Bateman Apologist

“It’s crazy,” Her voice is hushed, a conspiratorial whisper. You can’t blame her for the dramatics; she really shouldn’t be telling you. “The chief’s closing the park for public use later today. Diaz thinks they’re gonna blame wild animals, something about an unusually hot summer making them more aggressive.” She frowns and glances out the door, making sure nobody else is listening. “But Ports is on the task force and she showed me the crime scene photos. They’re human bites. I swear it.”

You blanche. “But… why?”

“Cult.” Ashland nods. “I think it’s a cult. Human sacrifices.”

“A cult…?” You repeat quietly.

She reaches across the counter and touches your arm. “Hey, it’s okay. Irons is gonna start taking this case seriously. I know it. They have to after this.”

Irons. Your stomach twists into knots. The warning plays in your mind: Brian Irons is dangerous. It’s illogical to think Wesker’s warning has to do with his work. It was personal, definitely; Irons was a danger to you. But still, having that confirmation- having your bad feelings about him validated by someone like Wesker, someone knowledgeable- any trust in him you had left in Chief Irons is completely gone.

But…

That kind of absolutism still feels wrong. Even if he’s awful to you and to Wesker, maybe he’s still a professional in other aspects.

Maybe he will take it seriously.

You really hope so. Three murders… You haven’t lived in Raccoon City long, but it has never felt like the place that gets… murder cults.

“And, okay,” She starts again. “You don’t gotta tell me where you got it, but uh..” She points to her neck.

The gears turn, trying to understand what about her neck is so intriguing--

Your cheeks burn and you look away, covering the offending spot on your own neck with one hand. The exact imprints of Wesker’s teeth in your skin had lasted days, but at a week out, it’s mellowed into one large, mottled bruise. Even so, the memory of it makes your low belly pulse.

With how hot it’s been and how high he bit you, it’s not been easy to hide. “Sorry. I, uh, guess I sweat off my concealer…”

Ashland shrugs. “Might wanna keep an eye on it; Blackburn from HR is a stickler for that stuff.”

You nod. Maybe you could put a bandage over it. Not great, but you can’t exactly wear a scarf to James’s goodbye dinner.

Wesker doesn’t attend. You aren’t surprised, neither is anyone else. As rare as his social outings were, they’ve all dried up to nothing in the last month, every free moment spent in his office. But given the party is in the S.T.A.R.S. office and he’s clearly not here, you hope he’s at home resting. You really, really hope. You don’t know how much longer he can keep doing this. Even as put-together as he is, he’ll burn out sooner or later…

It ends up being a mini potluck; almost everyone has brought something. A lasagna, potato salad, someone hauled in their whole slow cooker filled with chili (Barry, if you had to guess), soda but no alcohol- that had been Wesker’s one stipulation on using the office. For the best, you think, considering Chris and Forest’s stories of drunk nights that neither fully remembers.

But for tonight, Chris’s impression of Wesker was perfect, his lips pressed tight and faintly curved down. He captures the strange, mixed accent with the kind of clarity that only comes from hearing it in and out all day: Aren’t you just going to throw a party for Ms. Chambers next week?

You feel a little bad; James wasn’t particularly social so you never really got to know him. You feel out of place coming to his going away celebration, more of a friend of a friend than actually supposed to be here.

Would it be rude to leave early? You’re just taking up space… Like everything else, all you do is stand in the corner or cling desperately to the people you feel closest to, which only makes you feel guilty for being a social leech.

The lights are low enough in the office, the music loud enough, James is sitting on his desk, turning over some kind of gift with an obscenely large ribbon on it.

You can get away with it, you think.

You slip out the office door.

Out in the hallway June has brought with it the sunlight, so despite it being nearly seven the hallway is still lit up with the setting sun, the old wood and terribly outdated paintjob glowing orange. You’re thankful at least; the walk home will be nice, maybe only just getting dark when you get to your apartment.

You’re nearly around the corner towards the library-

“Hey, hey!”

You startle, then grimace. Oh, now you feel worse, you got caught… You look back just in time for Chris to be waving someone off from the other side of the door and half-jogging to catch up to you. “You headin’ out?”

The guilt of trying to sneak out sits heavy on your shoulders. “Ah, yeah, I--”

“It’s okay, I know parties aren’t really your thing.” He smiles- and so much of that weight slides right off you. As though if Chris doesn’t care, then maybe you don’t have to either.

“Oh,” You almost laugh. Being seen so blatantly makes you feel like he’s peeling back the layers of your skin: sensitive, exposed. But there’s something more to it, a kind of trust. “Yeah, it isn’t.”

Chris waves his hand dismissively. “I just wanted to check in on you. I know I’ve been busy the last few days and haven’t had the chance to really talk.”

That does bring a smile to your lips. “I’m- I’m fine. Nothing new, really.”

“Good, good.” For a second he doesn’t say anything, then sighs and sweeps a hand through his hair. “Listen, it’s none of my business, but you had bruises on your wrists and still had a pretty sizable bandage on your neck.”

