Noble

Chapter 3- Just trust me, you'll be fine

Alpha! Albert Wesker x ?????!AFAB! Reader

-> Omegaverse; Age Gap (Reader is mid 20s ish, Wesker is 37); Older man, younger woman; Slow(ish) burn; Talk of severe domestic abuse (like someone almost died and went to the hospital); Physical abuse; Child abuse; Swearing; Abusive toxic parents still; Talk of concussions; Bruising; Panic attack; Nightmares; Talk of murder/homicide; Grief; Smoking (he was born in the 60s guys); Manipulation?; Total apathy; Mentions of a mugging, but it's not that important, kinda

AN: 7,426 words. This is 7,426 words. I want to go back in time and tell Past Noble that she didn't know a long chapter yet. Once again, PLEASE adhere to the tags. There's only one really screwy moment, but it's a doozy. Once again, please reblog, comment, and tell me alllllll your thoughts! I want to know if I'm building all of this right!

Title is from "End of Beginnings" by Djo

Border made by @sweetmelodygraphics

The two of you moved wordlessly. Wesker helped you up the stairs and left you to pack. It was easy to pack lightly, you didn’t have that much to your name. The only thing of real importance to you was a few books and a stuffed elephant.

You did a final skim over your room to make sure you had everything you needed, before your eyes fell on the bottle of pills. You hadn’t taken anything this morning, and you’d feel sick later for it. But you needed to eat to take it, and how you felt right now you didn’t know if you could stomach anything. Afterall, you nearly puked going up the stairs.

“Are you ready?” Wesker’s voice interrupted your line of thought, and you turned to see him standing at the doorway.

You throw the bottle in your bag. “I think so,” your voice came out in a hoarse whisper. Your throat hurts. Your head hurts more. “I’m just debating taking my meds, but I’ll wait. I really need to eat before taking it.”

“A good decision. When we get to the apartment, we can have lunch,” he states, holding out his coat. “You might want to cover up for our walk outside.”

You took his coat, confused, until you looked down to realize you had blood on your shirt. “Yeah, good idea.”

You never really noticed how much bigger he was than you before, but as the coat enveloped you you became very aware of the difference in size. The train dragged on the ground, the shoulders sagged with the extra fabric, and the sleeves came up past your wrists.

“Thank you.”

He gives a stiff nod. “I hate to rush, but I have things to attend to.”

“Right.” You grabbed your bag, walking out of your room. Before you closed the door, you took one deep look at the room that you lived in for the past decade of your life.

You slammed the door shut.

No one was going to miss it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You started feeling woozy again in the car as your body began to feel heavier and waves of nausea began to wash over you. 

“Keep awake a little longer for me.” His voice is quiet, which you appreciate. Your head is starting to throb, and even at his usual volume (which is hardly loud), you think you’d start to get a migraine. He reached out to the air controls, increasing the fan speed. “Keep a vent on your face, it’ll help with the nausea.”

You do as he says. “Where are we going?”

“An apartment of mine. Somewhere temporary until I’m done with Raccoon City.”

The words come back to haunt you again. What’s going to happen to me?

It hurts too much to worry about it now. Your throat is starting to burn. Actually, everything is starting to hurt more.

“We’re almost there.” You’re imagining emotion in his voice, you know it. Just like how you were imagining the car speeding up. He doesn’t care like that.

The rest of the ride was a blur. You barely remember parking, too consumed with the ache in your body and the bile threatening to emerge.

He gets out, grabbing your bag before opening your door. “Why is it hurting?” You wheezed.

“Adrenaline is wearing off,” he states, holding out his arm, which you graciously take. You end up having to put more weight on it that you’d like to after nearly collapsing.

“Sorry,” you choke out. When did it get hard to speak? “I’m trying-”

He cuts you off with a gentle shush, repositioning his arm to under you’re your own, letting you rest more of your weight on him. “Let’s get you up to the apartment and you can rest.”

You don’t walk as much as he carries you into the building. The lobby is elegant, not screaming luxury and wealth, but still higher end. Wesker doesn’t say anything, just heads directly to the elevator. You’re too focused on not collapsing on him to worry about the surroundings much or what number he even presses.

When the door opened, he quickly carried you forward. The faint smell of something like leather hitting your nose. 

You made it to the door right as the pain began to feel unbearable. He smoothly unlocked the door and pushed it open before helping you inside and locking it behind you.

The apartment had a simple layout. The main area was a connected kitchen and living room that was quite spacious. There seemed to be two hallways on either side of the main room. The furnishing was simple and minimalistic. You would have been more surprised if that wasn’t the case.

Wesker maneuvered you to the couch, giving you a curt “Sit.” You nod weakly, looking over the rest of the room to distract yourself from the pain. Like the lobby, everything was not lavish but still held a feel of wealth. The couch was soft and made of quality materials. The coffee and end tables looked to be sturdy and elegant.

Your eyes caught the window, and the balcony that lay beyond. It looked like the view of the city would be pretty.

A blanket was draped over your shoulder unexpectedly, making you flinch. You turned your head to find Wesker hovering behind you.

“Keep that on, will help you off the adrenaline. Keep the ice pack on your head. Not much can be done for the bruising, but it’ll go away in due time,” he stated, passing an ice pack wrapped in a towel to you.

“Bruising?” You asked as you took the ice pack and held it to where your head hit the ground.

“Around your neck.”

For most of your time together, his deadpan delivery was never a problem. It was just a part of him that you accepted. But something about how dryly he pointed out your state…

It made your entire body go cold as you realized: Bruno tried to kill you. You almost died.

