Bateman Apologist

You don’t think much of Wesker’s office being dark by midday. Even outside of the normal upper management nonsense he has to deal with inside R.P.D., he’s always had something else he tends to, some kind of family thing (You think? You never really got an answer).

You only know he’s out the next day because Brad complains to Joseph about it in the library, something about needing a sign off on reconfiguring Alpha’s helicopter.

“He told Enrico he’s nursing a cold, doesn’t want to spread it unnecessarily.” Joseph shrugs.

“He’s such a germaphobe…”

“I’m not complaining! I have Nas tickets next week, I don’t wanna be sniffling the whole time.”

That makes you think, at least. You hope it isn’t too bad- you’d like to make him a little care package but… you don’t even know where to drop it off. So you pick up a box of nice tea, some chocolate, and a pack of his cigarettes and put them in a little gift bag for when he’s back.

Which is the following day. You almost don’t find out, only in the office because Brad’s wallet had fallen out the previous day. But sure enough, a glance at Wesker’s office reveals the lights are on. You hurriedly go back to the library to grab the little gift bag and deliver it.

You don’t know what’s happened, but you see it on him. His shoulders are just a little too rigid, the normally unexpressive flat line of his lips have pulled down a hair too much. You know instantly this was not just a cold.

He doesn’t move as you come in. He’s motionless, completely still except for his fingers working over his keyboard, typing with a practiced swiftness. In fact- he stills only for a moment, you imagine his eyes darting behind his dark shades as you enter his office, before he resumes his rapid clicking.

“I heard you were sick.” You say as neutrally as you can. “I hope you’re feeling better, Captain.”

You set the bag on his desk- and only then does he move at all. A tiny turn of his head, just enough for him to have looked at the bag- then resumes typing just long enough to finish his next thought. He peaks into the bag-

In the low light, you can’t be sure. But you think the tight line of his mouth loosens, relaxes for a single heartbeat before he carefully places the bag behind his desk, away from prying eyes. “I am feeling better, thank you.” He says it with such profound detachment you wonder if you had imagined that momentary relief. “Was there anything else you needed, archivist?”

“No, Sir. Glad you’re back.” You say as you slip away.

You don’t see him for a few days. You know he’s still making it into the office because Chris tells you so, even complaining that Wesker’s been harder on his reports since his “cold”. But he doesn’t come through the library. No requests left on your days off, no lighters on your desk, no rides home.

When you see him in the hallways, you can’t tell if his eyes follow you. He’s always been subtle, adept at hiding his affection for you. Probably second nature considering he’s a policeman, you wonder if he’s ever been undercover. He’d be good at it, you think.

And you do think about him. You don’t know what changed, what happened. You’d bet dollars to dimes that he wasn’t out sick, but he certainly hasn’t confided in you what really kept him from working. The fear that you’re just not that important to him burns in you, but then he’s never been like the boyfriends you’ll see on T.V.

(and, oh, god, he is your boyfriend, isn’t he? He’s never referred to himself as such, but you are exclusive...)

But he isn’t affectionate like that. Certainly not in public, but even in private he doesn’t touch you in the way you had expected your first boyfriend to. You’ve had no flowery confessions of love or dedication (which is fine! You don’t need that and honestly you might pass out if he did) and when he holds you, it’s less of an embrace and more like he’s posing you, moving you like a mannequin to however he likes (which, honestly, might be better).

This kind of privacy is just an outgrowth of that. He wants more space, more control over things than the boys your age, and that’s alright. It’s maturity. You must believe that he’ll tell you when he’s ready or that he will handle this problem on his own. You do wish he didn’t have to, though.

Nearly a week since you’d seen him last, Wesker enters the library. It’s unfortunate timing, one of the uniformed officers from downstairs returning an evidence box, filling out the more annoying paperwork. You try not to perk up too much, do your absolute best to play it off as just being attentive to who you’ll be helping next. But Wesker keeps walking, sidesteps the check out desk entirely, gives you hardly anything more than a polite nod as he moves towards the door to the main hall.

You wilt- and then you hear it. shnk- click.

You know the noise, your body reacting to it before you can even name it. You press your thighs together and imagine his lips.

You glance over your shoulder, but all you see is his back, his neatly groomed hair and his pale work shirt, faintly wrinkled from the day’s activities. shnk- click. You hear it again, once more, before Wesker reaches for the door knob and exits the library.

You wait, patient and kind and hoping the officer doesn’t notice how twitchy you’ve become as he finishes his forms. You put the box away, set up the sign, and do your best to look normal as you exit the station out the back door once more.

You hear it before you see him, that same shnk- click. As you make your way up the fire escape you see him. Not leaned against the railing this time, no, sitting on one of the sunbleached lawn chairs. In one hand is a cigarette, already half gone, the smoke drifting lazily around him, and in the other is his silver flip-top lighter.

He’s kept the sunglasses on this time, blocking your view of those hypnotic eyes. Even so, you can still see something in the line of his shoulders, his posture over all- his arms braced on his knees instead of his usual stately, composed look.

“Come here,” He says, his voice low and unusually dark.

It’s the stress, you think, he needs some relaxation. You move to him, close enough to stand between his legs- and he pockets the lighter and holds the cigarette between his pale lips-

“Oh!” You gasp as he pulls you forward, just as he had in his office. You’re a little more prepared this time, easier to find your balance on his lap as your legs fold in neatly around his thighs. And, oh, to be touching him again… His warmth seeps into the backs of your thighs, into your hands from where they’ve landed on his shoulders. You’ve missed this. The sparse meetings you’ve had with him since your date have had much less contact, but now-

Wesker catches his cigarette between two fingers again and wastes no time in pulling you to him in a kiss. You’ve gotten much better at this part, you think. You hope. It still gives you butterflies to kiss him at all, but at least you can cup his face and not entirely have a breakdown just because his lips are on yours.