Your heart drops down through your feet. “I--” You start, “I’m sorry, I know it’s- it’s unprofessional.” You glance at your wrists and curse yourself. They’re gone now, They’ve been so faint, looking more like shadows on your skin than an injury. You’d only really been worried about the bitemark, significantly more visible than the imprint of his hand holding yours… but Chris was S.T.A.R.S. after all, it was his job to pick up on the small stuff like that…

Chris scoffs. “What? No, I mean. I’m not gonna judge, okay?” He holds up his hands, “But are these… good bruises or…? Again, no judgement.”

Oh. Your cheeks burn, your eyes settling on his boots. “Y-yeah, they’re good.” Really good. The hope it happens again kind of good.

“That’s a relief. I was worried I was gonna have to deck someone and get put on leave again.” He grins. You know he would in a heartbeat, no second thought.

You laugh softly this time, “Thank you. But, y-yeah. I’m okay.”

“So?” Chris prompts, waiting just long enough to see a flash of fear in your eyes. “When do we meet him?” Then quickly adds with a curious eyebrow: “Or her? Again, no judgement here.”

“Um,” The emotional whiplash makes you dizzy. You’d love to tell him, to explain, oh you hate lying, especially to Chris. But his words echo in your ears, solemn and accented and always, always the voice of reason: They wouldn’t look at you the same way. You had doubted it then, at least a little. Now you know, without a doubt. He was right, because of course he is. Chris couldn’t joke about this with you if he knew. He probably also wouldn’t worry about who’s leaving marks on your skin if he knew it was his own captain. “He, ah, he’s kind of private.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chris waves you off again. “He goes to another school.” He says the joke but you can still see something in his face, something reserved behind his words. A suspicion. Probably still for your safety, which only makes you want to come clean even more. You ache to assure him: He doesn’t need to worry about you! Maybe your relationship is unconventional, but it’s nothing like that.

“He’s good to me. Really. Patient and mature.” You say and force as much affection into your voice as you can. With how little you can tell him, you hope it’s enough to assuage that fear.

Chris watches you for a minute more before sighing. “Okay. But… anything happens, right? Anything. Come tell me and I’ll set him straight.”

“And this is the library.”

Your ears perk up, attention drawn towards that back pathway to the unicorn statue. You know the voice- it’s Richard’s. Still holding the book you meant to reshelve, you move towards the center of the room, ready to greet him.

“Oooh, I think I was here before!” Someone else speaks.

Right.

James left over a week ago. One spotlessly clean desk among the dozen messes, a little beacon of impending change. You weren’t close with him, but you do miss him and you miss the stability of knowing everyone. A new person… no, if it were just a new person you think you could handle it. You’d say the wrong thing or freeze up or not know how to act with them, but you’ve developed enough social grease with the rest of the team that you could get by…

You peek around the bookshelf slowly, plastering on a smile.

“Oh, there you are!” Richard beams, “Rebecca, this is our records manager.”

Rebecca, for the first time, actually steps out from behind Richard. She’s so short. You forgot how short she was, absolutely tiny next to Richard. Her wide, curious eyes do nothing to dispel how childlike she looks- nor her broad, white smile.

“Assistant records manager,” You correct halfheartedly. Did that come out as humble or dismissive? Was it better just to let people assume that or correct them? Having someone new makes the creeping black mass of doubt worsen, but because it’s her it reaches critical almost instantly.

“Yeah! I got lost after my interview, right? You helped me get back to the main hall. This place is like a maze!” She offers her hand. “I’m Rebecca, glad to meet you.”

“Y-yeah,” You meet her handshake. Is your palm too sweaty? It’s so hot in the library, you could probably play it off as that. It’s just the heat, it’s not about her. “Nice to meet you.”

“Forest told me you’re also a teen.” She smiles, “I’m really glad there’s someone else my age; I was afraid I’d be the only one who couldn’t drink!”

Somehow it still pulls the half-laughing exhale from you. “Yeah, they ah, they do love their cop bars.”

“Honestly.”

“Chris already invited her to the movie nights. She’s gonna pick the next one, actually.” Richard says, “But we should keep going, we’ll see you later!”

“Bye!” Rebecca waves, still grinning as Richard ushers her towards the main door.

You like her, you think. But still your stomach hurts, a block of discomfort that sits just below your ribcage. The longer you’re left alone in the library, near silent except for the ever present muffled din of the station all around you, the closer you come to tears.

You see him so rarely now that you don’t expect him to come by the same evening.

Each time that the days between your moments together start to number beyond four, you can’t help but worry. It’s natural, you’re sure, given the circumstances. In a… a normal relationship-- no, no, that’s not the right word. In a common relationship it’d be abnormal to not have some kind of connection with your partner for several days in a row.

But again, circumstances.

You’re not in an average relationship. You’ve accepted that long ago. The things you have to sacrifice to be able to kiss him at all… Even if he only sees you once a week, it’s worth it. And even if most of those visits are brief, teasing things and most of your evenings are concluded with walking home alone, it’s alright.