Your entire body seemed to react all at once. Dread, panic, fear, pain, all at once. A choked sound escaped your throat.

You needed to keep it together. Wesker in no way wanted to handle your emotions right now. If you disappoint him and he tosses you to the side, you have nowhere to go, nothing to be. You might as well have let Bruno…

“Anything in particular that you would want to eat? I don’t keep much here. But I have the most basic ingredients,” Wesker’s voice comes from the kitchen.

“Could I just have a sandwich? Maybe peanut butter and jelly?”

If he noticed the cracked emotion in your voice, he didn’t acknowledge, just replied with a quick “Of course.” Then silence.

You appreciated it. If he chose today to be the day he started rambling, you’d probably go mad.

If you weren’t already, if only for your choice in company.

Your aloof demeanor didn’t mean you weren’t paying attention. You knew exactly what Wesker and Birkin were up to. You’d heard plenty of screams and wails from the other side of doors. Once watched a newer guy come out of one of the testing labs and throw his lunch up. Albert Wesker didn’t just have blood on his hands, he was submerged in it. Breathed it in like a fish breathes in water; naturally, with no issues. You’d be insane to be alone with him in a room.

Hell, he killed Bruno, didn’t he? Given how long there was before the sound of the door coming down and the gunshot, he didn’t even hesitate.

He killed Bruno and saved you. He shouldn’t have. Bruno would have been more beneficial to his work. Bruno was a fellow scientist; you graduated high school with science being your worst subject. But he chose to save you.

There had to be a reason. He wouldn’t have spared you otherwise.

Your line of thought was interrupted by a plate being placed in front of you.

“Eat,” he said, before nodding his head to the hall behind where you were sitting. “The guest room is down that hall, as well as a full bathroom. Both are yours while we’re here. I’m expecting us to be leaving within a few days, so don’t get too comfortable.” He waited until you gave a nod of acknowledgement before he continued, “I’ll be away for the rest of the day. You should be clear to sleep, but if anything else develops you will page me. Outside of the master bed and bath, the apartment is yours to explore, but I ask that you do not leave without informing me.”

That one was easy. You had nowhere to go.

“If you have no questions for me, I will take my leave.” He briskly turned and began stalking to the door.

“Wait,” you croaked, so hoarse you weren’t sure if he heard you.

But apparently Wesker did, as he stopped and turned his head to you.

“Your coat.” You slipped it off and held it out towards him.

He didn’t say anything in reply, just stalked over, took it out of your hands, and he was gone.

After you finished your sandwich, you took your bag to where he said the guest room was. The room was empty except for the bare minimum furniture needed. You dropped the bag near the foot of the bed and slipped off your shoes. Upon reflection of your current attire, you quickly changed into a different set of clothes, throwing your bloody ones as far from you as you could. You settled into the bed, and within seconds of your head hitting the pillow, you were asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y̴̺̋o̸͕̓̚u̷̦͒͠r̶̞̈́̋ ̵̣̙̃̏m̷̪̉͑o̶̢̡̐̚m̸͓̱͝'̴͖́͌s̵̙̈ ̵̭̓͑b̴̠̫͗ơ̸̙̒d̷͒ͅy̵̩͐ͅ ̵̙̿̇o̶̼̖͊n̵̡̞͆ ̸̥̈͜t̴͚͙͝h̸͍̄̐e̴͉͐͠ ̶̛̦̥͑g̷͍͐̽a̵̯͑r̷̙͘ͅa̴̻̠͘g̴͈̜̊ȩ̸͘ ̶̩̣́f̶͇͐́l̶͖̳͠o̴͍͊͝ö̷̦́̃r̷̼̻͑.̷͕̇

H̴̰̽ạ̷́ñ̷̡̘̎d̷͕̈́͛s̶͎̏̚ ̵̹͖̌a̶͔̎͂r̸͈͌͒ò̷͖͕ǘ̴̬͐n̸̠̠̈́͂d̴̳̱͂̚ ̴̠̮̌ỷ̵̦̞õ̴͓̻u̷̹͕͠ŕ̸̈͜ ̶͈̞͛t̸̜̂ḧ̶͉̜́r̴̗͎̔o̵̪̿̏à̴̛͚t̸̰̓́.̴̥̒̇

N̵̝̈́ó̸̹ ̶̬͑o̷̬̐n̶̡̿e̷͓͊ ̷̧̛w̷̙͒ḁ̶͐s̶̝̉ ̷̞̓c̶͖͋ȍ̶͇m̷̡̅i̵̱̔n̶̹͛g̶͊͜ ̸̘̈́f̸̲͝ơ̶̤r̸͇̾ ̶̘̾y̷̮̾o̷̰̍u̶̹̓.̵͕̍

P̴̖̈a̷̲̚i̸͚͗n̸̺̉.̷̰͝

P̷̱̍A̸͉͊I̷͌ͅN̸̰͊.̵̬̔

You jolted awake, sweat beading down your face. It was hard to breathe, terror racking your body as you desperately tried to make sense of your surroundings.

The sun was still present, but it looked like it would set within the next few hours, the rays starting to turn golden as they came through the window of the bedroom. You felt like you had a bucket of cold water thrown on you, as the numb stupor you were in left all at once.

The pain of the fight with Bruno, the ring of the gunshot in your ears, leaving behind the only life you’ve known…

Finding your mom, the woman who raised you, dead.

Grief hit you in a strong wave. You hated her and everything she put you through. But the faded memories of the time before Bruno still lived in the back of your mind. When she would take you to get ice cream and sing little folk songs as she did your hair. Grief of the mother, the life, you could have had. You wouldn’t have it now. You thought you accepted that, but deep down, you hoped.