He parts your lips- and exhales. You jolt, but his hand wraps around the base of your skull, keeping your mouth pressed to his. Smoke fills your mouth, and when you inhale in surprise it sinks down into your lungs. The taste is strange, different than when you’d tried to smoke with him, smoother somehow.

It’s his smoke, the drag he just took- some part of him is deep in your chest and the place between your legs pulses at the thought. He pulls away and thin gray tendrils slip from your lips. You want to keep it in you, to hold this piece of him forever, but your lungs burn for fresh air and you breathe him out only because you must.

He hums in approval, fingers running along your jaw before he circles your throat and pulls you to him again. He kisses you, slow and deep, his tongue filling your mouth. Between each he pulls back enough to admire you and your dazed expression and glazed-over eyes.

Another kiss and you rock down against him. He grunts- he makes a noise as though you’ve burned him, pulling away with his upper lip curled back in a snarl. He looks down, where your bodies have slotted together- and you feel it. Shuddering, you dig your fingers into his shoulders, ruffling his shirt as something firm presses against you. A pure chance of the angle, having that part of him prod between your legs, right against that matching part of you.

You whimper, rock against him again- and Wesker exhales, hot and heavy against your throat. “Always so good for me.” The praise makes you squirm again, rubbing your tingling core against him again- and feeling it swell more. His hands find their usual place at your hips as he eases you back off his crotch and down onto his thighs.

He’s stopped you so early, you can’t even complain about it, too enraptured by this new sensation. You stare down between your bodies and see it again, the shape at the front of his pants. Your mouth waters, your fingers twitch and you need.

“Do you want to touch it?” He asks, drawing away to watch your reaction.

At no more than the suggestion, you’re trembling in his lap. You nod, meet his gaze through black glass and plead silently. You do, you really do.

Wesker’s hand, so much bigger than your own, covers yours at his shoulder. Where his are steady, your hands waver, shaking beneath his guidance. You swallow, try to force them to be as cool and unaffected as he is for fear that he’ll see it as not being ready and stop. But you can’t halt the trembling and he doesn’t stop.

He guides your hand down, over his chest and stomach and he pauses there, letting your palm hover over the zip of his pants. You can feel the heat radiating off him even through layers of clothes. You feel your mouth open in silent awe- and Wesker pushes your hand down.

“Oh,” You choke out. You shiver in spite of the heat of him, your pussy soaking your underwear again. It’s so natural to curve your fingers around him- at least, as best they can with his pants in the way. But you get a sense of his size, of the weight of him as he pulses against your skin.

“Mmm, it’s different than yours, hm?” His voice has tightened, a string pulled taut somewhere in him. You nod wordlessly, still just holding him. You want to- to stroke, you think, or to squeeze, but the fear that he’ll make you stop keeps you paralyzed. “Do you like it?”

You nod again, but feel yourself blushing again. You do. You haven’t even seen it, not really, but you like how it feels in your hand, like its warmth, like how his breath catches when it twitches.

“It certainly likes you.” The blush on your cheek turns to a burning, humiliating thing. He likes you. You- you do this to him. Finally you have to duck your head, to look away, even as you squeeze your thighs together and wish he was between them again. He hums, free hand coming up to stroke at your neck. “I think you’re almost ready.” He finally pulls your hand off of himself. You think he’ll drop it, but instead turns it out so he can see your delicate inner wrist- and kisses there, right on your pulse. “Soon.” He promises.

Your legs desperately squeezing at his thighs to no avail, nothing giving you the extra pressure your body craves so badly. You shudder again and nod because it’s all you can do. Yes, soon, yes, so long as he does it. You breathe through the surge of desire and he holds you-- with a careful distance between your bodies-- as you calm down.

When you can finally look at him again, you bring your hands up to his neck again, lacing them behind his head and toying with the thin blonde hairs that rest there. You can’t read his expression-- eyes guarded and his mouth is back to that singular, flat line-- but you do enjoy the residual pinkness that dusts the tops of his cheeks. And, you note as a smile leaks across your face, his shoulders have loosened up.

“Did it have to be a scary movie?” Brad asks, mouth twisted.

“I told you, it’s horror night.” Joseph says, tapping on the VHS’s case. On the dust jacket, a white outline holds a bloodied knife.

“Yeah, but I thought you meant good horror.” Chris says over the raucously popping corn before him. “I was expecting, like Halloween or The Exorcist.”

Joseph frowns sharply. “What do you have against Jason?”

“Joe, he’s not even in the first one!” Forest holds his face in his hands.

Chris has upgraded his home a bit since the last movie night, including squeezing a loveseat into his living room so Joseph and Brad aren’t relegated to the floor and/or kitchen stools. He’s even cleaned up, having been designated host of the newly dubbed S.T.A.R.S. (et al.) Cinephile Collective. You don’t actually have to love movies, Chris had impressed this upon you, you just have to want to hang out for 2-6 hours depending on movie selection, number of movies, and how quickly Chris can get the popcorn going. Today, they’re running late. Barry wasn’t sure if he could make it, before finally canceling- something with the wife.

“Fine, then what do you have against Mrs. Voorhees?” Joseph rolls his eyes. “I brought part two, also.”

“First off, Pamela Voorhees isn’t remotely co-”

“First name basis, Forest?” Jill heckles him. “You looking to replace Mr. Voorhees?”

Forest grimaces, twisting his face up in disgust. “Don’t even joke about it. As I was saying, she’s just not compelling and-”

“Fuck.” Brad mutters, dropping his head over the back of the loveseat.

“What’s up?” You ask quickly. Even among friends, you can’t entirely let go of that pang of anxiety.

“I forgot something in the report I turned in today. Ugh, Wesker’s gonna make me redo the whole thing tomorrow.”

“I have to know how you got from Mrs. Slasher Mom to whatever is in your paperwork.” Forest says.