You wish you could do… that again (or more, you still wouldn’t reject more).

But you hadn’t expected him to come by the same day as you formally meeting Rebecca.

He’s tired. You can see it on him again. At least if he’s taking you home, he won’t be cooped up here all night.

He smirks when he sees you, hands crossed over his chest as he waits for you to gather your stuff. You don’t mention how you can feel the energy is off with him, a sluggishness to his movements, nor does he mention your red-rimmed eyes.

He drives you home in silence, his hand resting lightly on your thigh. The whole ride you pick at your fingernails. When you arrive he leans over the console to kiss you. The contact is nice, grounding. A respite from the stress of the day, but he pulls away too soon and you take your obvious cue to get out.

But you can’t bring yourself to go inside just yet. You’ll be alone with your thoughts all night…

You stand, awkwardly, beside his car before circling around to the driver side. Your stomach roils, your teeth sink into your lip, and you wonder, again, if you’re doing something wrong. Through the dark tint, you can’t see Wesker, but after a moment the engine turns off.

He steps out and sighs. The noise cuts through you, makes you step back- and oh, you should’ve just gone inside. You could’ve dealt with this yourself, you think. It wasn’t even that bad. The corners of your eyes prickle with quickly gathering tears. “Sorry, I can-”

“What do you need?” He cuts you off. Despite his word choice, he doesn’t sound angry, just… factual. What is it that you need? Why did you linger?

You step closer, your gaze flicking between his face- held in that stern but neutral for him expression- and his boots when the pressure feels too much. He doesn’t react to you coming closer, doesn’t immediately chide you for it- closer still into his personal space- and slowly you lean into him.

He doesn’t move at all as your ear touches his chest, your arms circle his waist. You relish the moment, take note of the little human parts of him: The warmth of his skin has sunk into his clothes. His heart beats powerfully just behind his ribcage. You hold him tighter, hands sliding up his back until you’re all but crushing your face into his shirt.

And with another sigh- this one more weary than annoyed- his large hands settle loosely at the small of your back. “This is about Ms. Chambers, isn’t it?”

You shrink beneath him, wilting like a flower in the summer heat. Without looking up, you nod against him. It’s stupid, you know it is. She was nice to you, hasn’t done anything wrong, but she’s as young as you are but so smart and so confident. You could never be like her…

Wesker shifts, pries your face away from him with one hand, his fingers wrapping around your chin. Forced back far enough for him to meet your eyes through those dark glasses, he hums for a moment in consideration. “She is rather cute, isn’t she?”

Your jaw drops. A cold pang lances through you, another hot tear rolling over your cheek- but one corner of Wesker’s mouth lifts, tightens into a little dimple. His smirk, that teasing thing-

“You’ve nothing to worry about, dearheart.” He taps your chin with his thumb.

You exhale sharply, the breath knocked out of you as swiftly as he’d made you choke up. Emotions mix; relief with his reassurance, guilt for needing it. But still, relief. You lean into his hand, soak in this increasingly rare closeness. You have to remind yourself: you made something out of nothing, this entire thing with Rebecca was all but a figment of your imagination.

“Sorry,” You murmur after a minute. “I’ve just… missed you.”

His smile falters, fades into something bittersweet. “I know.”

Your hand covers his, brings it up to your mouth properly so you can kiss at his fingertips. It’s always a task with him, the pursuit of real information, anything more than a glimpse, a flash of what his private life is like. “When will you be done… consulting?”

He hums again, watching you as you kiss another round across his fingers.

You sigh. “Can… can you at least tell me something?”

At this, however, he grins. His mouth twitches first, before pulling taut, smiling at a joke you haven’t heard. “You may just find out soon.” He releases your chin to stroke over your hair. “If you’re very lucky.”

Lucky? You don’t know what to make of that. If it’s something like a confidential case wrapping up, you’d expect something… different. Is he working on something good?

You have so many questions and you know he will answer none of them. But soon gives you a sliver of hope, a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe you can go back to seeing him every few days instead of every two weeks… and, maybe, he’ll keep touching you…

The thought makes you shiver. The idea of what had happened in the library happening with any kind of frequency…

More, ideally. You… you’d really like to do the same for him…

Wesker’s grin returns and your cheeks burn again. Are you that easy to read or is it just him…? It must be the latter; if everyone could decipher your thoughts, they would’ve found out about you and him immediately. But for as easily as he reads you, his thoughts are evasive, hidden under those black sunglasses.

“Get some sleep, dear.”

He pats your shoulders and begins to draw away. You follow, catch onto his belt loops to keep him close. Him leaving after- after it’s been so long… This time, you watch as his pale eyebrows drop down, a crease forming between. The shift of his mood leaves a shiver running down your spine. You swallow down the rising fear and ask anyway: “I… can we… meet more often?”

