Archive of Our Own

The view from the gallows is better than the one from the saloon's second floor porch. More room to take in the stars. If Caleb tips his head far enough, the wood fence ring enclosing his world disappears from view, leaving behind only a fractured sky, bleeding color and spilling countless white light pinpricks as the dying sun gasps its last. Nevermind the hanged man dangling lifeless behind him. That old feller never bothered no one.

It ain't so bad a life, this constant pull from one place to another, fulfilling the same task over and over and over. Might as well be bounty hunting again. It's the same handful of hideouts and the same handful of strangers to reel in for the same handful of pointless crimes. Sabotage, evading arrest, aiding and abetting, whatever else. Even if he knew it's not his business to care. Whatever they've done, he's pretty sure he's been in prison for worse before, and the half-memory of it keeps him grateful that he can at least leave this place when bidden. He can pursue his targets in places he suspects would have defied his comprehension some time ago. He can patrol this sorry facsimile of his own ghost town as easily as he can tramp through vibrant alien foliage, climb the stairs of a crumbling medieval tower, or haunt the halls of some grimy hospital. The job's the same no matter what, and he's good at his job.

And wherever the work takes him, when the fog closes in it invariably delivers him back here. The stars are always right where he left them.

A familiar measured gait sounds on the wooden gallows steps behind him. Caleb doesn't bother to turn. He knows those footsteps as well as he knows their owner likes attention too much to go ignored for long.

"You dragged a chair up here? Have they worn you down at last, old man?"

Caleb shifts irritably in his seat but leaves his braced leg stretched out. "Knee's actin' up."

Wesker scoffs. "Let me guess. Either you just left the Red Forest or rain is miraculously on its way to this charming town."

"Sometimes it thinks about it." Caleb nods at the sky, the very edge of the horizon thickened by building thunderheads. It's a rare sight, not totally unheard of, though never once has rain actually graced the dusty roads of Glenvale in all the time Caleb has presided here.

Another superior huff. "I'm sure." Wesker draws even with Caleb's seat and drops something small and rectangular into his lap as he passes. "I found this."

Wesker leans against the gallows railing, his back to Caleb as Caleb examines the trinket so suddenly dumped on him. It's a harmonica, a little too light to be finely made, but the carvings on the cover plate are ornate enough to suggest deliberate selection and worn enough to imply practiced use. Dirt trims the holes and practically every other part of the thing, not that it stops Caleb from giving it an experimental blow. It coughs out a sad wheeze of a note, puffing dust out the other end.

"Hm. Where'd ya find this?"

"Beside a chest at my last trial here. I assumed you dropped it decades ago."

"Nah. Never seen it. Bet it's that girl Kate's."

"Then give it back to her the next time you're feeling friendly," Wesker sneers impatiently. "I don't care what you do with it."

"Oh no, I couldn't part with a gift from you, Red Eyes," Caleb says as he slips the harmonica into his duster pocket. "Were ya thinkin' of me? Sweet thing."

"I endeavor to think about you as little as possible, actually." Wesker pushes away from the railing and heads towards the stairs but Caleb stops him with a finger hooked in his belt loop.

"Hold on there, darlin'." He pulls Wesker back in front of him, his good knee slotted just between Wesker's, and jerks him a little closer. True to form Wesker heaves a sigh as though resisting wouldn't be worth the energy it cost him. He stands, arms crossed, as Caleb slides his hands to Wesker's hips. "I think you brought me somethin' else too."

"Not today, old man." But his jaw tightens when Caleb gives his ass a firm squeeze.

"No? You just here outta the goodness of that black little heart of yours?"

"Call it an act of charity." The disdain in Wesker's voice is deep enough to drown.

Caleb chuckles. "There ain't a charitable bone in your body. I got a bone for ya though, if you're a good dog. I'll even let ya pick where I put it."

"A meat grinder would do for a start."

The words come out just breathy enough to betray him and Caleb smiles, pulling him yet closer so that Wesker's leg brushes up against the crotch of Caleb's pants.

"I got a friend that can lend ya one. Only settle down here for a little while first, won't ya? Make me feel good. I wanna forget about this damn knee."

Another aggrieved sigh precedes Wesker swinging his leg over Caleb's and settling into the older man's lap. Caleb hums his approval, shifting a bit so he can better clutch Wesker's ass while his right thumb makes light, idle passes over the fly of Wesker's pants. This little reluctant routine of Wesker's would've grown stale long ago if Caleb's favorite sport wasn't watching him give up more, more, more, inch by tiny inch. Their last little tryst began with Wesker pulling a knife and ended with him rutting against Caleb's boot until both their cum flecked the forest floor. Compared to that he's downright compliant today.