For you, however, your ears perk up for an entirely different reason. The words come out easier than you expect. “How- how’s he doing? I heard he had that cold…”

Chris finally rejoins everyone in the living room, handing out oversized bowls full of oversalted popcorn. “Not sick, but damn does he need some time off. I asked if he wanted to join us, but he gave me the usual no thank you without even looking up from his monitor.” You do have to give it to him, his imitation of Wesker’s unplaceable accent is spot-on.

“It’ll never happen. We’ve worked with him for two full years, never seen him take a vacation, he’s only gone out with us, what, once?” Jill shakes her head.

“Twice,” Chris corrects. “Once we got him to the bar, but the other-”

“Oh! After someone pulled the fire alarm, right?” Brad jumps in.

“Does that even count?” Jill asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Wait, what happened?” You ask.

“So, like, a year ago, some dipshit perp manages to slip his cuffs and tries to run away- in the middle of the precinct, mind you- and gets the bright idea to pull the alarm as a distraction.” Forest starts-

And Chris seamlessly picks up, “He gets grabbed of course, but the fire department still has to come down. Policy, right? Now, if you don’t know, the Fire Marshall hates Chief Irons. So he makes a big show of how the entire building has to be evacuated while his crew sweeps it, top to bottom.”

“Three floors.” Joseph emphasizes. “Shit took hours.”

“So, while the whole S.T.A.R.S. office meets up at the parking garage, I suggest we head over to Kendo’s and have a little competition.”

“And lucky for Forest here, Kendo was out taking his lunch break, so no-go.”

“I suggest we go get lunch at that new burger place,” Jill says, waving a hand after a moment- “But basically everyone else who got evicted had the same idea. So we wind up at this hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese place for lunch.”

“And you know the captain, he’s all nothing to be done about it and they’re just being thorough. Like he’s not drinking his coffees as fast as the waitress can put ‘em down and white knuckling the mug the whole time between.” Chris shrugs. “But! It was socializing with the team when he could’ve just taken a nap in his car.”

“Genuinely, the best nap of my life.” Brad nods.

“Yeah. He’s always been tightly wound, but this last week or two has been really bad.” Chris sighs- followed quickly by Brad, already mourning his plans for tomorrow.

“Any reason why?” You prod. It’s risky, you think, being so interested in him… but it shouldn’t be too obvious. Right? It’s a natural conversation topic, when so many of your friends have the same boss, his mood will affect them and you want them to be happy, right?

“He’s been stifling yawns when he thinks we aren’t looking.”

“I mean, it’s not a last two weeks thing, but you’ve noticed Irons keeps dropping by, right?” Joseph asks, “I wonder if he’s putting pressure on Wesker for something…”

“For what though? We’re all in good condition, we’ve had no incidents or unsolved files, hell, Irons don’t even have to worry about funding us.” Jill scowls, looks like she’s about to say something else, but is cut off by Brad.

“Hey, this isn’t work time. I’m already gonna get my ass reamed tomorrow. Let’s watch some movies, okay?”

You nod, apologizing softly for keeping them all distracted. Chris waves his hand dismissively before pointing at Joseph. “Put in Part 2, let’s get some real Jason going.”

Stifling yawns. That is the part that kept your attention. You think about it all night, picturing his pale eyes with those dark bags beneath. His tense shoulders and meetings with Irons and oh, you don’t even know. He’s stressed, you know that much and there’s so little you can do for him.

But there is something.

It’s a gamble, of course. The team had said he hasn’t disappeared again, has been meticulously on time, in his office, every day since his cold, but that doesn’t inherently mean he’ll be in again today. You certainly hope so, because waking up early and then lugging the big carton of coffee and bundle of paper cups all the way from the cafe to the station, up the stairs, and all the way down the hall, all by hand has been really unpleasant.

The lights in the main office being off was disheartening. You could at least leave the coffee there, the rest of the S.T.A.R.S. will enjoy it when they come in. But a half-turn, and you can’t help but smile. Light illuminates his office, slipping through the drawn blinds. He’s in early again. Your gamble has paid off.

You don’t ask, just lever the carafe onto one of the side desks and immediately pour Wesker a cup. You knock softly on his office door- and receive no response.

Your good mood vanishes- what if he’d simply left his lamp on? The possibility is just as absurd as him not acknowledging someone knocking on his door.

You try the knob- and it’s unlocked. Now this, this really baffles you.

Slowly, you open the door, peering inside. The angle isn’t quite right; you see the side windows and the couch he’s got pushed up against the corner. You call out softly, “Sir?”

He doesn’t respond. You push the door open more.

The first thing you notice is that Wesker’s chair is empty. The second thing you notice is that that’s not entirely true. You can see the entire black, cushioned back to the chair but when you look down you find him. He’s almost flattened against the desk. One arm is stretched out, one leg of his sunglasses still held loosely between his fingers. The other is folded into a miserable pillow for himself, his head resting along the bend of his elbow.

You don’t dare even breathe.

He does, you note. His back, in the same shirt from yesterday, rises and falls in steady rhythm, the noise almost silent. You step to the side to get a better view of him- and realize his hair has just begun to fall out of its usually strict placement; loose strands along his brow and temples have fallen free, draping lazily across his skin. His mouth is open, just barely, and you grin at the thought of him, the untouchable, pristine Captain Wesker doing something so painfully human as drooling in his sleep.

But his eyes catch your attention. Closed like this, you first take the moment to admire those pale eyelashes, almost invisible where they rest on his cheeks. More painful, however, are the dark bags. Huge shadowing pools that still sink in beneath the hard line of his cheekbones.

How late was he here? Late enough to have fallen asleep at his desk, obviously, but this… it looks worse than one night of overwork. And with how Chris and the others have described it, he’s been doing this for some time..

You step closer and this time, don’t restrain yourself. Your fingers card through his hair just above his ear, pressing a few of those loose strands back into place, but realistically just dislodging more as you break apart the dried product in his hair. “Wesker?”

He jolts- eyes snapping open, his extended arm scrabbling back, back towards his waist-

“Just me,” You whisper, stroke through his hair again as his mind finally processes what’s going on.