You hoped that one day she’d wake up. That she’d take you and you’d leave. She would sing those songs again, and keep you wrapped in your arms.

You don’t remember the last time she hugged you, or vice versa. You don’t remember the last kiss on the cheek, the last time you spent your afternoons watching the sun set. The last time she said a kind word to you; her only daughter.

The grief gave way, and rage bubbled.

She was your mother. Supposed to be the one person on your side no matter what, and she left you to rot. Obsessed with a fantasy life with a man who would never have enough. God knows what he was shooting for, but it was never going to be fulfilled. And instead of putting any kind of thought into it, she married a man who hated kids with a daughter of her own. She willingly signed you up into the hell you’ve lived in for a decade, and not once did she ever show you sympathy or remorse.

She asked how you could never pity her? Why you could never be grateful? Because you were damned to suffer for the simple crime of being born to a wretch of a mother.

You started to feel vindicated the more you reflect. She once told you she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Bruno. Well, she got what she wanted, didn’t she? Murdered by him, tossed on a tarp in a garage. Like she wasn’t even worth the effort it took to kill her. Maybe karma does exist, for such an end. One thing was for certain, the mom you knew was dead to you long before he struck.

You moved as if in a trance, walking out of the bedroom, through the living room, and onto the balcony. The rays of the sinking sun felt… rejuvenating. As you soaked it all up, you felt your soul itself become lighter.

Over time the sky became painted with more colors, reds, oranges, and purples as the sun retreated from the sky, allowing the other stars to shine. It took you a moment to realize it was a new moon, meaning it wouldn’t be seen. You weren’t upset. It somehow felt fitting.

You don’t know how long you sat there watching the waltz of the sky. When the last remnants of sunlight left, you searched for stars you knew. It wasn’t a lot, and you couldn’t see super well due to the city lights, but there were a few you spotted.

The door behind you slid open.

“Have you eaten?” Wesker’s voice flowed in the atmosphere you have been reveling in, almost adding to the scenery.

“No, I fell asleep,” you replied, keeping your eyes on the sky.

“I had guessed that was the case, I brought dinner.”

“Thank you.” You didn’t get up to move for a few more minutes. When you did, you were surprised to find Wesker still standing at the door, waiting.

He moved to the side as you entered and closed the door behind you.

Dinner was Chinese takeout and was some of the best food you’d ever had. One glance at the receipt told you why. It was from one of the high-end places in the city, with the two of your meals going for almost $60. You didn’t know how to feel about that amount of money being spent on you. You were not going to complain though. It was nice to be spoiled, even if it was just a side effect of Wesker’s high standards. He even remembered what your preferred order for Chinese was. 

After you finished eating, you gathered the dishes and began washing them. He pulled out some containers and the leftovers were put in the fridge. By that time most of the dishes were washed, and you started drying, while he put them away. It was… domestic in a way you’d never known. You didn’t feel stressed or rushed to get everything done, you just felt like you could be.

After the last dish was put away, he spoke. “I’m going to spend some time on the balcony. Feel free to join me if you wish.”

Might as well. What else were you going to do? You slipped into your bedroom and grabbed the book you’d been rereading and stepped out. The smell of tobacco and smoke wafted around the area, Wesker’s back to you as his arms rested on the rail, an ashtray next to him. His hand holding the cigarette motioned to the side, where the chair was. You vaguely remembered seeing it earlier, though you weren’t paying attention at that time.

You curled up and cracked open the book. Though before you got too settled, your curiosity got the better of you.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” Your voice wasn’t accusatory, just opening up the space for conversation, should he choose to accept.

A dry chuckle escaped him. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

True. If Birkin wouldn’t drop his first name here and there to annoy him, you’d probably have never learned his name was Albert.

After a pause, he continued. “I don’t smoke frequently. Usually one or two at night, depending on my mood.” He finally turned over to look at you. “What are you reading now?”

“I’m rereading The Wind in the Willows,” you hum.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, you reading and him rhythmically inhaling and exhaling. The sounds of the city made for a lovely ambiance, even sirens of emergency vehicles coming off as poetic. Eventually Wesker snuffs out his second cigarette in his ashtray.

“I’m retiring for the night, I’ve got some more business to attend to in the morning,” he says, moving the ashtray he was using to the small table near where you were sitting.

“I won’t be long after,” you reply. “Goodnight Dr. Wesker.”

“Goodnight.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You spent the night tossing and turning, sleeping only in short bursts. As if your body couldn’t tolerate sleeping for longer than needed. You decided to just deal with it once the sun started rising, getting out of bed and following your morning routine. Maybe you could scrounge something up for breakfast for you and Wesker.

To your total surprise, he was already up, dressed, and had a pot of coffee going. Glasses sitting high on his nose.

“Good morning.” You’ve noticed Wesker never usually says these phrases of well wishes with any kind of enthusiasm. Really most of the things he says sounds like he's only saying it out of some form of social obligation. You don’t think he would ever really want Birkin to have a good night. He seems to always be thirty seconds away from stabbing him with a scalpel. It was honestly the most amusing part of your day, when they started bickering over something silly. You once thought chairs were gonna fly because of a missing beaker and as a fly on the wall, it was one of the best days you had in a long time.

You come out of your thoughts, giving him a “Good morning” in return. “Do you have anything to do today?”

“I have an errand or two to run this morning.” He pours his cup, adding a splash of milk before sipping away. “Feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I don’t eat breakfast.”

You nod, opening the fridge cautiously to look inside. “Is there anything you need me to do while I’m here?”

