was nice seeing you again- um-” He snaps his fingers a few times again, still trying to force the recollection. Apparently, it doesn’t work as he limply concludes: “I’ll see you around.”

“Right. Bye.”

You frown slightly. Would… Would Wesker like risotto? Is he into that sort of thing? Did you need to do something fancy to impress him? He… he does drive a nice car. And his uniform is always pristine. Would he expect something more… substantial from you?

You look down at your typical work outfit and pull at the shirt’s hem. Insecurity gnaws at the corners of your mind, a kind of uncertainty you haven’t felt in weeks now. It had been… it’s been easy, all things considered. Anxiety-inducing only because of its newness, not because… well, because of you. He’s taken it plenty slow, a glacial pace, you think, at least compared to the relationships you saw in school… but with the idea of a next step looming, the incessant fear has crawled its way back into your skull.

But, now, you have something else to rely on: What will you do next time? Maybe it was cheating to ask him when this was his little game to begin with… but you wouldn’t know unless you tried, right?

You didn’t even know if he was in today. You just happened to get lucky. Edward, who was avoiding Forest because he’d lost some kind of bet, took his lunch out by the unicorn statue. You’d been careful, couched the question in How’s the team doing? Heard from Chris? Wesker still buried in paperwork? And Edward, kind as ever, filled you in.

The team’s doing as well as expected after a shooting; Chris is eager to get back to work; Wesker’s already got it all filed, but he’s supposed to talk with Enrico about it and about who he was hiring as replacement, right, had you heard James was moving out to Florida come June?

You chat politely and hope it isn’t too obvious your joy at knowing Wesker was, in fact, available.

You wait till just after five, when everyone is getting ready to go home. You even take a file with you-- an empty one, just filled with various printouts from the checkout desk-- as a decent cover. Wesker requesting a file late in the day isn’t unusual- he’ll easily be here later than anyone else.

So you wait, and as you round the corner towards the back hallway, you catch a gaggle of S.T.A.R.S. members leaving. Good. You dip into the office- and give a small wave to Brad, who’s shutting down his computer. He grins like he’s about to say something, but you hold up the file and turn towards Wesker’s office instead.

Being here again makes a wave of heat settle in your belly. That unsatisfied need still lurking beneath your skin, all too happy to remind you of how he kissed you right here. You push the memory away and focus on now.

He’s in a better mood today- though, to be fair, the last two times you’ve met him here he’s been in exceptionally bad moods, so the bar is pretty low. Still, he leans back in his chair and sighs, seems just about ready to chastise you again about discretion when you hand him the folder.

He opens it and slowly that little smile, hardly more than a lift at one corner of his mouth, begins to emerge. It fills you with pride; this smile is not mocking or mean, not brought at all by his own amusement, it’s something just for you.

“Alright then,” He says, “I suppose you need me to sign.”

You hand him a blank checkout slip and he takes his time filling out lines until Brad knocks at the frame of Wesker’s door.

“Night Captain,” He gives a little two finger wave, then to you, “See ya.”

“Good night, Brad.” Wesker intones while you give him a tiny wave back.

You each wait for Brad to leave, until his footsteps reverberate past the outside of Wesker’s office, and wait then another moment, and finally Wesker nods behind you. “Close the door.”

You eagerly do. With the blinds all drawn, his office is entirely closed off. Your own little sanctuary. You turn back to find his arms crossed over his chest. “What did you need to see me for this time?”

You shift your weight from foot to foot, biting your lip as you find that confidence again. There’s no harm in just… asking, right? Despite the office being empty, you keep your voice low. “What… should I make for our dinner?”

That little smile curdles, spreads into the one that makes your belly twist. “Poor dear, already needs help.”

That… shouldn’t make you squirm, you’re pretty sure. But he says it in that tone, the one just before or after kissing you or touching you and lighting your skin on fire. You’re ravenous, the tiniest scraps and you’re snapping at the hand that feeds.

It takes everything to rein yourself in, as mortifying as it is that five words have you itching to rub yourself silly on his thigh. You’re ruining this- “I… I just… want it to be good. What if I made something you didn’t like…?”

“If this is so distressing for you, we can always cancel.”

The concern in his voice catches you off guard. You’re disappointing him. “No!”

“If you’re not ready-” No, no no. Fearful tears rise up unbidden.

“I am!” You take a half-step forward, right up to the edge of his desk. “Please, Captain, I am. I really, r-really am. I just… I really don’t want to mess this up. Please.” You look to your feet and wring your hands. “I- I don’t even know if you’ve got any allergies.”

He thinks. After a moment he motions you closer, “Come here.”

You’re quick to obey, eager to keep his approval. You round the corner of his desk- and again he motions for you. Heat dusts your cheeks and you chew on your lip to keep from drifting too far away. Another step and your knees are brushing the vinyl of Wesker’s chair, one leg between his.

He leans forward and anticipation blooms in you. It’s awkward, having to bend over to meet him, but the thrill of his kisses will always outweigh anything else. Except, perhaps, the thrill of kissing him here. Even after hours, there’s a risk to it- it makes your stomach flip and your fingers twitch. Anyone could walk in…

The fear explodes from your mind as Wesker’s hands curl around the backs of your thighs. For a moment all there is in the entire universe is his touch, his fingers only inches from your aching sex- and then he pulls you. You gasp, scrabble to hold onto whatever you can- one hand on his shoulder, the other on the arm of his office chair. The chair groans pitifully and you dig your nails in, terrified it’ll break- but it doesn’t.

It doesn’t and Wesker draws you into his kiss again. The sudden terror makes you stiff, having to be coaxed back into his attentions, to relax down into his lap. One is his hands strokes at the side of his neck, the other resting on your hip. He guides you, kisses slowly as you shake off the anxiety- and by inches your death grip on the arm of his chair loosens, migrates over to his bicep.

He licks your top lip and you oblige him. His tongue slides across yours and along your teeth. The sensation- always strange, even if no longer new- still makes you melt further into him. His tongue retreats, drawing yours with him. His mouth is bitter, black coffee coating your tastebuds as you lick inexpertly. His lips slide upwards again, enjoying your hesitant exploration of him- and when you probe your tongue along his teeth, he catches it with his sharp points. Just enough to force a whimper from you, enough to hurt in that devilishly good sort of way- and enough to tell you he wouldn’t hurt you, not really.

The whisper of pain makes your hips rock down. The angle isn’t quite right, his chair too narrow and with you up on your knees you can’t get that friction. Wesker knows, shifts so he can brace a foot against his desk, that hand on your hip forcing you down onto his now raised thigh. You gasp into his mouth and he surges forward, consuming the noise, your pleasure, you. He rocks you there, slow and methodical-

He hears it before you.

He’s shoved you off him, all but throwing you to the floor before your mind can even piece together the sound of a door hinge creaking. Caught. There’s nowhere to go. He rolls back from his desk and sweeps you with one foot under, concealing you beneath the heavy wood just as someone knocks at his office door.

Your heart slams in your chest, both hands clamped over your mouth as you force yourself to be quiet- and to complete the illusion, Wesker moves in close to his desk. His legs bracket you, the space just too small for you to fit without being touched on either side.

“Come in,” Wesker says. Cool, unaffected. You don’t know how he does it. If you were hiding Wesker beneath your desk you wouldn’t be able to form words at all.

The inner door creaks, the blinds swaying as someone enters. “Sorry, Cap, was I interrupting?”

It’s Enrico. You cringe. They were supposed to have a meeting… you’d hoped it had already happened. You almost got caught. You could still get caught- oh, you hope not. Being found under his desk makes you want to dissolve down into nothing, at least if he’d just found you disheveled and kissdrunk you could’ve played it off. Somehow. But under his desk…?