You expect another flash of his white teeth, some mild chastisement for wanting more than you need- or deserve, maybe. The grin doesn’t resurface, his hands don’t return to you and a cold brick forms in your gut.

“Don’t be difficult.” There’s no affection left in his voice, “You know I’m trying.”

That’s true… he doesn’t have to come by when he does. He could have just focused on his work… he’s so busy that he works himself to exhaustion and even now you’re taking his time… How selfish can you be?

“You’re right,” You say softly, dropping your gaze down to his shirt. Not yet ready to let go, needing just a moment more, you gently straighten the fabric there, smoothing out a crease. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t move, watching you through those shiny black lenses- and finally he strokes along the side of your face again, fingertips trailing down over your jaw to your throat. “It’s alright. Go get some rest.”

This time you nod silently. When you raise up to your tiptoes, he does meet your kiss in a brief peck.

Once you’re inside your apartment, you let yourself cry.

He doesn’t visit the next day. Or even the day after.

You shelve the feelings, tell yourself to be patient. You like him, he obviously likes you. He’s busy is all, that’s hardly a crime. It doesn’t change how much you miss him, how you find yourself jealous of every time Barry mentions his wife. You want dinners with him and dates and… and the things you knew you’d have to give up to be with him…

You feel stupid. He told you it would be difficult. You miss him and every time you long for something more, you feel guilty for it.

Wesker comes by the first week of July, offers to take you home after work. You jump at the chance, all too happy to soak in any minutea of attention-

And in the parking garage, Wesker pushes you up against the side of his sedan. He kisses you slow and deep, one hand at the base of your skull while his tongue slides against the roof of your mouth. He kisses you until your lips go numb, chapped from the friction and saliva and your chest aches from hypoxia.

He does not say I’m sorry, but he does murmur in your ear about how you’re his sweet pet. You decide you can handle it so long as you get to hear his breathy praises now and again.

“So, happy first month on the job,” Enrico’s voice is almost drowned out by the continuous roll of conversations all around you. The circular booth is tightly crowded, leaving you to pull your arms in tight and squeeze your legs together. This was not how you wanted the evening to go. “Do you think you’re getting the hang of most of it?”

Rebecca purses her lips as she considers answering. “I think so! I’m still nervous for my first mission.”

More than ever, you feel out of place. Sandwiched between Kenneth and Forest, you’re stuck. It’s one thing to be the only civilian in Chris’s living room- something low stakes, something quiet-- but being the only person not in uniform while the waitress is saying things like thank you for your service makes you want to escape. Even if you have to slide out under the table and crawl.

But if you did that, you’d make a scene.

All you have to do is swallow down the rising distress for long enough- if anyone gets up to use the bathroom you can excuse yourself. You had a hard day is all, you need to catch up on laundry, something mundane, any excuse so you can-

Enrico smiles, “There’s no need to be. We won’t be sending you anywhere alone for your first one, you’ll have backup.”

Opposite you at the table, Brad swats away Chris’s hands as he reaches for the other’s fries. Chris’s laugh makes you relax a little; even if you are out of place, it hardly seems anyone else is bothered by it.

“I appreciate that.” Rebecca says, then laughs lightly to herself. “Though, I feel like I maybe picked a bad time to join the R.P.D.”

“Don’t tell me the cannibal thing is getting to you.” Kenneth raises one thick eyebrow, already frowning in disappointment.

“Don’t act like it’s not freaky as hell.” Brad mutters.

“They are.” Rebecca confirms.

“It’s an… unusual case for Raccoon City.” Enrico concedes. “Random acts of violence like it are hard to predict or investigate, but they’re also incredibly rare.”

Rebecca stirs her drink with her straw. “Seems like the kind of case S.T.A.R.S. should be handling.”

That perks up Chris’s ears. He twists to look at Enrico. “Yeah, Vice Cap, why aren’t we investigating the Raccoon Forest Murders?” He asks, voice dripping with contempt.

Enrico’s mouth drops into a line, a serious slash across his face, shooting a dark look over at Chris. “I don’t know.” He turns back to Rebecca. “Redfield and I have petitioned the Chief over and over, but he won’t assign it to us. Respect due to our uniformed brothers, but they’re spinning their wheels out there.”

A somber cloud settles over the group. He’s not wrong. It’s been weeks now since the first body appeared, chewed up and mangled. Whatever the task force is doing, it isn’t enough. Even if it is somehow just wild animals, rabid dogs, or an unseasonably hungry bear, the police should have solved this long before the body count got to seven.

“We can handle it.” Rebecca breaks the looming silence. She smiles, a confidence that you can’t understand.

Joseph claps her on the shoulder, the movement awkward for how tightly crammed everyone is. “See? You were made to be in S.T.A.R.S.!”

He still hasn’t touched you again. Not like that, at least.

You’ve tried replicating it, mimicking his motion and angle and keeping your other hand close to your chest just as he’d held it. It feels good- but it’s not the same. Your arm hurts, sore and exhausted long before you’re at the point of trembling and pleading.