He leans back slowly, blinking repeatedly as his eyes come into focus. He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, then checks his watch. “My apologies, I must’ve-”

“It’s alright,” You say- and all the while your hand still slips through his locks. You’ve never touched him quite like this. Sure, you’ve cupped his head and ran your fingers through his fine, well-groomed hair, but not like this. It was always when he was kissing you or teasing you or any other kind of… of intimacy. And never because you initiated it. He always seemed… above these little displays. But he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t lean away. “I brought you coffee.”

He looks at the still steaming cup. Without his glasses you can see it, his cold eyes pinching together, the gears turning in his mind. Still loading, not quite awake yet, you think. Or considering something.

“Movie night ran late, so I brought a box for the whole team.” You assure him of your meager attempt at concealment. “You just got to it first.”

Your fingers again run through his hair at his temple, this time you sweep your thumb along the shell of his ear- and this time Wesker’s eyes soften. Just a fraction of a second, one of those expressions so faintly there you worry you’ve hallucinated it, but his eyelids drop an extra millimeter and go so slightly unfocused. He takes the coffee, holding it in his hands and staring into the dark liquid.

“Thank you.” He’s said it before; he’s polite. But he says it so tenderly, you think this is the first time he has maybe really meant it.

Your heart swells and you pet over his ear again, just to watch that same reaction happen. “Are you alright?”

The moment is over. His expression flattens, pulls tautly into that serious, neutralness. He sips the coffee and closes his eyes, not in relaxation, but to shut you out. He lifts his sunglasses, shifting his head away from you just enough to dislodge your hand in his hair. “I’m fine, dear. I stayed late and must have fallen asleep.”

You frown, slowly dropping your hand. “Wesker… what’s going on?”

“I’m consulting on a difficult case. I overworked myself; I’ll be more attentive.” He assures you, but all you can focus on is how rehearsed it sounds. He grabs your hand, brings the knuckles up to his mouth and kisses them. His lips are chapped, but warm from the coffee. It still makes your stomach flutter, despite everything.

Your frown doesn’t dissipate. You want to ask how long he’s been consulting; if Chris’s recount has been right, it’s been some time that he’s been wound up. You step in close to him again and cup his jaw. He lets you, all the while his smug little grin curls at his lips. It’s not quite as powerful while his hair is still mussed and his shirt is rumpled from having been slept in.

“Okay.” He’s too private. You know he won’t answer, won’t tell you anything. It’s all you can do. “Just… tell me if I can help you, okay? I… I’d like to help, if I can.” At least you know he appreciates the gift, that thank you will feed you through whatever challenge it is he’s facing alone. Even if he doesn't have to.

The grin falters and Wesker squeezes your wrists fondly. “I will, dear.”

Chris’s Jeep is a mess. Old paper bags of fast food, empty soda cans, miscellaneous papers. He blushes bright red as he shoves his gym bag into the back so you can take the passenger seat. It’s funny, you think, how Wesker’s time in the military made him so orderly and clean, while Chris’s time in the air force resulted in this.

“Sorry,” He laughs awkwardly. He turns the key- and the engine sputters. “For fuck’s sake.” he mutters, easing off, then trying again until it finally rumbles to life. “So, how’s records keeping treating you?”

You could tell him the generic stuff: chasing down late books, an awkward and desperate fingerwagging you had to give the officer in the east wing who keeps forgetting to sign the chain of custody logs (you almost cried the whole time, but you’re pretty sure you’d both be fired if he kept not doing it), how you’re almost done with cleaning the lower floor now- but none of that is right.

Normally, you’d use this as a chance to fish for how Wesker is doing, it’s been another week since you left him his coffee and you’ve only seen him once. He drove you home, but he couldn’t even walk you to your door. My apologies, dearheart. I have to catch up on some research. You wanted to ask if it was his consulting thing again, but you already knew. And you know now, if you ask if Wesker’s eased up on Chris, the answer will be no. He’s still overextended, in the building before the sun is up and still there long after everyone else leaves.

Instead, there is something else that you want to ask about. It feels silly. Even in the isolation of the library, the rumor mill eventually pulls you in. It’s not hard to overhear, one delivery to the first floor and everyone is talking about it. Some in hushed tones, some brazenly. But they can’t be serious, right?

“Actually… I was curious if you knew anything about the, um, this… cannibal thing.”

Chris’s smile drops. “It’s a damn mess.” The old Jeep sputters again as Chris navigates out of the parking garage, out onto the street. “Brass is trying to keep it quiet, saying it’s just a bear or something, but those bites were definitely human.”

The blood drains from your face. “So it’s… real?”

Chris glances over at you, clocking your growing distress. “Yeah… but, she was out hiking alone. We call that a crime of opportunity. It’s disgusting, but nothing to worry about, okay?” He squeezes your shoulder, giving you that smile that makes it hard to stay afraid.

“Good.” You say slowly, nodding, then cringe. “I mean- not good, but-”

Chris laughs, “No, I know what you mean.” He squeezes again, presses the comfort into you before retracting his hand to turn onto his street. “What movie do you think Brad got this time?”

You think for a moment, then groan. “As much as he hates horror, I bet it’ll be something with cannibals or the woods.”

“Yup. My bet’s Evil Dead.”

Thankfully, it wasn’t Evil Dead; Brad had a little more tact than that.

It was Silence of the Lambs.

The consensus after the movie was unanimous. The forest cannibal was probably some freak high out of his mind, completely brain-melted on meth. And as unnerving as that is, it is still much, much preferable to the cold, manipulative gaze of Hannibal Lecter and his siren song for Clarice.

The first of June comes without fanfare. The summer heat has just begun rolling in and in a big station like this, one built before the modern joys of air conditioning, you’re left with little option, especially for an inner room like the library. You prop both doors open, trying to get any air movement and plug in a small fan on the checkout counter. Still, when you have to go upstairs, you can feel the heat. You hope those windows outside the S.T.A.R.S. office open.