Wesker shifts closer, his right leg pressing harder against you. Were you in the way? You shuffle away, trying to give him room, but the calf follows you, then rubs awkwardly against your arm. He’s soothing you. The realization makes your chest ache.

“Not at all. I was just finishing up a side project.” You hear papers shuffle and you lean against his leg, dropping your head to rest against the inside of his knee. He’s warm. In such close proximity to him, you usually only smell his cologne- an earthy, masculine scent. But here... There’s something else.

“Alright. Did you decide on a candidate?”

Wesker leans forward, braces his elbows on the desk. And with it, the light changes. With his legs on either side of you, you can truly see it: the curve at the front of his pants. The blood rushes from your head, makes you sway and lean harder against him.

“I did.”

You… you did that. He… enjoyed you kissing him and rubbing on his thigh…

“And?”

You don’t even know what to do with it, but you… you want to touch him. He’s so close, you could, all it would take is you reaching out. What would it feel like? What would it look like? Your only point of reference were high school science textbooks…

“Ms. Chambers is the better choice.”

You stiffen. Rebecca?

Enrico makes some noise that’s too muffled by the desk. “She’s smart, but she’s inexperienced.”

“Which is why she is the preference. The rest of Bravo team is experienced in the field and neither team has a qualified medic.” You sink away from him, a petty jealousy making you sick. He’d said he wasn’t interested in her, but the hours you’d spent agonizing over that picture still left an impression.

Enrico starts talking again, but you don’t catch a word. Wesker adjusts, lays his hands in his lap- and slides one hand down towards you. You watch his fingers, the pale tips almost glowing in the low light while the black of his gloves melt into the darkness. His fingers twitch again- beckoning.

Wouldn’t it be so obvious…? You peer up as best you can, trying to see how visible you’d be, how awkward his hand placement is, but all you hear are their droning voices.

“You’ll have plenty of time to train her…”

His beckoning becomes more insistent, slow, intentional movements that, even while silent, leave no question. And you obey. You scoot closer, slow and delicate as to keep quiet, but you bring your face to his hand-- and only now do you realize how close you are to that same tenting you’d seen before.

Your cheeks burn, your breath coming in shallow little gasps, which you stifle as best you can. You can smell him. That’s what that scent is, musk and a little sweat and- and- you look away, burn your gaze into the hardwood flooring.

But if Wesker makes no move to push you closer. If his intent was… sexual he doesn’t act on it. He just holds you there. His fingers catch your chin and he just holds you, his thumb sweeping over your lower lip. You let your eyes close, melting into the sensation of it all. The warmth here, the scent of him each surrounding you- and as his thumb drags across your lips again, you kiss it.

Enrico says something again, but you do little more than note his voice at all. Here, completely encapsulated in Wesker, life beyond the desk fades into the background. All there is in this moment is him and the smell of him- cologne and sweat and arousal, all- and the brush of his pants legs against you and how his thumb pulls at your lip, rolling the layer of fat out until saliva slicks his skin. And you let him. When he moves in close enough you kiss the pad of his finger and when he pulls at your lips, slips into your mouth and swipes along your teeth you open your jaw more for him.

Even without any direct stimulation, your pussy grows warm again. You’ve never seen this in the hallways of school or in movies or your books. Is this one of those unspoken things, the ones hidden by artistic fades to black? Are you supposed to know by now? Are you showing some inexperience, not responding the way you should? You want more regardless, want to stay here, consumed by him.

Light floods your little cove, makes you flinch as Wesker’s chair rolls back. He leans down just enough to make eye contact with you again-- or at least you assume so, as those sunglasses are still blocking his eyes from you. But you can read his mouth reasonably well now; one corner of his lips have pulled upwards, but just barely.

You expected the cruel smile, the one that he has when he knows you’re desperate for him. But it’s not. It’s the same little one he gave you when you handed him the file.

“You can come out now.”

“Oh,” You squeak, embarrassed. You hadn’t noticed when Enrico left.

Though Wesker has drawn away from the desk, he hasn’t left you that much room. You crawl forward- and your cheeks burn again as you draw closer to the heavy-looking shape at the front of his pants. You keep your eyes to the floor. As badly as you want that it… it’s still so…

He helps you back to your feet and you stand at the corner of his desk again, wringing your hands. He leans back in his chair- the motion drawing your gaze to his waist again. You curse yourself and close your eyes, trying to bury down the aching heat.

“No allergies.” He says.

The gears turn, but the light doesn’t come on. “What?”

“I have no food allergies.” He repeats. “I’m not picky. Make your favorite meal.”

Finally, the bulb illuminates. Right. Dinner plans. This answer doesn’t help, but at least the assurance that you won’t accidentally kill him is nice. “What if… my favorite meal isn’t… I mean, I want you to be happy.”

Something changes. The little smile is gone, erased so thoroughly it’s as though it were never there to begin with. Wesker crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ve already told you how to please me.” He turns away, gathering the fake file and holding it out to you. “Go home. I’m sure you have shopping to do.”

It’s a slap. You take the file on instinct, trying to keep yourself righted as the world around you tilts. Why-? You don’t even know what you did to warrant this, but if he doesn’t want you here now, then you won’t be. “Good night, Sir,” is all you can manage before slipping out his office door and closing it again behind you.

Thursday drags its feet before it rolls around. No resolution ever comes. Whatever your trespass was, he doesn’t tell you.

The abrupt end to your otherwise nice makeout/hiding-from-coworkers session was so jarring you aren’t even kept awake by desperate, pitiful, insatiable horniness. No, it’s just garden variety anxiety.

The next day he greeted you politely, if somewhat cooly. He’s back to playing pretend that you’re nothing more than coworkers. It’s confusing and distressing, but you do your best to match the energy. You say hello, then hurry to the library.

You want to apologize, but you haven’t found the right time. Or maybe your confidence has dried up in the wake of it. Finding some excuse to see him just to say sorry for something you don’t even understand doesn’t seem like the best idea. And trying to actually talk about why he’d suddenly kicked you out after- you muscle through the arousal that tingles at the base of your spine- after making out with you and hiding you under the desk.

But you’ve run out of time, now. No point in slipping into his office and having some heartfelt conversation when you know you’ll have time with him in only a few hours. At least, you hope.

You doubt Wesker would break up with you over something… well, you can’t even say if it was small. Still he… he’s been upfront enough with what he wants, right? He would tell you. Right?

The hours pass like molasses. Cops filter in and out, a handful of file requests, small talk, my youngest is about to graduate and it finally feels like spring out there, mundanity. With the upstairs still shiny and gorgeous, you hesitantly begin working on the lower sections. You almost don’t want to, because what will be left when you’re done?

You work slowly and pretend it’s meticulousness that has you scrubbing a cloth into the bookshelf’s grooves.

Jill visits you for her break. You sit with her at one of the tables as she eats. She laments Chris still being on leave- he’ll be back next week apparently, the required leave finally expiring and he’s not taking more time off. Doesn’t need it, he says, it was the right call. Wesker had even complimented it, could you believe that? The investigation was basically wrapped up, just needed finalized reports. Justifiable shooting.

You nod along, a little uncomfortable with this aspect of their jobs- and the idea of Wesker approving of it. You understood it from an objective view: Chris had killed someone to save those hostages. But it’s so surreal to consider that you know someone who’s ended another person’s life…

“I think Barry wants to do a welcome back party.” She says between bites of her sandwich.

“I can help you decorate? Got plenty of free time over here.”

Jill snickers, “Oh, Wesker would love the bullpen covered in streamers.”