It’s agony.

If the ever present need between your legs was not bad enough, you just miss him. You want to talk with him again, relaxed and intimate as you had been over dinner. You want to fall asleep on him, to have him hold you casually…

You… you can take it. You’ve survived worse than longing, but it doesn’t make it any more pleasant.

“You’re so full of shit, Chris.” Forest’s mouth lifts into a good-natured scowl. “You couldn’t even make that shot on a clear day.”

Chris, throws his hands up. “Full-on thunderstorm, I swear!”

This is not the conversation you had expected to walk in on. Hardly the worst-- or even the first time you’ve caught some of the rowdier S.T.A.R.S. trying to show off and one-up each other.

Today, you don’t even have a ruse for why you’re in their office. Rebecca had, genuinely, left a request in the book while you were out on your break- lonesomely sitting on the rooftop, wondering which cigarette butts were Wesker’s. You still hold her requested file in your hands. It’s a thin one, a recent missing person’s case. It’s depressing to see, so little information was gathered before it was unceremoniously closed.

She had accepted the file, thanked you, and signed in good order, but now this petty argument had broken out before you could leave.

“Who goes shooting in the rain?” Joseph scoffs.

“I told you! It was clear when I headed out there, but by the time I had got my camp set up, it was stormy. Felt like a waste to pack up, so I went out anyway.” Chris shrugs, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back in his chair.

“Fuck it, let’s go settle this at Kendo’s. Your story is bullshit and I’m still a better shot.” Forest is already picking up his gear, nodding at the door.

“What, now?” Chris gapes.

“Yes, Forest,” The room goes silent, a chill settling over the playful mood. Everyone turns towards the corner office just to find Wesker’s arms crossed over his chest. “Were you planning on leaving early for your little contest?”

“Ah, I mean, no, Captain,” Forest deflates.

A beat passes and Wesker’s head shifts subtly- towards you, no, towards Rebecca. “Ms. Chambers, have you had your service pistol customized, yet?”

“No, sir. Is that something I should do?”

“I would recommend it, as well as logging some extra hours at the practice range.” He says vaguely, then he turns again: “Barry, call over. Let’s not drop the whole squad on him unannounced.”

The bullpen erupts, Chris and Forest whooping in joy. Barry immediately grabs his phone and begins punching in a number. Beside you Rebecca sighs, “He’s gonna critique my grouping again.”

You pat her shoulder awkwardly. You’ve only been on the receiving end of Wesker’s criticism a few times; you don’t envy her. The ruckus in the room rises and you sidestep around Richard, sliding along the side of the quickly emptying room towards the door.

Wesker still stands at the doorway to his office, making a show of adjusting his watch. It’s nice to see him at work, in his serious mode, almost none of that teasing playfulness you seem to bring out in him.

“Have fun, Captain,” You say as you begin to pass by him. You smile faintly, a little too soft to be hidden as just polite. Under the excitement in the room, you’re sure no one would notice.

But your mild display of affection is outmatched. Wesker’s hand grabs your forearm, stopping you from leaving. “Come with us.”

“To the… the range?” You ask. The thought alone makes a cold sweat bead at your neck. “But I don’t… I’ve never even held a gun…”

“You’re an employee of the R.P.D.” Wesker lets go of your arm, drawing back to adjust his sunglasses. “You should be able to defend yourself.”

A few members of S.T.A.R.S. cut between you and slip out the door, moving quickly as to avoid Wesker’s attention.

You open your mouth to reject that- you’d be better suited to running or hiding, not fighting back- but close it just as quickly. Despite your dislike of it, of the violent nature of his work that you’ve never really addressed, it is an excuse to spend time with him. With everyone, of course, but Wesker so rarely joins the team in their social outings.

And… it must mean he isn’t busy consulting. A swell of hope rises in your chest at the thought. So much of your time lately has been stolen, frantic moments that you have to engineer just to get a glimpse of him.

“O-okay…” You concede. It’s not like you’re busy, anyway.

“‘Scuse me,” Forest’s hand touches your shoulder and you jump, “Sorry.” He laughs then gives a nod to Wesker. “See ya over there, Captain.”

“Speyer, take our archivist with you. Make sure they don’t get lost.” Wesker gives you a little push forward, back in Forest’s way.

Forest gives an exaggerated salute, his good mood unflappable. “Aye aye, Cap’.”

He guides you through the station, along the exact same path you’d take to the parking garage. “I didn’t think you liked guns.” Forest says, weaving through the busy main hall. You almost lose him as a gaggle of uniforms cut between you, his blue vest blending into the crowd. He waits, though, grinning broadly when you finally pick him out again.

“Ah, I don’t.” You glance at the holstered pistol at his hip. “But, um, Wesker offered to teach me. S-since I should, I guess.”

The door outside is a relief; the hot air of the station is smothering, but outside a gentle breeze makes the heat bearable. Forest shakes his head, letting his long hair float behind him. “Ah, I don’t know about that; doubt Iron’s secretary is packing either.”