He doesn’t reply, though you don’t take it to mean too much. He’s probably mulling something over. Instead you take out the butter, eggs, and cheese from the fridge, before beginning your search through the cupboards. “I advise against any extra strain on your mind. Just because the worst of the concussion has faded, does not mean it has gone away. Especially since we are unaware of the severity.”

A long way to say “You need rest. Doctor’s orders.”

“Ok,” you hum. You finally found a bowl, now to find a pan and utensils. You passed by the cups, going ahead and slipping one out before continuing. Eventually you found the utensils but had no signs as to where the pans were. Most of the cabinets were almost empty, with hardly anything in them. Only a few cups, only a few plates, only a few utensils. It’s like this place was hardly lived in, now that you think about it. Does he even own pans? Would he get angry if you ask? Maybe he would think you’re stupid, cause of course he would have pans, it’s his apartment. You didn’t know what to do, but didn’t want to keep going through every cabinet, especially if it wasn’t needed.

“Um, Doctor Wesker-” you started, hesitantly.

“If you please, you can drop the doctor. Just Wesker is fine.”

“Ok, uh, Wesker, where do you keep your pans?”

He gives a short nod before going to a cabinet off to the side and opening it, revealing a few basic pans. You gave him a meek “Thank you” before grabbing the smallest one.

You begin working on your eggs, trying to be as out of the way and quiet as possible. As you were pouring the eggs into the skillet, Wesker came behind you and placed the mug in the sink. 

“I’m leaving for my errand, I’ll be back around midday, if I’ll be later I’ll page you. Help yourself to anything here that is not in my bedroom.” He leaves before letting you say anything, not that he needs to.

After you finished your eggs, you dealt with the dishes, putting them away after washing and drying them. You then washed down the counter, returning everything back to its spotless state. Once you were satisfied with everything, you fixed a glass of water and went back to the guest room to take your daily pill. But just as you raised it to your mouth, you stopped.

What was this supposed to be for again? You’ve been taking it for so long. Maybe you could ask Wesker? Is it worth bothering him with it? You’re not dying. 

But it’s one more thing connecting you to the past life you had. And you don't even remember what it’s for. You’ll take the pill now, but ask Wesker when he gets back. After all, he’s seeming to be nicer towards you, probably because of the concussion. Proof that he does have bedside service, you guess.

You found a book he had laying around in his living room (as you had finished your reread the night prior) and spent the rest of the day reading. It was refreshing to finally get your hands on something new. You rarely got new books, so anytime you got your hands on one, it felt like a holiday. It wasn’t the most exciting, but it was something.

Wesker returned when he said he would. He didn’t stay in the den for long, slipping away to his room quickly. It didn’t bother you much, he probably wasn’t super interested in chatting right now.

A few more hours passed until he resurfaced, wearing casual clothes. Or at least, what you assumed casual for him looked like. A crisp button up shirt, dress pants, his shoes forfeit for dark grey socks, but considering he was in his own home, you didn’t think much of it. What did bother you was the glasses on his face. You know he probably wouldn’t be wearing them if it weren’t for you violating his space.

“Do you want to take your glasses off?” You blurted out the question before you could stop yourself. 

Wesker stopped. An uncomfortable silence fell across the apartment. 

“I just asked… I can leave the room and sit somewhere else if you wish…” You feel like an idiot for saying something. If Wesker hadn’t thought of kicking you out, you just told him he could kick you out. Stupid stupid

“I am susceptible to headaches, so I wear them to reduce visual stimuli. I assure you there’s no need for you to step away.”

“Oh, yes. That makes sense. Sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything, and you go back to your book, paying little mind to the sounds behind you. 

“Is there a drink you prefer? I’m wanting to imbibe this afternoon.”

“I’ve never had one, sir. I’m not even sure I should.”

“Why not?”

“My medication… actually, I wanted to discuss that with you.”

You wait as he walks over and takes a seat on the chair diagonal of where you were. He takes a sip from his glass, before giving a vague hand gesture. You guess that’s your sign to continue.

“I…I don’t know what it is. My medication, I mean.” He doesn’t react, or at least, you don’t notice a reaction. “Is there any way I can figure out what it is?”

Wesker takes another sip, quiet. Contemplative.

You wait. You don’t know why you’re nervous. You don’t need to be. He’ll help you, right? He wouldn’t leave you to have to deal with it, the one last connection to the mad bastard that raised you, would he? Especially since the withdrawal effects were so rough, even for just a day. To have to deal with it, and then figure out whether or not there was anything the medicine was helping all at the same time. It would be hellish.

“Do you have more?”

You snap back to the room, taking a second to process his question. “Yes, sir. I’m not sure exactly how much I have left.”

“We can count the pills later, bring me one.” 

You slip away into the guest room, pulling out the bottle, and decide to bring the whole thing. He holds out his hand when you return, and you wordlessly hand the bottle over then sat back down.

Wesker revolved the bottle around, checking for a label you guess, before opening it. To your shock, first he sniffs the container, before pouring a pill out and observing it. He stared at it for a bit, taking in every detail. He then closed the bottle, returning it to your hand.

“I’m going to keep this one and send it out to a lab when we get to our next location. It looks like you have enough for another few weeks, which should be plenty of time.” He went to his room and you returned the bottle to the guest room. When you came back to the living room, Wesker wasn’t back yet. You figured that would be the end of your interactions with him for the day and returned to reading. You vaguely became aware of Wesker’s return, but paid little mind. Until a glass of water was placed on the coffee table in front of you.