Wesker looks away, eyebrows contracted in sudden focus at something Caleb can't hear. He doesn't need to. Resentment glows to life as Wesker stands abruptly.

"I have to go," he says in a clipped tone, stepping away from Caleb and straightening his jacket. Caleb watches him through narrowed eyes.

"One of these days I'll put you on the end of a leash so tight you won't even notice Her tuggin' at ya," he says lowly.

"Sometimes I think I might actually prefer that," Wesker mutters. His footsteps thump down the gallows stairs, and Caleb doesn't watch him cut across the desert, towards the gates, and away into the fog.

Without proper days, nights, or any real need for sleep, Caleb only has trials to count how long he's had to ruminate on the idea. He skewers Felix from afar, and as he reels him in he notes what a sight it makes, dragging a struggling blond man closer until he collapses helplessly in front of him. Caleb's never drawn the Redeemer on Wesker but maybe he ought to. Could be worth it to have him at his feet like this, even for a spare few seconds before the self-proclaimed god threw a fit about it. Maybe in that time he could leash him up like he threatened, since of course the only way Wesker would permit it is if he could pretend he had no other choice. Maybe Portia has a spare.

He ruminates on it for a trial, then another, and another, and maybe five more. At least twice in that time the rats prove more trouble than they're worth and he decides his effort is better spent ridding himself of the distraction with as much speed and efficiency as possible. He leans back against the boarded shack windows, one glove held in his teeth as he feverishly brings himself off all over the worn wooden floors. The second time the one called David willingly catches it on his tongue and face, breath hot, dazed and dizzy from mingled fear and want. Fine as he looks when Caleb uses his cock to smear his cum over the man's face, it doesn't change his fate: he shoots him straight through the skull just as David is running his tongue over the barrel of the Redeemer.

The devil himself is at the saloon when Caleb returns, and in such a visible temper that a part of Caleb envies whoever had the chance to rile him up before he could. As he makes his way to the bar he grips Wesker's shoulder in the sort of friendly manner he knows Wesker hates; it earns him a snarl and a furious batting away of his hand.

"Easy does it, darlin'. I don't even have a drink yet."

Wesker's glare damn near burns a hole in his jacket as he helps himself to a glass of whiskey. He hesitates, then pours a little more before joining Wesker at the table he's chosen, bottle in hand. They'll likely need it – Caleb's seen him practically clear out the bar and still complain that he can barely feel it, all in that comically perfect diction of his. Priss. He drops into a chair and indulges in the only thing he's ever considered a luxury: the burn of whiskey held on the tongue for just a notch too long. He swallows, lets his breath out on a sigh, and finally tips his glass at Wesker.

"Well. Go on."

"Kennedy." Wesker spits the name like venom from a snakebite. "Who else? The upstart bastard had two friends with him– two– plus that other with the braids–"

"Meg. Maybe Orela."

"Shut up. All four of them were running like they'll actually escape for good– you are too friendly with them," he interrupts himself, pointing a finger at Caleb. "Weaklings like you embolden them. They bring their damnable flashlights, Kennedy arms himself with those flashbangs of his, and then what is the point of these?" He rips his sunglasses from his face and casts them down on the table in disgust. "Useless. And then I am made a fool of in some stinking, miserable swamp."

Caleb leans back a bit and remarks the mud still clinging to the hem of Wesker's long jacket. "Hm. Did ya try looking away?" Wesker lances him with a look and Caleb chuckles. "Simmer down, Red Eyes. You'll get another chance."

"I have long grown tired of chances," Wesker grumbles. He turns his glass in his hand though he'd obviously rather smash it. "Every one of them is the same. Only a simpleton could withstand this dreadful repetition."

Caleb shrugs and sips his whiskey. "'S the job."

"Like I said. Only a simpleton."

Caleb sets his glass down with a pointed thunk. "If you're here hopin' I'll fuck that sour mood outta ya, boy, you're makin' the idea none too appealin' with that mouth of yours."

"There's no place for hope here and you know it."

The faintest flush has suffused Wesker's cheeks and Caleb knows he's guessed right. But the resignation in his tone is less expected. Unusual, even. Silence expands between them as both men contemplate their drinks. Eventually Wesker downs his and reaches for the bottle.