She leaves and you return to your listless circling of the library. Another smattering of officers make their way through your day, the distraction thoroughly welcome as you get to sift through the records room. A change of environment and you do wonder if it’d be acceptable to clean up in here too. That’d certainly buy you another few weeks of busywork.

But you are ultimately left with the same huge, empty room with nothing but a handful of cleaning products and boredom.

You try reading first. You’ve got down time, no point in denying it. The book on Greek classics is a bit dense, but you try it out- and realize quickly you’ve reread the first page about four times with no success. You can’t focus.

In the back of your mind, that plain, unexciting anxiety has taken root and draws on your attention at every opportunity. You’re going to have a date. A date with Wesker. The idea alone is absurd still, a frank impossibility that dares you to acknowledge its existence. But you have to cook for him… He’d given you clear instructions now and you’re set to follow them, having stopped at the store and prepped as much as you could.

The fear he wouldn’t like it or that you’d bungle the recipe in your insecure state is debilitating. And you wish, desperately, that you weren’t like this. It’s the same spiraling worries that had driven you to his office in the first place, but truly sated despite his help.

He likes you well enough, you think. He… he’d still like you even if you aren’t a good cook. It’s not like that’s been a dealbreaker so far. But if it was--

“Quite the daydream.”

You jolt, snapping upright in your chair. When did--

Black glass gleams down at you. Your stomach drops. A glance at the library’s computer confirms it- time has snuck past you.

“Oh, shoot,” You mutter to yourself, before hurriedly gathering your things. “Sorry, I completely lost track of time--”

And you look up at him again. Only then do you really process what you’re seeing. It’s subtle in the library’s dim lighting, but the scent is a dead giveaway. He’s still in uniform, but it’s crisp, unwrinkled despite it being the end of the day. His skin is clear and faintly shiny, no sign of five o’clock shadow, but his hair is the most obvious visual tell. It’s still glistening, the product in it is not quite dry yet. Best of all is the smell- fresh cologne and aftershave, the scent of his soap and shampoo…

You must be staring again because that awful grin spreads over his lips. He doesn’t have to say anything at all for you to push through another quick “Sorry.”

He’s showered here at the station… You feel so underdressed now, unprepared for the event your entire world has been circling for almost a week. But even with this obvious display of effort, the unease sits heavy in your gut.

“Ready?” He asks as you lift your bag.

“Um, almost.” You say, then fidget as you find the courage again. The last time you had asked him had mixed results, but it’s the only tool you have. Without any previous experience, all you can do is rely on the one clear guidepost he’s given you. Still, it takes you a moment of staring at his feet-- did he even relace his boots? They look nice-- before you can find your voice, hesitant though it is. “Are you… I mean, in your office. Were you… mad at me?”

Wesker stares at you for a second, his grin fading. But he almost laughs, a tiny huff of breath before his lips pull upwards again. “My apologies. No, it wasn’t because of you.”

“Then why…? It really felt like you were…” Your brow pinches.

He steps closer, his fingers warm on your jaw as he bids you to look up at him. “Dearheart, would you rather talk about that or have dinner together?”

Hidden behind his glasses, you can’t read his eyes. His mouth is still curled into that charming smile, undeterred by the growing frown on your face. It shouldn’t be an either/or, but… If something else had bothered him maybe he doesn’t want to ruin the mood. You search that black glass for anything, plead with your own reflection for information. “You aren’t upset with me?”

“No.” He assures you, sweeping his thumb over your chin again. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you’re making for me, hm?”

The mundanity of your little apartment doesn’t hit you until you’re holding open the door for him. It’s just one more vector of anxiety. You’d cleaned, of course, yesterday and a little more this morning, just to try to impress him, but now you wonder what his house looks like. Does your tiny space stack up to his expectations?

Wesker looks around the apartment briefly, surveying your living room. Never before have you been so thankful for a thrifty find you’d picked up as soon as you’d signed the lease: a tiny couch and an even tinier TV. There’s truly little else in your apartment; you’d taken almost nothing when you moved out save for a few books. Even those are stacked on the kitchen counter, no bookcase to house them yet. No time or money to spend on furniture shopping.

“Here, uh, why don’t you sit while I go get started…?” You motion towards the couch, hoping he’ll take the remote and make himself comfortable.

Wesker follows you to the kitchen. He doesn’t crowd you, rather turning a chair out from your table (this one a side-of-the-road salvage Chris had brought you) and sitting there instead. Your hands tremble as you start to pull ingredients from the fridge, most already having been prepped to save you some time tonight. All the while, you feel terribly watched. You hope he doesn’t cook much, you really can’t handle him judging your technique right now.

“Have you cooked for anyone before?”

“Not, um,” You struggle through a stammer, as silly as it is. “Not as a date.”

Wesker hums in acknowledgement, a pleasant noise you bask in. But this is a conversation- so you fall back on the few social tools at your disposal.

“What about you?” You ask, moving through your recipe. “Do, um, do people cook for you often?”

Wesker leans back in the chair, the wood creaking. “Not as a date.” He parrots back to you. “But I enjoy cooking.”

“Oh.” You blanch, a kind of nausea rising in your throat. You laugh lightly to play it off, “Well, I, uh, I hope my cooking isn’t so bad…”

“I assure you, it cannot be the worst thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“What dish gets that title?” You ask- and glance just in time to see it.

With his sunglasses still covering his eyes, there’s little for you to interpret. But you’ve gotten quite good at reading what is there for you to see. A momentary shadow between his eyebrows, his thin lips pressed together a little too early for it to be just speech.

“Army MREs,” He says, but none of the emotion you saw makes it to his voice. “Chicken a la King loses its charm when it comes from a bag.”

You laugh softly, the tension easing from you despite whatever just played across his face. “I guess the bar is pretty low, then.”

He lets you cook in silence for a few minutes, just quietly watching. It still makes you nervous, but… it feels like something else, too. A sort of domesticity, like this is a routine you could’ve done a thousand times already- or one you’d like to do a thousand times. Cooking for him, light conversation, seeing the glimpses of his life like facets on a sparkling gem. It shocks you, sometimes, how little you still know about him. Sure, you’ve picked up some things, like his preferred brand of cigarettes and that you can judge how upset he actually is based on if the vein at his jaw is visible or not, but things like this, he doesn’t really talk about them. It’s like you skipped a whole section of what you think a relationship should look like.

And you realize, just as you’re divvying up the first plating, there’s something else you’ve skipped.

“Um, Wesker.”

“Yes, dearheart?”

“We’ve been…“ You motion vaguely with one hand, “together for a while.”

This earns you a movement, the gleam on his glasses shifting as he centers his gaze on you. “Six weeks or so.” He says it non-chalantly, but there’s a particular weight to it. Six weeks in any other relationship would have wildly different milestones. But your relationship is split up, broken into stolen moments, a few minutes every few days, at most you’ll get a portion of his break, but only when he needs a smoke.

“Would it… I mean, do you want me to…” You twist your lips, stare angrily at the dinner before you. Even if it’s new, even if it’s secret and forbidden, some part of you feels stupid for still being so anxious about this. “...use your first name? Can I call you Albert?”

For how long you’ve been seeing each other, it should be commonplace, but because it hasn’t been, it feels… intimate. More personal than it should be. Again, you look to him. It’s for assurance this time- that even if the answer is no, he won’t be upset at you asking.

Whatever the twinge you saw earlier was, you’ve gotten the opposite this time. His nostrils flare as he inhales, shoulders rising with it. “If you like.”

The smile blooms, a warmth taking root in your chest. As you set down the plates, you try it: “Then enjoy, Albert.” It’s strange to say, like you’ve undressed him in two syllables.