You twist your lips at that. Iron’s secretary was also a cougar on the hunt for that younger Umbrella employee. Despite her sweet demeanor and glasses thicker than your pinkie, you think she can somehow handle herself, even if it isn’t with a firearm.

The bell on the door jingles as Forest opens it. Kendo’s shop is smaller than you had imagined, for how often the team mentions it. The shop portion is neatly organized, rows of ammunition and accessories, followed by glass cases of shiny new parts and scopes and grips and little signs stuck to the inside: house-made customizations available, just ask!

Behind the till is a fairly large placard: the S.T.A.R.S. logo, the paint still crisp and unfaded. Below it is a smaller sign: Proud sponsor of the Raccoon Police Department and Special Tactics and Rescue Service. You knew Kendo was beloved by the station and that he had donated a lot of time and resources to the police force, but you didn’t really grasp the intensity of it.

The back wall, however, is what makes you nervous. In standing cases, there’s more guns than you’ve ever seen. Shotguns and rifles of all shapes and sizes and modifications you can’t even begin to name.

A familiar voice floats through a doorway. Chris’s excitement is palpable even through the walls and Forest’s grin resurfaces, his pace quickening to catch up. You pause here, still near the counter, the regular customer area of the shop, as Forest continues on. It’s normal for him to be back there, out at the range portion, but not for you. Even with his escort it feels wrong-- and you’ve lost him anyway, disappeared around a corner while you nervously wait.

You… you don’t even know what you’re waiting for. Wesker, maybe? You don’t like the idea; he’ll be disappointed you didn’t stay with Forest-- though you don’t know if you or Forest will be the subject of his ire. Permission? That sounds more right. You don’t know Robert Kendo like the members of S.T.A.R.S. do and just barging back there- escort or no- feels… wrong.

You chew your lip, drop your gaze down to your shoes. The urge to run away rises up in you again, but now feels impossible. How would you even begin to explain it to Wesker? He offers a way to spend time with you- though, not just you- and you ditch him? What an awful partner you’d be…

Someone sighs--

You straighten up immediately as a pudgy middle age man wanders back into the front of the store, the soft curves of his face lifted into a weary but good-natured halfsmile. Already tired of Chris and Forest’s antics, if you had to guess. They do tend to have this effect on people.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t see you, do you need…?” He starts, but you’re already waving him off.

“No, no, I’m with them, I- ah, just wanted to wait for someone.”

“You, ah, you Rebecca?” He asks.

A sickness squirms in your belly. You open your mouth to correct him- but are cut off by the door bell. It jingles again-

And Wesker holds the door open for Rebecca. Her eyes wide with curiosity, her gaze darting all over the store. Probably how you looked, you realize- which only makes that nausea rise a little higher. What you can see of Wesker’s features look like they’re in that usual stern default he has, but with his sunglasses on you can never really tell. Maybe behind them he does have that little fond look--

No.

Wesker said you have nothing to worry about.

You swallow forcefully and feel your body shudder as you breathe in. You have to believe him. That’s all there is, either you trust him or you don’t and you must. Besides, he hasn’t even done anything to make you think he is interested. Everything has been your own ridiculous insecurities, nothing but sabotaging yourself.

“Hello, Bob.” Wesker says, looking past you. It still makes your stomach hurt a little, but you know logically he couldn’t exactly address you so informally in front of two people.

“This is Rebecca, I assume?” He gestures towards Rebecca, who still looks all over the walls, taking in the huge display of lethality.

“Ah, yes!” She straightens up.

“Barry said we’ll be customizing your service pistol, catch you up with the rest of the team.” He grins and motions her over to one section of the counter. “That Beretta ain’t a Samurai Edge until we’ve worked on it.”

Rebecca follows him, leaning over the glass and watching as he begins removing different parts from their mounts, setting them on the counter.

Crack

Even through several walls, the noise makes you jump- and startle again as you bump into someone. You turn to apologize, the words already forming on your tongue- and his hand, broad and firm, spreads over the curve of your low back. The comfort of such a tiny touch washes over you. You hadn’t even noticed him come closer, but knowing now you feel like you can finally exhale.

He dips his head just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath as he speaks. “Seems they started without us. Shall we go watch the show?”

Your mouth goes dry at one sentence. His hand is still on you. You nod, almost lightheaded. He’s a siren when he wants to be, when he can be, and every time you forget just how much sway he has over you. It’s a struggle to resist melting into him, to walk normally instead of leaning on him how you’d like.

But Wesker keeps his hand at your back, the touch light enough he could play it off as guiding you. You… you are nervous in new places. Everyone knows that. It’s not so unlikely that you would appreciate help like that. The fact it’s Wesker’s hand at your back would be the bigger concern to anyone who notices…

And yet the thought makes you blush, a little smile wriggling across your lips. To be seen out with him…

The fantasy fades as you approach the group, his hand falling away without notice. Chris and Forest stand side by side, pistols in hand and-

Crack!