Wesker had already moved away when you looked up, and was sitting back at his chair, sipping from his glass, with his head to the ceiling. You read on, taking intermittent drinks of water, as he sat drinking amber liquid from his own glass.

Then the doorbell rings.

It feels like your heart is in your throat. Who could that be? The police? Did they figure out what happened at your house? How would they have known where you went, though? 

Wesker was already heading towards the door and you studied his movements closely, looking for any sign of hesitance. He pears through the peep-hole, before unlocking the door and cracking it open.

You hear the murmurs of an exchange as Wesker pulls something from his pockets and passes it. What he brought in was…

Pizza.

It was such a bizarre sight, seeing the boxes in his hand, you could have laughed. Instead you watched on quizzically as he moved the boxes to the kitchen counter, then began to pull out plates.

“Uh- What kind did you get?” you ask as you stand, moving your book to the side.

“I got a cheese for you, since I am unaware of your preference, and a mushroom and olive for myself.” 

He fixes the plates, a few slices for each of you, and brings them to the small dining table. For some reason ,you were quite pleased at the idea of your food being made for you. Honestly, these past two days are the most consistently you’ve eaten in… years. That’s probably the major reason it stood out so much to you.

Bringing his glass and yours, you sit across from him, and after he takes the first bite, you do the same. The pizza was amazing, the best you had even had, easily. The majority of pizzas you’ve had were cheap and from the freezer section of your local grocery store. You easily finish your slices. Before you could get up to get seconds, Wesker took your plate and his, added another two slices to both of your plates, and returned. The last two slices filled you perfectly. 

When you noticed him done eating, you took the plates to the sink and began washing them. You hear his steps fall in behind you, and after you put the plates in the drying rack, you turn to him holding out your glass of water, now refilled. 

“Thank you…” He looks at you and the rest of the sentence tumbles out of your mouth “For the food. Feeding me. Thank you.”

“You are under my care. I’m not going to let you starve, and I know I don’t have a lot to eat here.” He takes a sip of his drink, which he seemed to also have refilled. “And if I may be so forward, it seems like constant meals are a new development. If you’re going to be continuing your work for me, I need you at your best.”

That’s right, the notes. He still needs you around. You’re not going to complain, his need for you is keeping you fed and housed and out of jail for witnessing two homicides. Not to mention, he’s shown that if you play by his rules, he’ll work with you to some level. As long as you stay a useful asset, you’ll 

“You’re right about the meals… Mom didn’t like cooking and Bruno didn’t like me. His preferred way to punish me since I was little was to deny me food, and would even lock me in my room to make sure I didn’t get anything later on.”

You’re not sure why you’re telling him this. Maybe it’s the idea of wishing to be known. The only other two people who knew anything about your life are dead and didn’t give a shit about your pain. He might be the only chance you ever have to truly express yourself, to put your pain on display so at the very least someone could see that you bled. Granted, you know better than to expect Albert Wesker, of all people on this Earth, to have any sort of sympathy. You accepted long ago no one would weep for you.

“He hit you as well, didn’t he?” Wesker asks the question like he’s asking about the weather, and you don’t know if you feel better or worse for it. At your nod, he prompts. “I’m shocked no one ever took notice. No teachers, no doctors, no one phoned it in?”

“Someone tried once,” you hum, the memory overtaking you. Gentle hands, a comforting voice. For a few seconds you thought everything would be alright, even after it all. “It’s kinda a sad, fucked up story,” you state, injecting humor in your voice to keep the pain at bay. “When I was in… maybe second grade? My class did a thing for Father's day, you know writing down who your dad was and all that. The thing was, I never met my biological dad. But another girl had a similar home life, her mom remarried and she said her step dad loved cards and stuff. So I wrote Bruno a card, called him my step dad, hoped it would help soften him up to me I guess.

I still don’t remember a lot of that day. All I remember was walking through the door with the card proudly in my hand one moment. The next I was in… so much pain. He was screaming, my mom was screaming. It was horrible. Eventually it stopped at some point. The first and last time I was ever taken to the hospital. I was barely conscious, needed stitches, a cast. I ended up having to stay in the hospital for a few days due to a cracked rib and some fractures in my arms and legs.

When the nurses asked my mom what happened, she just said it was a biking accident. That I wasn’t paying close enough attention to my surroundings. Even then I could tell the nurse knew she was full of shit. Actually overheard her telling the doctor, or whoever, that CPS needed to get involved. They never did.

It was things like that my whole life. I never understood why no one did anything. Hell, I never understood why Bruno and Mom didn’t just leave me on a park bench two cities away. Guess they enjoyed my misery.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised. Raccoon City is… corrupted.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” you hum, sipping on your water.

“Ah yes, I guess you are more familiar with that now aren't you.” A small smirk paints his face, probably the only facial expression you’re familiar without outside of his emotionless scowl, which returns quickly afterwards. “I am wishing to step outside and smoke again. Would you care to join me?”

“Sure.”

He moved the bottle of whatever he was drinking out on the balcony, sipping from it in between intakes of smoke. You brought the book you were reading with you and were once again curled up on the chair, enjoying the sounds of the city, as he moves the ashtray once again to the balcony rail and lights up. Whenever someone smokes, you always wonder what life is like with a full operating nose…

You remember your health class freshman year in high school. The teacher had given a lesson on scenting, how it was one of the best ways to bond with a potential mate. You remember wondering why no one had ever talked about your scent before, and that night you brought it up to your mom. She said you didn’t have one and it was probably due to your lack of presentation.

“As long as you can smell, you can pretend.”

“But I can’t smell?” you replied.

She didn’t say anything. Just slammed her jewelry box closed and stormed out of the room.