This time, it’s the other reaction. The half-second pinch of his brow, a tightness in his lips. His voice turns terse: “You shouldn’t make a habit of it.” Your heart falls. He continues, tone significantly lighter, before you can ask: “If you were to let it slip at the station that would be troublesome, wouldn’t it?”

He’s not wrong. Not even his own team or vice captain use his first name. Nobody is that personal with him at work. You nod slowly. “That… makes sense.” Maybe one day. You won’t need this job forever.

You sit across from him and the reality of eating with him begins to sink in. How strangely exposing it is- but Wesker’s mouth is faintly curved just so. The small one, the one that means behind that dark glass his eyes have softened into that look you’ve only seen a few times. When he brings the fork to his mouth with the first bite, you follow suit.

“So, not the worst meal?” You ask as you bring the dishes to the sink.

Wesker chuckles, “No, dear. You did well.”

Your heart flutters under the praise, turning away from him to scoop the leftovers into a tupperware. “That’s, um. Thank you.”

You move towards your fridge- and startle. He’s snuck up on you, so ridiculously quiet when he wants to be. With your body’s natural inclination towards dumping raw cortisol into your blood at the slightest provocation, Wesker suddenly standing in front of your sink nearly makes you drop the container. He watches from the corner of his eyes, that blue-gray iris peeking from behind shiny black glass as you right yourself.

But as soon as you corral your heart into not exploding just because he got close to you, you realize what he’s doing. With surgical precision, Wesker rolls up the sleeves to his shirt. Blue folds and tucks away, revealing more and more of his pale skin, Every inch shows off his lean musculature and the sparse covering of nearly invisible blonde hairs. He switches to the other arm, fingers even on his left hand working quickly, methodically-

Your mouth waters.

Wesker turns on the tap.

“Oh, you don’t have to--”

“I don’t.” He confirms, but picks up your sponge anyway. It’s a little surreal to watch him, so you only indulge in staring at his quickly dampening forearms for a minute before straightening up the rest of the kitchen. Which means you’re left waiting for him, as putting away spice jars goes significantly faster than Wesker’s scrubbing, as perfectly efficient as he is.

You hope blindly that you get to cook for him again. That you’ll get to stand at the entrance to your kitchen and watch him do dishes- or perhaps the opposite. You’d like that a lot, you think. To see his home, his private space and let him cook for you instead.

He flicks off the water and begins to dry his hands, once again giving you a perfect view of his arms before he rolls his sleeves back down. “Now,” He says, turning his head just enough to let you know he’s looking at you. “We never did settle on post-meal entertainment.”

Your stomach lurches. Actual nausea makes your head swim. Now- now is not ideal, but you’d make it work. Oh, if he wanted--

“To be honest, I don’t care for films or television.”

You sway, leaning heavily on the doorframe as he faces fully towards you. You note that away, a delightful tidbit stored for later because currently you can only focus on what he does care for. And you know beyond any doubt that he does care for kissing you.

He steps closer and you brace yourself, breath coming in quick- and Wesker reaches past you, touches the stack of books on your counter. He draws one from the top of the pile- a gift from a friend, the cover neon blue with computer chip circuitry decorating it. “I haven’t had much time for pleasure reading recently.”

You blink and Wesker picks through the stack, glancing over the covers and the blurbs on the backs, though he eventually settles on the same one he had picked up. He shows you the cover, “May I?”

You nod, still a little stunned as he passes you back towards the living room, settling with his back to the light. Dumbfounded, you watch as he adjusts, then carefully pulls his sunglasses from his face, folds them, and sets them on the arm of the couch. “You… you want to read?”

“With you.” He says, not missing a beat. He opens the book, hooking one finger under the next page. “It was one of your suggestions, wasn’t it?” Now, he pauses. Just long enough to make you sweat. “Did you have something else in mind?”

“Um,” You hate how he guts you every time, the benign query revealing just how dirty your own mind is. “N-no.” You sit with that for a moment. At least now would be… probably not the most enjoyable time from how your stomach clenches around your recent meal. And you would get actual time with him…

Wesker hums acknowledgement and focuses back on his book. You watch how his eyes dart over the page, back and forth as he reads. It’s always such a treat to see his full face, unobscured… Even if the shadowy semi-circles under them always hurt you. He really does work too much.

“Are you planning on joining me?” He asks without looking up.

“Sorry!” You squeak, ashamed at getting caught again and instead grabbing a book from the center of the stack. It had been a bit of a comfort read a few years ago and you definitely needed some of that stability now. But with a book selected, the next issue arises:

Wesker has settled on the far side of the couch, half-leaned against the arm. Initiating contact has never been your place, something reserved for small brushes of your fingers or reciprocation. For as much as he kisses you and touches you, it’s still difficult to accept that he likes it, or that he would like it when you touch him. So, cautiously, you settle on the opposite side of the couch.

He turns slowly, observing your choice before raising a judgemental eyebrow. He jerks his head, wordlessly demanding you closer. Your cheeks burn at the silent reprimand, simultaneously disappointing him and receiving that confirmation you so desperately crave. But you obey, scooting closer, taking up the center cushion, your thighs and upper arms brushing against his.

You sincerely think this is enough, to have any contact with him, to feel each other’s warmth and every movement when you turn a page-

Wesker sighs and sets down his book. “Here,” You stiffen, ready to bolt, to give him space again-- but his hands are on you as he moves. He twists, slides one leg behind you as he lays back- and pulls at your hips until you shimmy fully against him. The couch is too narrow to lay entirely between his legs; one of his extends off the side while the other is bent, pressed up against the back, giving you just enough room. Like this, your back is laid against his abdomen, your head on his chest.

He shifts again, picking up his book, holding it up with one hand, bracing his arm against that bent knee. The other hand settles over your belly. Without any force behind it, it still keeps you pinned in place. “Much better.” He says and you hear it. Even without your ear to his chest, you feel his voice, the vibration through his body and you can barely breathe. He’s so warm…

You can’t even pretend to read, can’t manage to pick up the book at all. Wesker doesn’t seem to mind, still paging through his.

How can he stand this closeness? How does it not drive him mad? You shiver, giving in and turning your head just so- and the sound of him fills your ear. The steady noise of his lungs, the quick thumps of his heart, the now-audible proof of his life. You want to relax into it.

But you can’t.

Your stomach still flips, fingers twitching softly. This isn’t bad by any means- and you hope he knows that. You- you’d suffer a thousand hells for another minute of this.

But it isn’t what you had expected. Isn’t what you wanted when you’d originally proposed this date.

“Wesker,” You say slowly.

“Yes, dear?”

Carefully, by inches, you turn in his hold. The hand on your belly lifts just enough to skirt along your skin as you rotate, settling again on the small of your back as you face him. Chest to chest, you’re so close to those gorgeous blue eyes. You search them, try to find anything more than the cool distance you find there.

“Why… haven’t we done… more?”

The faux innocence floods his voice, but you watch his pupils dilate. “More?”

You gnaw your lip for a moment, but you can’t deny it any longer. You know he desires you… and you would let him… “More t-than… kiss.” Your brow pinches painfully as you speak, but the floodgates have opened now. “Are you… I mean. Do you, um, believe in… waiting until, uh, marriage?” You quickly press your hands to his chest, a kind of apologetic touch, “A-and it’s okay if you do!”

Instead, Wesker has to buffer. His face is completely blank for a moment, before the laugh builds inside him. First just a tiny exhale and one corner of his mouth lifting, then his perfect white teeth peaking from under his lips as he drops his head back onto the arm of your couch. His abdomen jumps under you as he laughs, the arm holding the book draping over his face. And you, you don’t understand.