The warmth leaves you drowsy, sluggish. You clean the downstairs half-heartedly, mostly just reshelving books. If it’s like this all summer, you don’t know how you’ll get anything done. Not that there’s exactly a backlog for you to work through anymore, but the continued realization that your job really is fundamentally sitting at a desk and doing nothing until someone else shows up remains baffling. You keep expecting someone to show up and tell you everything you’re doing wrong, that you’re ruining some elaborate plan by spending your hours wiping down bookshelves and re-alphabetizing, but it has yet to happen.

Maybe you’ll beat this imposter syndrome thing yet.

For once, you hear him before you see him. The booming noise of the main hall flows into the library with the door open, but it doesn’t quite mask the sound of heavy footsteps. You gather a law reference book into your arms and watch as Chief Irons rounds the corner.

He seems startled that you’re already aware of him, but grins quickly, his white teeth glittering under his mustache. “Knock knock.”

“Good morning, Chief.” You greet as politely as you can. You never did get comfortable with him. That bad feeling is no more than background radiation. Something that you note, that makes a cold sweat bead at the back of your neck and you feel guilty about it existing at all.

He’s all teeth and squinty, beady eyes. His cheeks are rosy red from the heat, but it makes it look like he’s blushing deeply. “Morning to you, our little librarian.”

Your lips twist. It’s such a petty thing, but you do hate when people who should know get your title wrong.

“Can I help you with anything, sir?”

“Yes, actually. I wanted to double check some paperwork for a case.”

“Yeah sure.” You almost sigh. A normal request. “Do you have the number?”

“The Joe Frankfort case.” Irons says. You still. He must misinterpret it as confusion, as he clarifies: “The Redfield shooting case.”

“Oh.” Is all you can manage. You clutch the law book tighter. “But I thought it was closed.”

Irons smiles again, the kind that you give kids who can’t stop asking why, a pitying, tiresome sort of thing. “It is. I just wanted to make sure all the paperwork is filed correctly.”

Wesker. It has to be about Wesker. The thought pains you. Joseph said he was riding Wesker hard about something, it must be this. Even with the case closed and ruled as justified, he won’t let up. There’s nothing you can do about it now… You can only hope that Wesker is as meticulous as you think and that the Chief won’t find any ammunition there.

Reluctantly you go to the files room. Recent as it is, it’s near the front of the current cabinet. Considering the severity of the incident, the file is somewhat sparse. You flip through, not sure what to expect. Most of the contents are focused on Chris’s actions, less so on the kidnapping that necessitated it. You thumb over the picture of Chris paper-clipped to the left side, right next to Frankfort.

Nothing to do about it, you think. Nothing you can do could save Wesker or Chris from whatever Irons wants. You feel so… useless. Reduced down to the ball of anxiety that crawls in your belly.

You return to find Irons milling about behind the checkout counter. As the Chief of Police he’s allowed there, of course, but it still feels wrong, a sort of violation. That was your space now.

“Is that it?” He asks, motioning towards the file under your arm.

Ah, right. You were staring. Embarrassment makes your cheeks heat up again, but you hand over the file. You expect him to sign it out and leave, but no. Irons hums as he flips through the pages, examining whatever he’s looking for right here in the library. It makes you cringe internally. You really would rather he not stay…

“You work awfully hard.”

You blink, looking up at him again. “Pardon?”

Irons grins and you realized too late you’ve entered a conversation you don’t want to have. One of his eyebrows raises as he speaks, “I said ‘you work awfully hard’. Are you trying to impress someone?”

“N-no, I… I just like to keep busy…” Your cheeks burn at the acknowledgement, at being seen at all. It’s your job, nothing more--

“That so?”

Your heart sinks. Impress someone? Here, at the station? Did… Did Irons know? You look at his face again- and see it. His grin is too sharp, his eyes up-turned in a way more menacing than pleased.

“Could’ve fooled me.” He says, closing the file and holding it under his arm. “What do you do for fun, then?”

Your blood turns to ice. Is he… is he fishing for information on you and Wesker? He doesn’t know definitively… or he can’t prove it. You swallow, feel your lips trembling, pressure growing at the corner of your eyes as you struggle not to tear up. “I, um. I- not- not much? I l-like to read. Um. A-and I w-watched movies with the- the S.T.A.R.S. team. Sometimes.”

“Ah, I should’ve expected you to be a bit of a homebody.” He says, low and much too familiar. Your skin crawls. Leave. You want to leave- “Look at that, speak of the devil…”

You don’t want to look away from him, as if doing so much as glancing over your shoulder will have him lunging for you- but you don’t have to. Because you didn’t hear his footsteps over the elevated noise from the main hall, but you will always know his voice.

“Chief Irons.” Wesker says and in two words you can already feel the tension in his voice. It’s polite, perfectly so, but you know him well enough now to tell that chord of self-control pulled taut. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all, Captain Wesker.” Your blood turns to ice, Irons matching his tone. “I was just about to tell our dear librarian about the parties at city hall. You know, the ones with the mayor and the community board members from Umbrella?” Irons tips his head back, looks down his nose. “You both work too hard. You should bring our librarian to the next meeting and have a good time.”

Everything about this sounds awful. A party that Irons enjoys cannot be something you would enjoy. But a party at city hall with… with not just strangers, but strangers who all but run Raccoon City… You don’t understand any of this. Why would Irons be harassing Wesker about work and then invite you both out? Is it some kind of goad…?

“Maybe next time.” Wesker replies coolly, suddenly right beside you- close enough you can feel the heat off his body. A different kind of sweat beads at the back of your neck, somehow feeling more trapped than you had two minutes ago; despite all the trust you hold in Wesker, you’re stuck in a cage with two wild animals.

The Chief hums, the smile finally falling from his face as he twists his lips, his mustache warping beneath his nose. All his faux good mood fades, removed like a mask. “Too bad. You really should join us sometime, Wesker. You’d have some fun for once.” He waves the folder towards you. “Thanks for this, hon.”