You look up to see Wesker’s head angled towards you. You could swear you saw a red glint in his glasses briefly, as he adjusts his head to look more to the side, almost lazily. You’re only guess is a play on the lighting, though you have no idea where the light comes from. You hold his gaze, waiting to see if he would say anything. After he realized you were going to hold his gaze, he repositioned himself to where he was facing you, back leaning on the rail. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth, tilts his head up, and with an exhale, smoke curls out of his mouth and into the air.

“What does it smell like?” you whisper. He taps the end of the cigarette over the ashtray with a pondering hum.

“Each brand is different, due to different types of tobacco that can be used and the chemicals they treat it with.” He takes another inhale, letting the smoke pour out as he spoke again. “To answer your question more directly, there is not a good descriptor of what it smells like. It’s very unique.”

You nod. In all honesty, you’re not completely noseblind, you can get faint whiffs of scents here and there; and he’s right about cigarettes being unique in their smell. You let your gaze fall to his neck. That’s where the most prominent scent glands are. The only other placement of scent glands worth anything are the ones on the wrists. 

“May I ask something personal?” You whisper, almost hoping he doesn’t hear you.

“Curious about my scent?”

You nod as you feel your cheeks warming up slightly. Hopefully the darker lighting will hide it.

“My rut suppressants have muddled it a bit, but it’s similar to something akin to polished authentic leather, though I’ve heard some say it has smokey undertones.” 

“Oh…. is that why you wear a leather jacket around? To mask your scent.”

“Part of it, yes.”

“Smoking?”

“Like I said, stress relief.”

You nod, awkwardly. He’s been a good sport about answering your questions, since he has every right to shut them down. Maybe you should head to bed, you’ve taken so much of his time already. But he hasn’t dismissed you.

“What do you think of them?” He asks, smoke curling around his face. “Of Raccoon City and everyone in it. Of… humanity.”

You pause, wondering if he’ll elaborate. When, after a brief pause, he turns to you, cigarette in his mouth, and you realize he’s finished, you give your answer.

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?” Smoke rushes out of his mouth, like a dragon from a fairy tale, as he questions you, disbelief in his tone.

“I don’t.”

“Really? Not even going to feign empathy?”

“No one has ever shown empathy to me, why should I to them? Doctors have left me for dead, teachers have turned their heads away. This city has done nothing for me and I won’t weep for any of it. Let it burn for all I care.”

He takes another long, almost dramatic, inhale of his cigarette. Even with his glasses on, you know he’s watching you, waiting for you to crack and show your bluff. You don’t look away, and keep fixated where his eyes would be if you could see them. It’s a direct challenge, but you fear looking away would make you seem like you’re dishonest to him.

After a moment of your silent staredown, a wicked smile graced his features. “I guess there are some similarities between us after all.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day was one of the most peaceful days you had had in a long long time. Wesker messaged you around 11 am saying that he would be longer, and you ended up with the whole day to yourself. At one point you moved to the balcony, enjoying the summer day. Someone had a windchime on their balcony nearby and it made for a lovely background ambiance with the gentle breeze.

A few hours before sunset, a knock came from the glass door behind you. Upon seeing Wesker on the other side of the glass, you memorized the page number you were on, closed the book, and went inside.

“I brought food,” he stated, “I’m going to change clothes. Go ahead and eat.” He was gone before you could reply.

You decided to go ahead and get the food set up. Once again, the food was from a higher end restaurant, but this time it was a steakhouse that you hadn’t even heard of. You had no clue what was supposed to be yours or his, honestly you weren’t sure how comfortable you were with eating food this pricey. You already were quite indebted to Wesker, this felt like overkill.

You barely heard his footsteps approaching, and turned to be met to a shocking sight. 

Wesker in a t-shirt and sweatpants. 

You had never seen him in anything less than a button up and dress pants, so this was quite a surprise. Almost as surprising as the amused smile that decorated his face for a few brief seconds at your reaction. It was gone quickly, but it still lingered in your memory.

“Umm, I’m not sure whose meal is whose,” you manage to spit out. “I’ve never heard of this place before.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said, striding over and reaching over you to get in the bag, pulling the containers out. “It’s the most expensive restaurant in the city, with a singular Michelin star to its name. Since we will be leaving, I figured it would be nice to spend our last night in Raccoon City with my personal favorite restaurant.” He places a container and gestures for you to sit at the seat in front of it. 

“Last night?” you questioned, sitting down.

He walks over to the kitchen. “Yes, the reason I stayed out for longer was to go ahead and finish everything I needed to do. Our flight will be early tomorrow.”

Your gut sunk at the word flight. You didn’t care much about the sudden departure, he had been very clear that you wouldn’t be here for long. But you’d never been in a plane before. 

One thing at a time.

“Safe to say we won’t be returning to Raccoon City?”

He chuckled darkly as he walked back to the table with a bottle of wine, an empty wine glass, and a glass of water. “If everything goes according to plan, there won’t be a Raccoon City to return to.”

His question last night now made a lot of sense. 

“Let’s not think of it much more, enjoy your dinner. I got you a steak done medium-well, as well as some brussel sprouts and potatoes on the side.” The glass of water was placed in front of you as he sat and poured a glass of wine for himself. 

The steak cut easily under your knife, which you were surprised by. You’d think it would be harder to do, since it was a thick piece of meat. It felt like it was even softer in your mouth, and you couldn’t help the pleased hum that came out of your mouth at the flavors hitting your tongue. You looked up to notice that Wesker was watching you, and after you swallowed your bite, he started cutting into his.

“How did you spend your day?” He asked, before putting his own bite of steak into his mouth. 