"How can you stand it?" The question near bursts out of him, like he's ashamed of the weakness of curiosity.

"The repetition?" Caleb spares it only a moment's consideration and shrugs. "Don't remember much of the alternative anymore."

"What?" Wesker stops mid-pour to study him. "Exactly how long have you been here, old man?"

"Longer than you," Caleb growls, shooting him a warning glare. "You're a fool if ya think enough time here won't make the rest go foggy. Ask the Wraith. Turn on that famous charm of yours and maybe you'll be the first to get 'im to talk in ages."

"I'm asking you."

"And I'm tellin' ya, longer than you." The wooden chair squeals as Caleb pushes back from the table.

"Where are you going? I know you're not being called," Wesker says mockingly.

"Can't a man get a goddamn moment to himself without a cockslut beggin' for attention?" Caleb snaps. His sudden temper surprises even himself – the reality of his memory's never bothered him much before but something in Wesker's smug, incredulous tone digs in like spurs. "Mewl at someone else's feet tonight. Anythin' you got for me, I already got elsewhere."

He snatches up the Redeemer and stalks from the saloon. Unfortunately Wesker is right – he's not being called so he doesn't exactly have a ready made destination. Fine. The gallows again. A dead end spot for a dead end outlook.

Habit briefly beats out aggravation and Caleb spares a grim nod to the hanged man at the top of the stairs, but he ignores the chair he's left up there in favor of the railing, digging through his duster pockets for a pack of cigarettes. His hand brushes the harmonica first. He snorts, and in a moment of masochistic humor cups his hands around it and brings it to his lips. If he's known this feeling before, he doesn't recognize it. The thing sits ill against his mouth, awkwardness accentuated by his twice broken jaw. He doesn't remember how that happened, either. He blows and the same tinny, ragged note as the first time struggles its way out. A couple more follow as he moves the harmonica across his lips but neither is an improvement on the first. Caleb curses, stuffs it back into his pocket, and fishes out a cigarette instead.

By the third drag his anger has begun to ease by the barest measure. It slowly dissipates on every exhale, joining the smoke-curl clouds sweeping the otherwise clear evening sky. It's a familiar sight that, at least for now, passes for a reassurance. A crow caws somewhere overhead. Wind whispers through the dry grass. He tips his head back and breathes out again.

"Who was it?"

Caleb startles and his irritation surges back with a vengeance. "Shit, boy. Since when d'ya sneak around like that?"

"Who was it?" Wesker's hand closes hard on Caleb's shoulder. He wrenches Caleb around and pushes him against the railing, color high in his cheeks and his eyes burning crimson. "What did you get elsewhere?"

Caleb shifts in a little in Wesker's grip but doesn't fight it, a vindictive smile twitching to life beneath his mustache. "I thought you were s'posed to be some kinda genius. Don't take one to work it out."

"You are good for one thing and one thing only," Wesker seethes, "and at your advanced age you're only good for it once. Tell me who."

Caleb's smile falls away. He narrows his eyes as he leans close over Wesker.

"Kennedy."

Wesker's fist collides with Caleb's face. He expected it but no amount of anticipation can compete with that speed: the blow sends Caleb reeling, he'd stagger if he weren't held fast in Wesker's grip, but their closeness serves his advantage, too. His vision clears just in time to duck the next and clamp his hand hard around Wesker's wrist.

"Now I thought you sang pretty," he says. "That Kennedy though… he's a nightingale. Sets to moanin' if ya so much as look at his cock, did ya know that? He gave it up to me so fuckin' easy–"

"Shut up," Wesker snarls, cocking his fist back for another blow, but Caleb wrenches his arm behind his back, switching their positions and bending Wesker over the railing. He pins him there as Wesker thrashes in a fury, free hand held fast to the back of Wesker's neck.

"Jealousy looks damn good on you, Red Eyes." He presses his hips against Wesker's ass; he's already half hard and he doesn't have to touch him to know Wesker is too. But they've missed some of the steps in their usual waltz. Some part of it feels like a trick, like Caleb is being forced to play a losing hand he dealt himself. The malice tastes too sharp and bitter. "Don't you worry. I got plenty left to sate even a slut like you. But after all that mouthin' off you're gonna need to earn it."

Wesker grunts and pushes back against Caleb, glaring over his shoulder. "Fuck you," he spits.