As he calms he sets the book down and instead cups your face- and looks at you with an expression you can’t name. It makes your stomach twist, your chest ache- something that makes you feel warm inside.

“You are… precious. Truly.” His words don’t help, bringing another wave of embarrassed blushing to your cheeks. “No, darling. Marital status has no bearing on this.”

You tip your head, “Then why?”

Wesker sighs, the heat of his exhale washing over you. His thumb sweeps over your cheek and you lean into the touch immediately. “You’re young, dearheart. I just want to make sure you’re ready.”

Your cheeks may as well be on fire. Your inexperience being on display is humiliating, too intimate- your gaze drops down to where your hands are on his chest. “I- I am ready.” You say, but hate how petulant it sounds.

“I’m sure you think that. I’ll know when you’re actually ready.” Wesker only smiles- that warm feeling melting as it creeps into that cruel expression. “You’re lucky, you know. Being with someone like me, someone who can take care of you how you deserve. There’s men out there who would take advantage of how sweet and naïve you are.”

Something swirls in your chest. You can’t name it. A kind of smallness, like a lens on your world view realigning and for a breath you catch a glimpse of the reality around you and you see, for only that moment, how little you really know. You don’t argue. You know men like that exist and you know your eagerness for something physical is not logical. Maybe you are rushing into it.

But a fluttering feeling returns: Wesker wants to do right by you. To consider what you need, what you really need… The thought makes flowers bloom in your heart. You rest your chin in the divot between his pectorals, relaxing onto him slowly. You melt into his warmth, easing down over him like a blanket until your ear presses to his chest again.

His heartbeat is slow and steady as you exhale. “Thank you.”

Wesker hums approvingly, his hand returning to settle over your back, stroking along the length of your spine. “Of course, dear.”

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. Instead you wake, eyes bleary, head full of cotton as you piece together what has happened. You’re still face-down on the couch, but your arms are no longer wrapped around Captain Wesker’s body (oh god did that really happen?). Now it’s nothing more than the throw pillow to your couch.

You sit up and swallow repeatedly to wet your horridly dry mouth. And as you do, something falls behind you. You twist- and find a blanket-- one from your bedroom?-- now bunched up.

“Wesker?” You ask, but you already know. The apartment block is quieter at night; it’s never silent, given how close you are to downtown, but it’s certainly not the same. That same quietness is here now, complete with the darkness that slips between your window shades.

He left some time ago, you’d guess. You could get up and return to your bed, get a real night’s sleep… but you don’t. Gathering the blanket back up, you lay down again. You press your face to the pillow and breathe deeply. Your lungs fill with pine and musk and smoke and amber and you drift out with your mind full of his cologne.

When you wake in the morning you’ll find his note on the coffee table, held down with a glass of water.

Will return book Monday

Sleep well

A.W.

=====

His thumb taps your chin, draws your attention back to him, even if it makes you tremble being so aware of his gaze. “Go back to the library for me, dear. I need to finish something here, and then we’ll be on our way, hm?”

Ah. Right. You did seem to have interrupted him. You nod mutely. His fingertips trace along your neck as he steps away, the tiny touch makes you shiver, needing another second before you can actually remember what he had just asked you to do. Wesker is back around the other side of the desk by the time you can force yourself to half-stumble back out of his office.

You make it through the darkening hallway in a daze, your fingers drifting up to your face and ghosting over your lips. Real, you have to tell yourself, this is real. And from the conversation you’d just had- which feels hard to remember with all the adrenaline flooding your body- he’d like to do it again.

Secrecy is a small price for that.

You gather your belongings in the library, tidying up around the counter while you wait. Every so often you think of it again and another wave of giddy energy leaves you grinning to yourself, covering your face with your hands when the embarrassment gets too strong. It’s a little pathetic, but every time the dark thoughts try to come back you’re reminded again: you kissed him.

He doesn’t make you wait long. The door creaks as it opens- and for a moment, Wesker’s face is pinched. It’s just as he had looked when you entered his office, his mouth pulled downward, almost curling into a sneer, his eyebrows hidden behind his shades, drawn tightly together and creasing the skin between his eyes. But his head lifts just enough, enough you know he’s seen you, and again that expression is eradicated.

He exhales slowly, gliding across your library in confident strides. “Ready, dearheart?”

You can’t even look at him, your cheeks burning horridly- and yet can’t bear to look away from him. You instead nod silently, biting your lip to keep yourself from breaking into another round of stupid grinning.

He guides you back out the main door, and you just can’t help yourself. “What did you have to finish up?”

“Just some paperwork.” He says, shrugging one shoulder.

You purse your lips. You probably should leave it, but… “You looked really stressed…” and, unspoken, you’d like to help him if you could. You hope he knows that. Realistically, there’s not much you could probably do, but you hope he knows anyway.

“Did I?” He says, his tone indecipherable. You know well enough it’s rhetorical, so you simply keep following him out of the station. At least with his coded replies, it’s easier to forget that you kissed him, oh, you kissed him- no, there you go blushing again.

You don’t expect anything more from him, but then, after he’s held the station’s door open for you and you step into the cold air, “It seems I’ve misplaced a file.” You pause, blinking as you take in the admission. It seems to shock you as much as it does him, as his mouth quickly pulls into a taut line. “Another applicant.”

He fishes his key fob out of his pocket, the lights of his car flashing the dark garage. You hesitate, but slowly offer “...Just like the photo?”

Wesker pauses, then huffs a laugh, one little noise and a momentary quirk of his lips. “I suppose so.”

You hum in acknowledgement, but hesitate to speak again before getting into his car. It’s so much more intimate in the dark space, completely surrounded by something of his. Again, the adrenaline of it all crashes over you- you kissed him. Would he kiss you again? Would he kiss you in his car? Did he want that? Did you- would the center console get in the way?

Your mind quickly tries to run away, chasing down a thousand roads- and shuts down entirely as you watch one pale eyebrow raise up. How does he always know…? You look away pointedly, staring at your shoes as you desperately try to recover any composure. “Um,” You flounder, petting over your hair nervously as you struggle to piece words together. “Yeah, that- that must be stressful. I don’t- um- I bet you don’t lose stuff often.”

“Oh? Is that so?” Wesker says it with that same lilt, the same smile like he’s in on some joke without you. When he turns on the car, the rumble is no longer pleasant. Where it had purred, it feels more like growling. Your own anxiety makes you shrink in your seat, fingers coming together in your lap to pick and fidget. Wesker shifts gears and reaches behind you, looking out the back window as he reverses. “What makes you say that?”

You try not to stare. You do try, but with him twisted around like this, his shirt is drawn taut over his chest, his neck elongated, showing off the column of fair, unblemished skin. You want… you want to touch him so badly- “You, ah,” It comes out weak, breathy, so you finally avert your eyes and clear your throat. “You seem really… careful about stuff like that. Meticulous.”

When Wesker turned towards again, you see it. From the side, his shades don’t obscure your view of his eyes. His teasing, knowing smile has faded into something fainter, gentler. It’s only there for a moment- “Thank you,” He says, and as soon as he does the expression dissolves into something more tense. “Though, not careful enough, it seems.”

“You’ll find it.” You say- and you want to touch him again. Not… not like before. No, you want to… to touch his shoulder the way Richard does to you when he makes a terrible joke, or how Chris does just because. You want to reassure him. Wesker’s sunglasses glint as he barely tips his head, his pale blue irises watching you from the corner of his eyes.

Wesker parks in the same spot- and turns off the car. Your heart immediately slams against your ribcage. Nervous energy all but crackles over your skin. You want it- anything, anything at all that would necessitate him turning off the car rather than driving off as soon as you got out- but you don’t even know what he has in mind.