You jolt again, this time Wesker’s hand settles over your shoulder. Again the weight settles you-- but doesn’t entirely prevent the same reaction at the next shot. But it’s so public here, another type of anxiety makes your skin feel cold, too aware of the people around you. Even if you were jumping, full body flinching really, every time one of them fires, was this allowed? Would anyone think twice about the stern Captain Wesker having a hand on you?

He squeezes. You feel it: the strongest pressure from the tips of his fingers, the ridges along the grip of his gloves. You exhale slowly, some of the fear following. You wish you could relax and enjoy this time with him- even if it’s not just with him. If he’s doing this he must feel it’s safe enough, you just have to believe it.

“Ah, damn,” Forest says, setting down his pistol to wipe at his forehead. “You got me this time, I can see it from here.”

“Oh no, no, let’s get a closer look.” Chris replies, flicking the switch to bring the targets closer, an electrical hum filling the room. To you, the two targets look almost identical; you’ve got no point of reference for why Forest is already capitulating. The black figure drawn on the center of the paper is well damaged on both of their targets, holes punched straight through the white concentric circles of the head, with a few polka dotted along the outlines.

“Forest, what the fuck happened here.” Joseph points at one hole, completely off the figure target by several inches.

Forest bristles, “Shut up, go get another set..”

Joseph laughs as he heads back towards the other end of the range.

“Well done, Chris.” Wesker says mildly, “But your grouping could still be tighter.”

“Aw, come on, Captain…”

“Two of those are grazes.” Wesker’s hand drops off you so he can cross his arms. “Not enough to stop a hostile.”

“Two shots off the entire magazine?”

“I have high standards for our best marksman.”

Chris’s eyes twinkle at the praise, a pride that doesn’t dissipate when Joseph returns with two new target papers.

Wesker turns and starts down to the opposite end of the range. “Let’s give them some distance so you can focus.”

You shrink down, wishing he had forgotten about this part. It was one thing to watch Chris and Forest shoot, it’s another entirely to hold the gun yourself. But Wesker urges you on, guiding you down all the way to the last stall. The fins on either side jut out just enough that you can no longer see the competing men nor the crowd that had gathered around them.

It’s just you and Wesker and the black silhouette at the end of the range.

A button pops at Wesker’s side. He holds the weapon in front of you, the metal glinting under the fluorescent lights.

“Take it.”

You look up at him, wanting to fabricate an escape from this, any reason why you could get away. But you can’t. All you get from Wesker’s face is his cool, unaffected expression and your own nervous reflection in his glasses.

Your hands shake as you raise them- and Wesker meets you halfway. His larger hand closes over yours, guides it into position. He wraps your fingers around the grip, the inlaid S.T.A.R.S. logo a smoother texture than the rest of it. Your palms sweat already, worsening as he lays your index over the length of the trigger guard.

Wesker steps behind you entirely and you struggle to breathe. The breadth of his chest presses against you- and he reaches for your other hand, guiding it up to act as a support. With his arms bracketing yours, his warmth surrounds you entirely- the smell of him, his cologne faded under black, burnt, police station coffee and piles of paperwork and his cigarette smoke--

Odd, you think, he’s so careful with his smoking; he must be so stressed if he’s smoking enough that you can smell it on him…

But it’s comforting in a way- which makes you feel guilty. The scent of it is familiar, something private, something you’ve tasted-- even if you shouldn’t be able to smell it now.

It grounds you, just a little bit. Enough that you can exhale and really look at the weapon in your hands.

“You won’t keep a weapon,” He says it as a fact, something he knows about you. “But you’ll know how to use one.”

You’d like to reject the idea entirely; you’ve surrounded yourself with people who would keep you safe, after all. But there’s no question in Wesker’s words: you will know.

“This is the safety.” He guides your index up to a small latch. He presses down- and you jump as it clicks. Wesker exhales, the kind of breath that would be a puff of laughter were you actually alone.

“Put your thumb up on this,” He draws your thumb up, over the wedge of metal at the very back of the muzzle. “This is the hammer; most pistols don’t need to be cocked before firing…” He pushes down over your thumb and the hammer draws back, tensioning as it goes. Wesker’s voice drops, his work persona evaporating as his lips brush the shell of your ear. “But it makes it easier to fire.”

You shiver, hands trembling again, but Wesker’s large palms keep the gun steady. He’s all around you again. In your terror you hadn’t realized it: his arms on either side of you, his hands over yours. As if knowing it has finally occurred to you, Wesker steps closer, crowds you up against the little counter- and his hips meet yours. Through the layers of clothes you can feel him, warm and half-hard.

You… you’re in public. Not just the secluded corner of the library, but real honest public. Beneath the hot rushing of blood in your ears you can still hear them: both Alpha and Bravo teams laugh, chatting- and Wesker continues anyway. He lifts your arms higher until they’re properly holding the gun.