“O-of course, sir…” Your voice comes out small, faint under the veiled weight between them.

The chief nods at Wesker, then leaves exactly as he came through the propped open door. You stare out it for a moment, waiting for the unaddressed tension to dissipate. It doesn’t. Even without looking at Wesker, you can feel the waves of pressure rolling off of him. You swallow, trying to get your nerve up before you do finally turn towards him.

On the surface, he looks almost normal. You can see it, though. His lips held a little too tight, the muscle at his jaw twinging.

“Wesker….?” You keep your voice quiet, almost lost beneath the din of the main hall. His gaze shifts, and only then do you realize he, too, had still been staring out the open door.

“Come here.” Is all you hear before Wesker’s hand is at the small of your back. It’s not a suggestion, all but pushing you into the first step before you’re struggling to keep his brisk pace.

“Wh-what?” You start, but don’t bother finishing. You don’t even know what you mean to ask: What he was doing? What was wrong? It doesn’t matter. He guides you forward, to the stairs and then up them. He doesn’t stop at the top, still pushing you, further and further. Then- his hand slides, dragging you along as he pulls you into an aisle upstairs, as far as possible from the main door.

Wesker turns you- and steps closer. You instinctively step back- and find your shoulder blades pressed to the wall. Cornered. The lamps above don’t quite make it into this row of shelves, leaving his features in heavy, obscuring shadows. Still, his expression has not changed- carefully neutral, his guard is up.

“I need to know,” He speaks slowly, emphasizing each word so your frazzled mind can follow along. “Exactly what he said to you.”

Your lips twist and you struggle to recall a conversation that was only minutes ago. “Um. He, uh… He wanted the file on Chris’s shooting. S-said he was checking some of the- the paperwork.” In a meek attempt to self-comfort, you wrap your arms around yourself, “He- he’s after you for something, isn’t he?”

“Is that everything he said?”

“He, um… I think he knows about us.” You can’t bear to look at him, your gaze dropping to his neatly laced boots. “He- he asked if I was trying to impress someone and then asked what I do for fun. But you walked in right after that.”

Wesker’s hands land on your shoulders and he leans down, his face almost level with yours. “Listen to me very carefully. Brian Irons is dangerous. Do not trust anything he says and do not go anywhere with him.”

Dangerous. You exhale- and though you should be afraid, all you can think of is I knew it. You didn’t believe yourself, spent so much time feeling guilty for having judged him of nothing. But he’s dangerous-

“Dear?” Wesker’s fingers are at your chin, drawing your gaze back up to his face.

“Yeah.” You swallow, try to rewet your dry mouth. You don’t even know what kind of dangerous he means. “What do we do?”

“I can handle him.”

“But he knows.” You pick at your nails, the reality starting to really sink in. You had to keep quiet because it would impact your job… but if the chief knew then… you’re going to be fired, aren’t you?

“I can handle him.” Wesker repeats, “You can trust me.”

Reflected in his black glass, all you can see is yourself, your wide, tear-rimmed eyes, your mouth drawn in tight, and the high pinch of your brows. But you do trust him, you do. He hasn’t hurt you, has spent so much effort to make sure he’s doing right by you and not rushing you. How can you not trust him?

You close your eyes and lean forward. Wesker meets you halfway, letting you rest your head on his chest. His hands sweep across your back in slow, soothing strokes up and down your spine. You don’t cry, as much as you feel like you have to, just melt into his embrace. Safe- that’s what it is. You feel safe here.

“The party he mentioned. With… with people from Umbrella. They fund S.T.A.R.S.” Wesker shifts beneath you, urges you back just enough to see your face again. “He’s threatening your job, isn’t he?”

One corner of Wesker’s mouth quirks up. His hands slide up, one settling at your jaw and the other over your throat. His long fingers curl there, wrapping protectively around you. His tone changes: “Is my sweet pet worried for me?”

Your cheeks burn at the name, eyes dropping away from him. It shouldn’t make your stomach flip, but it’s still a compliment and when he uses that voice, the low and teasing one, you think he could call you anything at all and you’d still be squirming. Not knowing if it’s a real question, you nod slowly.

Wesker hums- and again draws your face up. This time, he leans down and greets you with a kiss. The first is chaste, a comforting thing that has you fully relaxing into him in seconds. The second is heated. He licks into your mouth with fervor, his teeth catching your lower lip and you can only lean back against the wall, your legs naturally falling apart. You want him there, to make that space between your legs hot and aching. Even if you find no relief, you want him.

He greedily takes the invitation, stepping forward- but where you expect his thigh to press against your sex, his hand takes its place. He cups you, gentle at first as your eyes widen at this new stepping stone. It’s fair, you think, since you had felt him through his clothes before. The memory brings a fresh wave of heat between your legs- and Wesker squeezes softly.

A whine pries itself from your chest and you cling to his shoulders. His fingers curl; no longer is it the broad pressure, now it’s so much more precise. He circles there slowly, leaning in over you, his breath fanning over your face.

“You want more, don’t you, dear?” His voice has dropped, a dark whisper that makes your heart stutter. You nod, mindless except for how your hips move against his fingers. “You want me to touch you?”

That makes you whine and dig your fingernails into his arms, nodding again-

“Ask for it nicely,” He gives a shuddering exhale and you know he’s trying to rein himself in. “and I may just give it to you.”

You’ve wanted for so long. So, so long. Had it only been his thigh against you, maybe you wouldn’t have the nerve. But with him stroking you like this, his fingers so close to what you want- “I- please, w- would you t-touch me, Sir?”

Wesker’s jaw sets, his lips curling back in a snarl and he groans. You don’t even realize he’s moved until your world is spinning, twirled in his arms like nothing more than a doll- until his back is against the wall and your chest is to his back. You reach out, hold onto him for support- until he grabs both of your wrists in one hand and holds them to the hollow of your chest. All you can really follow is that the fingers that had been caressing between your legs have moved elsewhere.