Wesker opens his door- and you do the same, though with your shaking hands you fumble the handle the first time, which brings the return of Wesker’s awful little smile that makes your stomach knot up as soon as you see it. But he stands at the front of his car and waits for you, lets you approach him- almost stumbling up the curb- before guiding you towards your own apartment. Oh, he’s going to walk you to your door… It’s such a simple gesture, but it still makes you dizzy.

Just as you had before, you wish the trip was longer. Maybe… maybe he could just take you out driving some time.. It’d be private enough he shouldn’t have to worry. But you reach your door, despite your wishes.

You turn, look up at him- and don’t know what to say. You don’t want to say good night, not when you’re still riding the high of it all. Wesker, too, must be feeling something- he’s got that little smile again, the teasing one- the one that says he knows you’re feeling faint just from him being here.

He steps closer, right up on you again, close enough to feel his heat. Even now, you shake beneath him, breath coming in quick gasps. His fingers touch your face again, tracing over your cheek before sliding through your hair and down along your throat. He pauses there, his hand pressed to you like a necklace. “Still sure?”

How could you not be? You nod and melt into his touch, chasing the warmth of his palm.

He gives you it. His hand flattens out, the rough fabric of his glove skimming back up along your jaw. “Remember, you can’t tell anyone.” He leans in while speaking, the last word spoken right against your lips- and he kisses you again.

Like the first, all you can do is bask in it. The heat of him all around you, his touch on your face, how his lips move, the delicate skin there catching on your own. Your fingers flex at your sides, and you want- and you don’t move. The fear still prickles at the back of your neck, if you’re allowed, if he wants you to, if he feels that same swirling heat in his belly.

Wesker makes a noise in his throat and shifts- and his hand finds yours. Massive, his fingers swallow yours as he pulls and lifts- and you shudder as he presses your palm against his shoulder. He leaves it there, his hand instead migrating to your hip, just barely touching at all. Your fingers curl, rubbing over the sleek, neat stitching of his shirt, trembling against him- you’re touching him. You can feel him, each breath he takes, how his warm skin has soaked that heat into his shirt. Your hand creeps higher as Wesker kisses you again, his hand tilting your chin up- and you crawl just over his ironed collar. His skin is just smooth and soft and strange to touch. With any pressure at all you can feel the muscle and bone beneath, you press there a second- and it draws him closer to you.

A dam breaks.

You shudder and this time use that hand on his neck. You pull yourself up against him, crushing your lips and chest to his with a franticness enough to knock into his sunglasses. While the rest of him is malleable, meeting your kiss with a deep-rumbling approval, the hand at your hip is not. You clutch at him with a desperation masquerading as eagerness, try your best to mimic the movement of his lips, and through it all, he keeps your hips pinned back against the wall.

You whine, the need building in you- and Wesker breaks the kiss. Before he leans away, his tongue sweeps across your lower lip. You gasp, lunge towards him again- and this time, the hand at your jaw forces you back.

“Please,” You sob, digging your nails into his shoulders. You want more- want all of him- anything- god, anything-

“Not yet.” He rasps. He draws away, keeping his arms firmly in place; no matter how badly you want to close that distance again he holds you back. Those sunglasses are going to be the death of you. You know his eyes have to be dark, the pupil almost consuming the iris, but you can’t see it. Instead, all it shows you is you. Feral, almost, the way you’re leaning into his hands, the pleading, teary look in your eyes…

You look away, turning from his palm. Shame and embarrassment both gnaw at your belly, quelling the heat that had built up. Wesker’s hand follows you, fingertips tracing along the line of your jaw down to your chin- your stomach flips thinking he’ll make you look at him again- but he doesn’t. He only pets the skin there, letting you calm down.

“I think that’s enough for one night, hm?” He says, his voice back under control. You nod faintly and Wesker gives your chin one last little squeeze before he fully steps back. “Good night, dear.”

“G-good night, Captain.” You watch as he leaves, needing a full minute of leaning against the wall before you can bring yourself to fish your key out of your pocket and let yourself in. With your roiling stomach, dinner is out of the question. Instead, you drop onto the couch and stare at the ceiling and let it all crash down on you.

You barely sleep, oscillating between giddy excitement- you had kissed Captain Wesker. You’d kissed him three times and he wants to be with you and oh, that wretched, insatiable heat between your legs was going to end you-- and a gut-deep unease, a foreboding that won’t stop looming over you. You like your job and he wasn’t wrong, it pays well for being practically nothing. It… it’s more than enough to help you get your life back on track and you like most of your coworkers.

Oh, but you had kissed him. Your first kiss… You touch your lips again, try to embed the memory deep. You float in the moment, the half-second before you’d realize his lips were on yours…

And still, that dread. You want to enjoy it, but there’s something… you just have to know. You’ll keep this a secret for your job-- and his, you know you’re much more expendable than he is, but it would still impact his reputation, wouldn’t it?-- but… you just have to be sure.

Which is why you’re in early the next day.

You don’t even stop at the library. Not even putting your bag down, you march straight to the S.T.A.R.S. office. You have no reason to believe he’ll be in early, or that he’ll be in at all. But it’s the best way to avoid the attention of the rest of the Special Tactics team.

And when you open the door, you know your bet has paid off.

Just as last night, the rest of the office is dark. Every desk in the bullpen is unattended, every lamp off. And to your left, Wesker’s door is open.

This time, however, Wesker peers at you over his sunglasses. And though his blue eyes are darkened from exhaustion, something sharper settles there as his brow slowly furrows. Harder than disappointment, a cold expression that seeps into his voice. “Good morning, librarian.”

You flinch. There’s no affection there now. As much as you hate it, your lip immediately begins to wobble. You bite it down and step into his office. “Good morning, Captain.”

Wesker sits at his desk, which has been neatly rearranged since last night. No longer does it look like he’s been searching obsessively, now everything is back in its proper and exact spot. His computer is opened up to a document, the cursor blinking idly as he stares you down, his hands on the desk with fingers loosely laced together. “Changed your mind already?”

That catches you off guard. “What? N-no,” You shake your head, the sternness that you’d willed into existence already flaking off. “I still…” You can’t bring yourself to say it, but your burning cheeks and aversion of your gaze speaks well enough to him.

He huffs, a noise too frustrated to be a sigh. “Then this is your best attempt at discretion?”

It’s hardly an improvement. You wilt, hate how the slightest hint of aggression brings unwanted tears to your eyes. But you had thought of this, you were serious about it, about him.. “If… if anyone asks,” You start, voice faint as you struggle to rebuild your courage under his cold analysis. “I never found that book. The officer who asked for it is supposed to come by soon.”

At this, Wesker says nothing. He waits, then slowly tips his head back, shielding you from that icy gaze once more. Finally, finally you’ve earned his attention. Wesker sinks back in his chair and drops his hands to his lap. “Alright.” You almost preen, if you let yourself believe it, he almost sounds proud. “Then pray tell why you need to speak with me so soon.”

You flush again. The part of you that keeps reliving the kiss (and, oh god, it was right here- you were up against this wall and he was standing here--) wants to capitulate, to drop the entire reason you’d risked his ire.

But you can’t.

You have to know.

“I don’t… mind hiding it.” You fidget with your hair for a moment, ignoring how Wesker shifts in his chair again. “I really like you, um,” You take a breath and power through: “a-and if I have to hide it t-to be with you, then, th-that’s worth it. But you’re not...” You cringe, “I mean, this.. Isn’t just because, um…?” Somehow the actual question, the finality of knowing is worse than having admitted aloud that you like him.

“You’re not… married… are you?”