"'Fuck me,'" Caleb corrects him. "And a 'please sir' wouldn' be amiss, neither." He lets up the pressure on Wesker's neck to reach between the man's legs instead. Just as he suspected. Already hard and straining. He grips tight and presses harder against Wesker's ass. "Go on. Maybe you'll even sound as good sayin' it as he did."

"I will tear you limb from– ah!" The threat goes unfinished when Caleb yanks open Wesker's belt and shoves his hand inside to take hold of his cock. The heat and weight of it is damn near enough to make Caleb forgive him on the spot. He jerks his hand roughly over him, his own lust steadily mounting at the way Wesker arches into it, hips rising to meet Caleb's. The arm held behind Wesker's back is pointless now and Caleb releases him: Wesker takes the opportunity to shuck off his coat and cast it aside, affording Caleb a glance at that taut, round ass before their bodies press flush again.

"I won't ask again, boy." Caleb strokes his middle finger just beneath the head of Wesker's cock. It's leaking with impatience now, precum gathering at Caleb's fingertips as he strokes them idly over the slit. "Say it. Now. Or I promise ya I'll take great, great pleasure in leavin' ya wantin'."

"Please."

The word comes strained and Caleb groans his approval. They don't kiss. They never do. But god the scent of whiskey on Wesker's breath makes Caleb burn to do it anyway, and he settles instead for seizing Wesker's jaw in his grip and forcing his head to better turn towards his own. Caleb breathes deeply, teeth set against desire.

"Again."

"Please. Fuck me. Please… sir."

Caleb would devour every word if he could. Tear each one apart with his teeth and then come for the whore throat that spoke them with such stunning hesitation. There isn't a damn thing on this earth Wesker doesn't make more difficult if he can help it, and fuck if Caleb isn't the fool cursed to rejoice in it. Reluctantly he releases Wesker's cock just long enough to jerk Wesker's pants down past his hips and tug his own belt loose.

"Wait," Wesker pants. "Wait, inside there's–"

"Nuh-uh. You mighta gone all tractable now, but if ya wanted it kinder ya shoulda played nice when we were still in the saloon." He spits into his hand.

Wesker's hiss of pain trails out into a sigh, then a long, ragged moan when Caleb presses inside him. His hole yields after only a few moments' performative resistance – not unlike Wesker himself. But Caleb's too worked up to appreciate the irony and a growl of satisfaction escapes him at the sight of his cock sinking deeper and deeper into that perfect ass with every roll of his hips.

An insistent thrust drives him in to the hilt; Wesker grunts in protest but still pushes back to meet it in full. It's a rough fuck for both of them. Caleb steadies himself with a hand to Wesker's shoulder and another to his hip, grip tight enough to bruise as he pounds mercilessly into him. Behind every thrust is a rebuke, a punishment for even suggesting what they had here, exactly here and now, wasn't enough. Maybe Caleb can't remember much beyond the fog. But that ain't so important when he's got the great Mastermind crying out on the end of his cock, frantically jerking himself off in rhythm with Caleb's ruthless pace.

"Fuck. Yes. Harder."

If the tight heat of him isn't enough to drive a man mad, the desperation in his voice surely is. Caleb shoves him down so Wesker's chest meets the railing. Obediently Wesker stays there as Caleb grips his hips in both hands and plows into him over and over, each of Wesker's responding moans driving Caleb perilously close to the edge.

"Caleb… sir, I'm going to– fuck, fuck–"

It's either his name or "sir" that rockets Caleb straight into orgasm and he doesn't give a damn which. All he's ever known or cared about is overcome by the blinding pleasure of spilling deep inside Wesker, then holding him there, slowly fucking his cum into him as Wesker cries out and releases helplessly over the worn gallows platform.

Caleb leans forward as he catches his breath, and for a long while the only sound under the stars is their mingled panting. He drops his head to rest on the nape of Wesker's neck. It's damp with sweat as Caleb eases out of him, and on impulse he touches his lips there just as he slips out. Wesker's knees shudder at the sudden loss of stability but Caleb is there to catch him, turning him around so Wesker can lean against the railing instead. That's his excuse, anyway. The real prize is the opportunity to take in the sight of him so well fucked – the color in his cheeks, the sweat at his hairline, the glistening head of his spent cock, and those blazing wildfire eyes.

"Come on," Caleb says gruffly once his breath has evened back out. "A drink."