“Just reading, nothing exciting,” you reply, before taking a bite of brussel sprouts. They had a satisfying crunch with a marvelous tart, but sweet, flavor accompanying it. You’d always heard other kids all throughout your years of school speak of how awful brussel sprouts were, but you found it hard to believe why when these were some of the best things you’d ever eaten.

“Once we are at our next location, I’ll have you start up on the project I would like for you to cover. You should be recovered enough for there to be no strain.” 

Right, Bruno’s notes. You’ll need to drag that out to some degree, just until you know what will happen to you after they’re done.

You dig into the potatoes and can instantly recognize the flavors of rosemary and a light onion flavor. You’re starting to realize you’ll never experience food the same way after this. You’re also realized how much your mom was not a great cook.

“Are you enjoying your food?” Wesker asked with an amused hum.

You felt embarrassed, realizing that you scarfed a lot of it down while his plate was still full, sans a few bites. 

“Uh, yes. Thank you.”

“Good,” he hums, before bringing a piece of steak up to his mouth. “Don’t feel embarrassed, I’m glad to see you eating. Are you full?”

“Yes, I am, thank you.”

You sit and sip on your water as he finishes his meal, elegantly sipping his wine here and there. His meal looked similar to yours, though his steak looked like it was greatly undercooked, but you know better than to say something. There were also brussel sprouts on his plate, but he seemed to have gotten asparagus instead of potatoes. 

He eats every bite on his plate faster than you would have thought, but by no means scarfing it down. After he finishes his meal and the two of you clean the kitchen, he dismisses himself to bed, claiming the need to finalize packing and throwing advice to not stay up too late.

You don’t plan on staying up late anyways. You just take one last moment out on the balcony. It only felt fitting to take a moment to look over the city that raised you and the only place you’ve ever known. You desperately search your mind for a person to pity, a singular soul you would want to warn about some imminent disaster. Perhaps Birkin, but he was most likely well aware of whatever Wesker was alluding to and had already planned for it. After all, how he spoke of his daughter, you’d think he had her stashed away already, at the very least. 

You always felt a twinge of jealousy for her position. Your dad more than most likely hadn’t spared you a second thought in years. 

No, there was no one.

Out of the corner of your eye you catch quick movement, and look down to see a scuffle. After watching it unfold for a moment, you put together it’s a mugging and it eventually comes to an end with the mugged individual knocked against a wall and collapsing. The mugger sprinting off into the darkness.

Maybe it was for the best that the city would be wiped off the face of the Earth, you thought, as you slipped inside to pack for the flight.

Summary: You have a coworker who is obsessed with you. Apparently, you don’t know the half of it. After some interventions by Leon Kennedy … you’re gonna find out. Thankfully Leon pays attention. And as it turns out, he might just be the nicest thing that’s ever happened to you.

WC: ~8.5k

CW: NSFW, creepy coworker, creep factor 9000, incel, stalker, kidnapping, implied non-con, reader gets drugged, reader held captive and exposed to non-con JO activity (implied), Leon Kennedy goes beast mode, rescue, protective Leon, modern epistolary (texting), there’s a lot of text and phone conversations, long distance relationship building, strangers to friends to lovers, first kiss, happy ending, Leon and his tramp stamp

Notes: This is mainly a strangers-to-friends-to-lovers story, but beware the reader DOES get put in a bit of a traumatic abduction/non-con situation in here. It is not detailed explicitly and there is no forced penetration.

Admittedly, the cafeteria was an easy guess. You should have gone with the sub-basement.

You’re tucked away at a small table near the back, as far from the stairs as you can get. Your second mistake was in parking it within sight of the coffee machine, because that’s the perfect excuse.

Your coworker – fucking Peter – is looming over the chair across from you, running his mouth about some asinine TV show you could give two shits about, gesturing with the paper coffee cup he hasn’t taken a single sip out of. He’s already the jack-in-the-box on the other side of your cube wall. You don't need him to be a second shadow, too.

God, can you have the day back that he spent ignoring you? What would you have to do?

No, strike that, never mind. He’d have to ask you out again. You’re just going to have to get more creative with your escapes.

“Yeah, I’ll definitely give it a watch,” you cut in, pointed focus on your laptop screen, fingers on the keyboard. “I’ll see you back up at the cube farm.”

“Aren’t you on break? You shouldn’t work over your break,” Peter says, and then just keeps on talking. Your stare at your laptop screen goes thousand-yard.

Something moves in your periphery and you follow the distraction. It’s someone at the coffee machine, flipping a cup onto the deck, touching buttons on the menu screen.

Holy christ. It’s not just any someone.

There’s a holstered gun on his hip. He’s built like a brick shithouse, and his shirt’s not pretending otherwise. His sleeves are pushed to his elbows and there’s a deep scratch on his arm, gummy and raw, held shut with butterfly closures. Most of his face is obscured by the fall of his hair but you know exactly who it is.

There’s not a single person in the building who wouldn’t.

⋆｡°✩

When you have five highly important figures as your lovers, getting everyone's schedules to sync up can be a nightmare. Which is why Xavier is over the moon when, not only everyone is free at the same day, but they all put an effort to try and sync their sleep schedule as well.

Everyone knows Xavier's love language is cuddling and sleeping together (yes, the both kinds). He smiles to himself as he gets himself settled in the middle of their huge bed. He knows why they did this and part of him is a little giddy at that. (Long story short: him coming home to a bunch of Lumiere blind boxes at home and a whole week of him sulking about it).