Wesker laughs, a shocked noise you’ve knocked loose from somewhere in his chest. He smiles with it, lop-sided and broad and wonderful. He drops his head, one hand lifting his sunglasses to rub at the bridge of his nose. He sighs, but the vitriol is gone, just a fond exasperation. “No, dear. I’m not married.”

“A-and you’re not seeing anyone else?”

His smile doesn’t fade, “I’m not.” He pauses just long enough for you to really exhale the breath you’ve been holding. “You know, dear, most couples are together longer than one night before asking if they’re exclusive.”

“I- I’m not!” The whiplash of relief into embarrassment suffocates you, leaving you again staring at his desk, struggling to find the words. “This is… my first relationship. I just… don’t want to mess it up or be, you know…”

“I know.” He says- and Wesker’s chair creaks as he stands. You’ve just started to get used to this- barely enough to look up at him as he approaches. He’s unreadable again, that serious default expression he has, and you don’t know if he’ll chastise you for moving too fast again or-- “Would you like to be exclusive?”

You stare up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes and nod. He restrains himself from touching you, his arms folding behind him. “Alright. If you don’t want to date anyone else, then I won’t either.”

You almost swoon. This… conversation did not go how you planned it to. You… you want to thank him- or hug him- or god you really want to kiss him again--

The door to the S.T.A.R.S. office whines as it opens. You both straighten up, your hands clasping in front of you as you turn-

“Good morning, Cap,” Chris yawns.

“Chris.”

Then Chris actually looks, his brain catching up with his eyes as he smiles at you “Oh, hey! What brings you in so early?”

“Oh, um, there’s a- a request for a book C-Captain Wesker checked out.” You hate how you stutter through it. It’s not even a lie.

Chris shakes his head. “You both work too much.”

“You don’t work enough.” Wesker sighs, then turns his attention back to you. “I already returned the book. It’s not my fault you’ve misplaced it.”

The sudden drop back into his stern, upset voice shocks you- makes you pull your arms closer around yourself. “Sorry, sir.” It’s an act, you know it is, but it’s harsh and makes your stomach hurt again. You nod, stepping out of his office and offering a tiny wave goodbye to Chris just in time to see his mouth drop into a frown.

It goes like this: Wesker keeps his distance while in the building. You see him in passing, sneak glances when you deliver to the S.T.A.R.S office, but mostly keep your head down. As cool and guarded as he is, it’s hard to know if he’s watching you too with that same impatience that you have. You think he is.

You don’t know for sure until a few days after the last meeting in his office. While you’re upstairs cleaning, you hear the side door open. You peak over the ledge just in time to see him drop something onto your desk before exiting through the main door. You scurry down the stairs- and try not to squeal when you see his silver lighter nestled against your monitor. Pocketing it, you wait several minutes before setting up the Away from Desk sign and following him, not needing a note to know where to find him.

When you step outside, you can already see him, his forearms braced on the black, peeling railing, an unlit cigarette held between two fingers, just how you’d found him the first time. You look to his sunglasses and Wesker smiles.

He smokes, you talk, and if you’re lucky, Wesker kisses you. Or unlucky, as you’re always left lightheaded and dazed and squeezing your thighs together while he smirks down at you. He leaves you like that every time he kisses you.

On the third smoke break he’d silently invited you to, he’d licked his way into your mouth, overwhelming you with the taste of nicotine and coffee. You’d clung to his shoulders before daring to push one hand into the short hair at the back of his head. He’d rewarded you with a sharp bite to your lower lip and swallowed your pained gasp.

You hadn’t even heard his pager buzz, your head too busy spinning, too consumed with the slickness that soaks into your underwear. He’d looked about ready to smash the thing, but took a deep breath, swept his hair back, and apologized before leaving.

He requests books when he knows you’re off. It’s a nice excuse to go see him, to talk, even in the concealed way you must while inside the station. Small talk is still pleasant, still makes you nervous. No matter how much you’re around him, how casual it can be, it’s still a little nauseating. He’s so easy to be consumed in.

This time it's a biography. A black and white photo of a man smiles slightly at something just beyond the camera. He’s older, his hair receding and graying at the temples, but his dark-framed glasses and crisp suit under a white lab coat make him look distinguished. The title is straightforward enough: Jonas Salk.

“Oh, did you ever find that file that went missing?” You ask, watching Wesker sign the checkout slip in the book’s cover.

He stiffens, his signature marred with a dash through the middle. “Yes.”

You cringe; there’s no mistaking his sudden chill. Whatever happened with the file, it must not have been good. Feeling bad for ruining his good mood, you touch his arm just past the edge of his glove. Again, his signature jumps, but he says nothing.

You stay a little late most days. The last members of S.T.A.R.S. will sometimes come by to see you, ask if you want a ride. You always make some excuse about checking in files or needing to chase down a signature or any other inane thing. He won’t always take you home, but you wait for a while to see if he will.

As March melts into April, it gets even easier. The weather does turn nice, if a little rainy, and it’s not unpleasant to walk home alone. It gives you a chance to unpack whatever interaction you had with him that day, or if he’s been busy, or out tending to his personal obligations, or pretending to ignore you, you get to daydream. You swim in that pleasant haze his touch always leaves you in and you sink your teeth into your lip, but it’s never as good as his bite.

The second week of April, S.T.A.R.S. has a mission. Emergency response, Alpha team responds. A man kidnapped two people at gunpoint, rambling about a conspiracy. He raised his weapon to one hostage- and Redfield takes him out.

Chris spends half the day filling out forms and talking to a dozen people up and down the chain of command before finally getting the order: go home.

“We’re all getting Chinese and then headed over to his place.” Jill says, leaning on the checkout counter. We here had meant Barry, Joseph, and Forest. “Watch some movies. I think Brad’s grabbing a few videos from Blockbuster.”

“But… he’s okay? Everyone’s okay?” You ask, watching Chris cross his arms over his chest as he talks with the others.

Jill nods, “Yeah. The hostages are shaken up, but no more than some bruises from what I saw. They got bussed to Spencer Memorial to get checked out. Rep from Umbrella says they’ll get some vacation time.”

You watch as Barry claps Chris’s shoulder, saying something low. He makes a fist, motions passionately in front of him. Chris nods, but apparently the reassurance doesn’t wash the look from his eyes.

You know, in an objective sense, that Wesker is busy right now. A shooting- no matter how justifiable- is probably flooding his desk with paperwork, a thousand reports to file and procedure to follow. You hope he’s doing okay, too.

You leave with them, everyone filtering into Chris’s apartment. He has the courtesy of being a little embarrassed by having to clear off the coffee table to set down the impressive five bags of takeout. His secondhand coach groans pitifully under the weight of four people squeezed together like sardines. You end up in an armchair while Forest pulls over a barstool from the kitchen.

“Okay, first up, the best movie ever made,” Brad says, pulling over the white and blue plastic bag. He pops the first film into the VHS and begins fast-forwarding through the previews. “Has science gone too far? Join Dr. Alan Grant and-”

“Oh for God’s sake, Brad,” Joseph rolls his eyes and throws a chopstick at him.

“What! The guy was raving about test tube monsters, these are dinosaurs. Completely different.”

At least Chris laughs.

Wesker stops by the library the next day just to tell you he’ll drive you home. He preens when you flush, still overwhelmed when he’s open about his fondness for you. A wave of heat rolls through your belly as it sinks in, though- when he takes you home, he always kisses you. Your breath comes quickly before he’s even left the room.

You think about it all day, think about it more as he walks you to the garage. His lips on yours and your hands on his neck, in his hair… You shift uncomfortably in the seat of his car, feeling wetness pool in your underwear. The rumbling purr of the engine doesn’t help, so you cross your legs in an attempt to get away from it.