You whine, rubbing back against him-- and gasp when you feel it. Any question of what exactly it was is answered thoroughly: Wesker laughs, that dark, teasing noise, right next to your ear and he grinds his hips on your ass.

His- his dick. He’s hard for you again. It’s always different, knowing something in an objective sense against the physical reality of it- and the reality of it is like a jolt of T.V. static across your brain. It leaves you dazed, panting, and pressing back against him in curious, inexperienced movements. Wesker raises his free hand- lifts it up past you, over your shoulder- and you hear velcro ripping.

You twist in his arms and see it: The band of his glove is caught in his teeth as he pulls it open, loosening it until he can shake it off entirely, falling to the library floor between you. His hand, now entirely exposed for all its pale skin and dark-veined glory, wastes no time in going back between your legs. He pops the button to your pants and delves beneath. He slips over your underwear- and groans as he rubs across the slick, soaked fabric.

You expect this to be the new line: a new furthest step in physicality. But Wesker, for once, doesn’t stop. He withdraws only enough to slip beneath your underwear this time and slides along your outer lips. He pets there only a moment before slipping between.

You shudder, dropping your head back onto Wesker’s shoulder. It’s different, so very different than your own timid explorations. His fingers are larger than yours, rougher, calloused. You’re so wet, he glides effortlessly along the whole length of your slit, down around your entrance that suckles at his fingertips greedily, up between your folds, and finally-

“Oh,” A strangled noise escapes your lips, a strained thing that leaves your jaw slack. Wesker circles your clit in unhurried, exploratory motions and all you can do is melt in his arms. Never, it has never felt like this. Maybe it’s that you can’t predict his movements, or that you’re held so tightly to him that you have no choice but to feel each movement rather than be in your head- but it is different. Each stroke makes your knees weak, your hips meeting each motion.

Wesker hums in consideration. Your ear on his chest makes the noise reverberate through your brain- which all but turns to white noise as Wesker switches over to a short up and down pattern, petting over the root of your clit. “You’ve been good for me, haven’t you, my dear? So patient.” He purrs as you nod blindly, eagerly soaking up the praise. His fingers still, leaving a light pressure. You whine and grind against his fingers, desperately trying to make him start again. “Do you deserve my attention, pet?”

Deserve? How could you possibly know if you deserve him? You look at him. You want to plead with him, to glean any understanding from his eyes, but find only the black gloss of his sunglasses and your own fearful reflection. It isn’t for you to decide what you deserve. Your voice trembles: “I don’t know.”

Wesker grins, all sharp, white teeth. “You do. This time.” And his fingers resume their dance. You shudder, eyes almost rolling back as liquid heat follows his every touch. Wesker groans and drops his head forward- and you almost think he’s headbutting you until you realize you’re staring into those glittering blue eyes, his sunglasses pushed up onto the top of his head.

“Have you touched yourself like this?” He asks, and your cheeks burn. You squeeze your eyes closed, hiding from the shame of it- is there a right answer? Does he have a preference? but the fear of him stopping again keeps you docile, honest. You nod and Wesker rewards it with moving a little faster. The hand holding your wrists presses closer, pushing your arms into your chest- and Wesker grinds his cock lazily into your ass.

You shudder, roll your hips back against him just to feel the shape of him. He’s touching you and enjoying it… Your fingers twitch, wanting to hold him in return, to… to touch him, if he’d let you- but you can’t bear to ask. This is already beyond anything you’ve ever felt, the electric drag of his finger across your clit- until it moves. You whimper softly as he slips down along your folds again, down to your entrance.

“And here?” His voice rumbles against your ear. He circles there, just barely dipping inside.

You breath catches, the thought of him being inside-- You nod slowly, “Y-yeah, b-but…” You bite your lip, the edge of anxiety chewing through the heat that fogs your mind. It feels stupid to admit, immature. “I didn’t… like it…”

“Mm, my poor pet.” He coos- and your legs tremble. The way he talks to you- like you’re some pitiful thing. “Let me show you.” He presses in.

You can’t breathe.

Your jaw falls open, but no noise leaves your mouth as his finger pushes into you. Bigger than your fingers, he opens you up around him, reaches deeper inside. You feel your walls clenching around him, not sure if your body should push out this new intrusion or draw him closer. It’s… strange. A fullness inside, so much more intense than your own explorations. He rubs inside, the sensation uncanny but not bad.

“Tell me how it feels.” You hear the smirk in his voice and you crack your eyes open to confirm it. He’s twisted just enough to watch your face, his blue eyes darkened, a pinkness coating his cheeks.

“I…” You start- and he curls his finger more, rubbing even harder inside you. Your voice breaks, fading into a whining drone. “It f-feels… I don’t know.”

Wesker hums again, that pleased noise leaving you putty-like in his arms. It’s only worsened when he begins to slide his finger out- you worry, for a moment, that you weren’t eager enough, weren’t ready- but Wesker pushes back in. It makes you shiver, the slow drag on your insides, the emptiness he leaves behind and the fullness on each return. Each motion winds a spool inside you, a kind of tension beneath your skin.

It’s strange, feeling him moving inside you, feeling the heat of him surrounding you, his chest pressed to your back, one arm corralling both of yours. He’s everywhere, all around you- his cologne and the twinge of musk and sweat on him smothering out any intelligent thought. Drowning in him, that’s what you wanted- and he’s giving it to you, flooding your senses and you hope he never stops.

Which he does, of course. He withdraws entirely this time and you whine pitifully, pressing your head back against him in the only plea you can manage. But he wasn’t aiming for that cruel denial. He adjusts his hand and this time presses two of his fingers into you. Two of those large, calloused fingers pushing, bullying their way back inside. It’s tight, your walls clinging to him despite how wet you are. All you can do is keen and cringe at the discomfort. He starts moving again, curling them inside you, forcing your pussy to open up for him and you hiss.

Teeth clenched, all you’ve got is a strained, “Wesker.”