On his right, Caleb holds Zayne close, the doctor fast asleep on Caleb's chest. On his left, Sylus is on his back, absentmindedly petting Valko snuggled up on his side. Sylus's eyes are closed, but Xavier knows he isn't quite asleep yet, knowing his sleep schedule. Rafayel is still outside, finishing up his painting.

⋆｡°✩

In the middle of the night, Xavier stirs awake. Everyone is already asleep, but unfortunately for him, duty calls. He slips out the bed and gets his gear on as quietly as he could. He stretches and yawns before looking back to his lovers on the bed. It's amazing how they managed to fit six tall men in there, courtesy of Sylus's custom made bed and mattress. It's lovely, really, the way each of them always find their way to curl up and snuggle each other, no matter what position they fell asleep in. Xavier's chest swells up with affection. As much as he wants to climb back in bed with them, there are things he needs to do first. And boy, does he want to crawl back in.

"Xavier?!" Rafayel whisper-yells when he opens the bedroom door. "You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing there glowing in the dark like a cryptid?"

Oh. Xavier looks at his reflection on the balcony door. He didn't realize he started softly glowing.

"Sorry," Xavier replies with a smile, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "You finished your painting?"

"Uh, not really. I still need- are you going somewhere? It's like 1 AM."

Xavier nods as he finishes gearing up. He opens the balcony door and the chill breeze of the night makes Rafayel shiver.

"Where exactly do you always go when you leave?" Rafayel asks, almost implying that it's not the first time he (or anyone) has noticed him leaving late at night.

"It's... complicated," is Xavier's only reply, looking to the moon outside.

"What-"

"If either of you wake Valko up, one of you will be responsible in tiring him out again." Sylus's gruff voice cuts through their conversation. His eyes are still closed, arm still wrapped around their little wolf.

Rafayel rolls his eyes but does quiet down. Xavier chuckles and moves to kiss him on the cheek before walking out to the balcony.

Sylus speaks up again, voice still rough but softer this time. "Don't take too long, bunny."

The blanket stirs and Calebs turns around, also chiming in with a sleepy smile. "Call us if you need anything." He waves him off, careful not to disturb Zayne in his arms.

Xavier smiles back, the same affectionate feeling coursing through his body again. Rafayel pulls him for a quick peck on the lips, then playfully pushes him off. "Go on, shoo shoo. Be safe."

Rafayel could only laugh when he sees Xavier glowing again. With another smile and a nod, he jumps off into the night, leaving a trail of glowing lights behind him.

⋆｡°✩

Bonus:

Rafayel closes the door to the balcony, and the room is suddenly quiet once again. He pulls the curtains together when he hears the unmistakable thumping of a restless, fluffy tail on the bed. He doesn't even need to look back to know.

some people really don’t realize how privileged they are that they get fanfics for free. imagine having access to something for free because someone is kind enough to share it with you… and then being rude, entitled and an ungrateful pos to that person who was kind enough to share their creation with you for free

“almost 1 year is a lil too much for me” fuck off. fanfic writers don’t owe you anything. one of my favorite fics was updated after 13 years, and what I did is that I thanked the author for choosing to continue the work, I didn’t act like a spoiled toddler by asking why they didn’t update sooner. and even if a writer chooses to abandon their fic permanently with no explanation, that is their choice, their hobby, their decision. they don’t owe your entitled ass anything.

The decision taken by Infold has not only destroyed trust towards the company, but also damaged relations amongst fans. It was the worst possible choice. It’s not just incompetent, but also foolish, short-sighted, and only leaves the company more vulnerable to further blows of this kind.

There's so many ways that Infold could have handled this, and nuking a character (and by extension the story) cause of some bullshit was the worst way.

Now no one wins. No one. Even the people who think they did, no you didn't.

Infold just proved they don't care about the story or the characters or the fanbase: they care about the money. And made it blatantly obvious.

I'm so sick of having to jump from fanbase to fanbase, game to game, because of shit like this. I finally found a dating sim I actually enjoyed for the first time in a long time and now I can't even comfortably enjoy it cause I don't know what they'll retcon next for other people's enjoyment.

sometimes I’m reminded that there are still people who don’t know ao3 was literally created by incest shippers — and the site’s sole purpose is to 1. be completely against censorship and 2. host all kinds of dark, taboo fics that are banned on other platforms — and the first ever fic that was posted on ao3 was a fic about an incest ship from supernatural.

you are in the house that was created by freaks. for freaks (affectionate). every disgusting thing you can think of is rightfully allowed and welcomed on ao3, because they are exactly the reasons why ao3 was created in the first place.

ao3 was created because its creators got tired of censorship, they got tired of dark and taboo fics getting banned on pro-censorship platforms, and they wanted a place that was safe for ALL FICS THAT WERE DARK AND TABOO.

ao3’s main principle is being against censorship and being proship / profic.

there are some things in fiction that make me uncomfortable, but instead of shaming people who are just minding their own business and not harming anyone in real life, I choose to curate my own internet experience by blocking/muting what I don’t want to see. ao3 has excellent tagging system, so instead of being a bitch, use their tagging system properly and you won’t see the things you don’t want to see.

it’s your job to curate what you see. it’s not other people’s jobs or responsibilities to censor themselves for your personal comfort. the world does not revolve around you.

also you cannot censor “only the things you personally hate” without expecting everything else, that isn’t of conservative beliefs, to be censored too. because censorship is a slippery slope and a fascist tool. I promise you there are people who think “why do tags for queer love even exist on ao3? they’re grooming children”.

if you allow the things that you hate to be censored — because someone with enough power gets to control what other people can and cannot create/consume, it will not stop at the things that you hate.