And his hand lands on your thigh.

You stiffen, a stuttering gasp all too loud in the quiet of his car. You stare at it, at his black fingerless glove and his pale fingertips resting innocently on your pants. It’s so close to… You struggle not to shift, to squirm and rub your thighs together. Can he tell?

If he does, he doesn’t show it. Your cheeks burn and you stare out the window, burying your desire as deep as you can. The heat of his hand burns you like a brand, the weight of his fingers alone almost bringing tears to your eyes.

When he recalls his hand to make the turn into your parking lot, you don’t know if you mourn the loss or can finally relax. Either way, when you get out of his car you take a moment to adjust yourself- as useless as it is as he’s going to kiss you again.

You glance at him around the front of his sleek car. He… he’s going to kiss you again. Need throbs inside you, another wave of dull aching, a hot emptiness that makes your knees weak without him even touching you now.

You… you can’t handle it.

He guides you to your door- and this time you keep your distance. He turns, touches your face and dips down- and you splay your hand across his chest. You can’t do it again. The need will devour you, there will be nothing left, only the want that you can’t sate.

He waits, only tips his head to the side.

“Would… I mean, d-do you w-want to…” You struggle through, dropping your eyes lower with every word. “Come inside…?”

It builds slow, his lips parting in that smile, somewhere between teasing and cruel. “And why should we do that, dearheart?” Your heart sinks, shame overwriting desire. Wesker’s fingers run along your face, his thumb rubbing across your lower lip. His voice drops: “Go on. Tell me what you want.”

You shiver. The hand that had kept him away twists into his shirt. You… you can’t say it. He might make the place between your legs ache, and you might know what you want in the… the objective sense… but you can’t bring yourself to give voice to it.

But there are other things you want. Safer alternatives. “We could… have dinner.” You swallow, follow up before he can prod more. “A date.”

But this, too, feels wrong. A different kind of forbidden. Not one hidden under taboo and social norms- no, this one born from the very nature of your relationship. Secret as it is and with such little time together, was that allowed? Was it something Wesker even wanted with you?

You don’t have long to worry that you’ve crossed some unspoken boundary, because Wesker steps closer. He crowds you up against the wall beside your door, just as he has every time he’s driven you home. This time, however, he sidesteps- and slots one boot between your feet.

You blink, stare down at the dwindling space between your bodies. What is he…? You don’t wonder long. His hands migrate, land at the curve of your hips and pull you forward.

“Sir?” It’s just pressure. But it’s new- like bottled lightning coming uncorked and you instinctively clamp your thighs together, trying to keep him still, keep him controlled. Because with only pressure, your long-ignored pussy is soaked.

“Shh,” He soothes, leaning down so his face is just above yours. “You were convincing me to go on a date with you.”

“I…” Your breath comes in quick, stunned little gasps. His glasses have slipped down his nose and you search his blue eyes for anything, any clue as to what this new game is.

“Dinner.” He prompts.

You swallow, struggling to even follow this guidance. He wants you to just… keep talking, as though all the blood in your body isn’t being drawn away from your brain. You tighten your thighs’ grip on him again, looking away as you chase words down and string them together. “C-can do takeout? Grab it after work?”

“Hmm,” His smile dims, so you course correct:

“I- I can cook?”

“Better.” And his hands pull you against him again.

“Wesker?” Your legs wrapped around his offer no defense. He drags you up his thigh, a hot wave of stimulation angled right against your clit. In one motion, he makes you feel better than you had with hours of self-exploration- and all you can do is throw your head back and dig your nails into his shirt and tremble in his hold.

You don’t need to look at him again to hear the snicker in his voice. “Keep going.”

Going? Dinner. Cook- what could you cook? “I… I don’t know,” You finally meet his gaze again, pleading silently. All you find is hunger in his cold eyes- and cruelty as he eases off the pressure. You whine, grab at his shoulders again and try for whatever answer he’s looking for: “Wh-what do you like? Anything, I could make any- oh,” He rocks your hips again, guiding you along the heavy muscle of his thigh. “There’s- there’s recipe books in, oh, in the library, I could…” He builds a slow rhythm, the individual waves of pressure now rolling together, a constant cycle of stimulation. “I could, could-” He slows again, just enough for you to focus. “Any- oh, anything you want…”

So close, you can hear Wesker’s breath catch. His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you forward as he meets the motion, rutting his thigh up against you. “So good for me,” A breathless rasp, the tone that makes your belly twist, that makes the pressure on your pussy that much sweeter- and he rights himself, steers you back towards his game: “And after dinner?”

You groan, frustration winning out. You know what he wants you to say, what you want to say. You can’t. Even like this, even as he grinds your body against his thigh so deliciously you think it might kill you. “I don’t- I don’t know,”

Wesker hums and again slows, eases off the friction- and you sob. “No, no, please- I- anything, we- we can- w-watch television? O-or go for a drive, I, Sir, I- just, just read together, please, anything, anything-” Your nails bite into his shirt, you must be hurting him- but all you can think about is the knot fraying inside you, the rough drag of your swollen clit against him, his grasp on you- that he’s doing this- Your head drops back, mouth falling open as all rational thought flees-

And Wesker growls as he lifts you off him.

“Please, please-” You start up again, but there’s no intelligence behind it. Mindless, animal grasping at him, your hands across his neck, at his hair, pulling, anything, anything to make him bring back that pleasure. He doesn’t. You force yourself to look at him- and find him staring at you over the tops of his glasses, black pupil eclipsing blue.

“No.” He grits out, forcing that unbearable distance between you again.

And this time you cry. It’s all too much- the need, the agonizing, burning need between your legs that wipes out any logical thinking and the sudden lack of him, the void that he’d just filled. You sink your teeth into your lip to keep quiet, turning away as hot tears roll over your cheeks.

You can’t take looking at him, knowing he’s watching your pitiful breakdown. Your awful, baser needs that make you rut on his leg like a dog…

He lets you cry and holds your hips back to the wall and rubs soothing little circles where his thumbs have slipped up under your shirt. When you’ve calmed enough he even begins to pet your hair, apparently trusting you won’t try to mount him again.

“Sorry,” You mutter after a while.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, dearheart.” He replies, tapping your chin. You don’t know that you believe him. “Barring any unwelcome intrusions, I should be free Thursday evening.” You stare at him, not following. You’re not upset, of course, happy to know when to expect a little more time with him. But Wesker explains, obviously seeing no recognition in your eyes. “For our date, obviously.”

“Oh,” Is all you can manage. Date. He wants- he actually does want to come over.

“Is that alright?”

“Yes! Absolutely!” You assure him, not about to squander this chance he’s giving you. And if he comes over… maybe… he’ll want to do more…

“Then you should get some sleep.” He says, already backing away from you. He rights himself, finally pushing his glasses back up his nose and obscuring your view of those gorgeous eyes. “Good night, dear.”

“W-wait,” You half step forward towards him. He’s forgotten something. Immediately your cheeks burn, hating how desperate he makes you feel. “You um, you didn’t actually…”

That smile curls over his face again. He catches your chin again, all of his earlier heat replaced with the cruel teasing. “My poor darling, almost left without a good night kiss.” You avert your eyes from those dark shades, unable to look at your reflection now. His cruelty has passed; he leans down and gives you a mercifully chaste peck, hardly more than the brush of his lips on yours.

But he doesn’t let you go immediately. He holds you, just for a moment. When he speaks, you can’t place his tone. “You’re terribly sweet.”

It makes you blush again. “But… you like it, right?”

He exhales a little half-laugh. “Oh yes, dear. More than you know.”

===