“Too much?” The smirk hasn’t left his voice, no gentleness in his words. He likes that you’re struggling. All you can do is purse your lips and look at him, nodding, begging silently for him to have mercy. He meets your eyes and spreads his fingers inside you- a pinch of pain bolts through you, your walls spasming- and Wesker laughs as your legs twitch, your thighs squeezing together around his wrist. “My poor pet. Here.”

And all the soreness, all the discomfort fades as he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit. Your breath stutters, that white-hot liquid pleasure once again pouring from between your legs, not just erasing the strangeness of his fingers inside you, but enhanced by it. He rocks his hand on a rhythm, every stroke against your clit matched by his fingers pumping into you. It blanks out your mind again, leaves you panting, choking off an “Oh,” as you again melt onto him.

Wesker purrs. His eyes, already darkened with lust, drop down along your body. He grinds against your ass again, falling into rhythm with his fingers. “Tell me how it feels.” He prompts you again.

“It’s…” You start, staring up into his eyes. It’s mystical, seeing those blue eyes- nearly black with how wide his pupil has expanded- while he’s working you into mindlessness. “It’s good…” You sigh, more complicated thoughts escaping you. All you know is him and his touch and that you never want this to end.

He grins, his eyes half-lidded as he watches you surrender so wholly to his touch. He could leave you like this, like he has so many times before. Hot and wet between your legs, the desire burning inside you with no hope of relief; your hands weren’t enough before and now, having known his touch? You’ll never be the same. If he stops now, you don’t know if you’d survive it. He grinds the heel of his palm down and you whine softly, meeting the weight of his hand greedily.

Your breaths turn to pants, your hips tuning into his rhythm, forward into his fingers and palm, and back against the hard line of his cock. And the heat inside you grows, creeping along your skin. Each beat of your heart, every one of his soft grunts and it’s smoldering embers in your belly, a tingling heat that radiates out into every vein. It’s good, a raw pleasure- and it’s too much.

“Wesker…” You start again, your voice wobbling through a moan. You flex your fingers again, try to force thoughts into words: “It’s… I feel… weird…”

“Are you close?” He asks- and you don’t understand. You look to him again, searching for any kind of guidance: is this normal? Is it supposed to feel like you’re burning up from the inside out? But whatever Wesker sees in your face, he doesn’t answer with coherency. His brows raise and his even tempo finally skips a beat. “Never?” His voice has turned breathless in an instant. Something flashes in his eyes, a glint that for a moment makes you afraid.

But then Wesker is growling and his mouth latches onto your ear lobe. His teeth catch and you whine- but his fingers move faster in you, harder and any recognition of pain fades away. His mouth breaks away with a wet pop, only for him to move lower, lips sealing over the side of your throat and he bites. It hurts and it makes you clench down which only makes the motion of his fingers inside you more acute.

You squirm in his arms, but his grasp on your wrists and the arm that crosses your torso are too strong. You’re pinned, helpless to but to endure the ceaseless sensation of it all- his teeth and the heel of his palm and you can’t stand it-- “Wesker, please!”

His jaw unclenches and with the hand that still binds your wrists he forces you to look up at him again. There’s no mercy in his eyes. “Come on,” He grunts and shifts his wrist- and draws another agonized noise from your chest as he rubs back and forth across your clit. “Let go for me.”

How? It’s all too much, the heat inside you will burn you, torch you to ashes and leave nothing left. Your eyes water and you think I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-

“Don’t you want to be good for me, hm?”

You sob. You do, you do, but you don’t know how. He’s rubbing inside you and your throat still hurts and he’s grinding against your ass still and- your breath catches. His wrist twitches, presses on you just right-

Wesker sees it. He does it again- and again- and all it takes is three of those perfect strokes. The heat burns; the fire is all consuming. Your mind goes perfectly, blissfully blank except for the raw, unfiltered pleasure that fills every nerve, every sense. You choke through some broken wail. Wesker holds you through it, keeps on sliding his fingers in and out as your body tries so hard to clamp down on him.

You’re shuddering in his arms, almost boneless, held up against his chest- and as you float back into your own skin, you watch Wesker’s eyes close. His brow comes into a tight pinch, his jaw setting. His grasp across you tightens and he thrusts against you, his hips working against yours in quick, sharp movements. Until he huffs, groans low and deep through grit teeth and finally stills.

You stay like that. Melted against him, him half leaning on you as you each pant, sharing each other’s breath. You want to stay like this forever, you think. Warm and safe in his arms, still adrift on the aftermath of… that. Of him, you decide. Perhaps not standing, though. What you wouldn’t give for your own bed right now.

Finally, Wesker must’ve caught his breath. He lets go of your arms first, though they are still limp and useless when he lets go, dropping lamely to your sides. Then he moves the other hand. You hiss, turn your face into his shoulder as he fights to draw his fingers out of your overly sensitive body. And yet without him there you feel… hollow. Incomplete.

He holds the hand up- and shame makes you close your eyes, turn entirely into his shoulder to block the image. A clear web of your own slick coats his fingers, dripping down onto his palm.

“My, my. You made quite the mess.” He says, still breathless.

You whine, refusing to look at him or his hand. Until, of course, you hear it. A wet slurp makes you have to see, to know. A single peak back at the world and you’re met with Wesker’s lips wrap around his own fingers, licking them clean.

You’re speechless. Another wave of heat passes through you, but you’re far too exhausted to entertain it.

“Should clean up. I’m sure you’ve got work to get back to.” He says, but you can’t bring yourself to move just yet, nor does he really remove you from him.

You know you should. You know he’s busy and you’re remotely aware of the concept of you shouldn’t be doing this here, but instead you lick your lips and try to find your voice again. “Is that always…” You trail off, the words hard and fuzzy and distant. “Like that?”

Wesker grins wide, the one that would make your stomach drop if you weren’t still floating off this high. “Oh yes, dear. Though, I do think the first one is special.”

===