wesker's wife

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.

=====