“Line up the top with your target…” He says, and you try. Along the sleek dark metal you follow its path towards the distant silhouette. With your shaking, it’s difficult. You adjust your hold, squeeze the textured grip, your fingertip biting into the S.T.A.R.S. logo.

Wesker all but purrs. “Good.” And it takes everything to not lose focus. “Now,” He draws your index finger off the guard, down- and you can’t help the whimper that follows. The trigger is still cool, the metal smooth and inviting, easy to rest your finger against.

Wesker draws away, hands off yours, sliding up to your wrists instead. Your hands start to drop, but he guides them back up until you hold your aim again. But his hands are off yours entirely. You thought… if he had manipulated your hands so far… but he won’t. He wants you to pull the trigger.

“Go on.” He prompts.

Your hands tremble again. You hate it. “I can’t.” It makes your eyes water in frustration; you want to be good, to do as he asks, but moving your finger only an inch is impossible. Too much.

“You can.” He asserts, leaves one hand at your wrists, keeping your arms out, but the other begins to slide towards you.

His touch is soft, feather-light and isn’t swayed at all at your shocked “Wesker?”

“Shh.” His lips brush your ear again just as his hand slides across your chest. You turn as best you can, desperate to know if anyone can see you- if anyone is looking. The fins that separate each stall are just long enough to block the view of your friends- but if any were to come closer-

“Focus.” Wesker’s voice brings you back. “There are four main ways humans deal with threats.”

The palm of his off hand slides across your chest, light at first before becoming firmer. “Flight, freeze, and fawn all serve their purposes in the right contexts, decent methods to avoid a predator’s jaws.” His hand dips, skims across your nipples. Muted as it is through clothes, the sensation still makes you jump in his arms. “But sometimes…”

His touch drops. Down over your belly to the hem of your pants, his fingers toy with the button. A heat blooms between your legs- after all this time waiting, so few moments together he’s going to touch you again-

And in the same breath you feel cold, rigid, terrified of how close you are to everyone else. There’s no way you won’t get caught, it’s too open--

“Sometimes you just…” Lower, his fingertips drag over the zipper- “have…” lower still, over the soft pouch of your mons and- “to fight.”

Two fingers press against your sex, rubbing slowly against your clit. Any resistance flees from you; your weight drops back against his chest, consequences be damned. You want to moan, to open your mouth and pant because it’s been so long and it feels better than you remembered- but the fear keeps you quiet. Your hips rock softly, matching the slow, shallow strokes he’s rubbing into you.

“Focus.” He chastizes again.

He… really expects you to try to shoot while he’s touching you again? You shove down your doubt and just try to do as he asks; you open your eyes again and attempt to aim, to hold the weapon up without Wesker’s support. It feels impossible; the firearm is heavy in your trembling hands, but you try. And that must be enough to please him, as he rewards you with his considering hmms and a nice hard stroke over your clit.

“You want something more than just my fingers in your cunt, don’t you?”

A wave of heat passes over you, vision going blurry at his words- how can he possibly expect you to keep this up when he’s saying such things? But… you do want that. You sink your teeth into your lip and nod.

“Then fight for it.” He says. “Tell me what you want and pull the trigger.”

You want to. You want to. You’ve already done so much, why can’t you just say it? But finding the words is as impossible as firing the gun; each task an impassable mountain in your path.

He’s asked you so many times to tell him, and you never quite could. All the time you’ve squandered, you could’ve- could’ve done it by now. But you’re still in the same place, trembling, leaning on him, trying as hard as you can but, “I can’t.”

The arousal that fogs your head dissipates, vying for control with new competition: shame and fear. How many times can you disappoint him before-

“You can,” He purrs, “You can fight for me. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” He nips at the shell of your ear. “Tonight. I’ll take you home.”

Tonight. You waver again. A time makes it so much more real. He wants to, has wanted to and you-- you just have to say it. Is that so much to ask?

“I…” Each word is exactly as he said: a fight. Making any sound is gargantuan, each syllable a boulder stuck in your larynx. “I want…” You tremble again, but Wesker offers no further support. He merely turns, shifting to better watch as you struggle. “W-want you t-to, um, to-”

“Wesker!”

You don’t even have time to feel fear before he’s off you. Smooth as ice and just as cold in how he pivots. His hand comes off your waist, but leaves the one under your grip on his gun, sliding into the much more innocent position of only helping you keep your stance.

Your eyes feel as big as dinnerplates; wide and terrified and searching Wesker’s guarded expression for what you’re supposed to do-

“Captain!” Someone yells again-

“Here.” Wesker waves one hand out past the fins that separate each stall. You plead silently with him: No, no, no, don’t draw them closer.

“What’s going on, Enrico?” Jill asks.

The vice captain approaches, you can tell from his footfalls, but you can’t bring yourself to look. Should you? Is it weird to not look? You can only bring yourself to look at the gun again, the sleek metal.

“Captain.” Enrico starts, panting softly- running. He’s been running. “Irons gave us the cannibal case. He wants us to deploy now.”

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