They return to the saloon in silence, refill their glasses in silence, and sip in silence, cradled now within the haze of satiation rather than their earlier jagged animosity. It's a long while before either of them speaks.

"You didn't fuck Kennedy."

"Nah." Caleb shakes his head and lets the whiskey's heat out on an exhale. "It was David. Didn't even fuck him, truth be told. Just came all over his face thinkin' about you on a leash."

Wesker scoffs and keeps his eyes carefully on his drink. "Bastard."

"Who is this for?"

"Pleasant company. I'll let ya know when he gets here."

The sound Wesker makes almost passes for a laugh and he drops into the second chair Caleb's brought up to the gallows overlook. It's been standing empty for a dozen trials or so, but it's not unusual for them to go about that long without seeing one another. Caleb offers him a cigarette and Wesker waves it away with a wrinkle of his nose. He always declines, but Caleb only offers just to see him make that face. He stuffs the pack back into his pocket and side-eyes Wesker as he takes a long drag.

"Well ain't you lookin' fine tonight."

"Shut up." Wesker shifts and crosses his arms, which takes a little adjusting given everything he's got strapped to his vest. Caleb feels his jaw creak as he grins.

"What're ya doin' with all that ammo? If you're lookin' for somewhere to put it I might have a pistol lyin' around."

"It's a uniform, you dullard," Wesker says with a glare. "And if I had a pistol I assure you I know exactly where I'd put the first round."

Caleb leans his chair back to read what's emblazoned across Wesker's back. "S.T.A.R.S., huh?"

"Special Tactics and Rescue Service. I was once undercover."

Caleb laughs in earnest at that. "Sure ya were. Is that what you've been up to since ya last graced this humble ol' ghost town with a god's presence? Rescuin' the rats instead of sacrificin' 'em? Thought ya were above all that."

"Of course I wasn't." His lips are thin with irritation but the slightest curve at the corner gives away his smugness. "This is salt for some very particular wounds. You wouldn't understand."

Caleb raises his palms in mock surrender. "Guess not. And here I was thinkin' you saved all your antagonism for me."

"No, Deathslinger, believe it or not there exists a small handful I dislike even more than you." Wesker's self-satisfied smile breaks past his efforts to suppress it. His teeth are straight and white. "And across the past two trials I slaughtered every one of them."

"Well bully for you, darlin'." Caleb tips his hat to him. "Can't say I hold any sorta strong feelings for one Survivor over another, but I know you got a past with some of 'em. Must be lucky to run into 'em all back to back like that."

"Very."

Caleb watches him for a moment, then chuckles and refocuses on the harmonica in his hands. He's been practicing again. Still dismal as all hell at it. But it's a nice bit of metal to turn over in his hands while he waits for the next trial, or until Wesker turns up to infect Caleb's endless evening with some inescapable mood or another. Nice that it's a positive one this time.

"If only a man could thrive on luck alone."

Caleb frowns a little. "What d'ya mean?"

"The same as I always mean. The repetition."

Caleb rolls his eyes and pockets the harmonica away. "That again? D'ya ever think your bellyachin' about it might be the real repetition?"

"If it were, I wouldn't count on you to do anything about it," Wesker says with a scoff. "You're not even tired of that damn player piano, no matter how many times it churns out that same sorry tune."

"Course I'm not. Melody's impossible to follow. Sounds new every time to me."

Wesker sighs and shakes his head in a way Caleb knows means hopeless hick.

"It's not all the same anyway. You just saw somethin' new – everyone from your dreary little world rounded up nice and neat." Caleb lets his eyes rest on Wesker. "And there was a time before we met. Now we have. Would ya call this repetitive?"

Wesker doesn't answer right away, a sure sign that his sharp tongue is at war with the fear that too deep an insult will make Caleb withdraw everything he's seen Wesker beg like a bitch for. Caleb's smile grows in anticipation of a half-baked insult – Wesker's least favorite kind to dole out.

"No."

Caleb doesn't move for a moment, sure that something scathing will follow, but Wesker just stares straight ahead over the horizon. Eventually Caleb can think of nothing else to do except settle back, prop his feet up on the railing, and return to his cigarette.

"Hm. S'pose that's as close to a compliment as I'll ever get outta ya."

"Most likely."

They sit like that for a while. Caleb didn't really expect companionable silence the very first time Wesker noticed the extra chair, but now that it's here, it's pleasant. Eventually Wesker sighs and props his feet up as well, which Caleb notes with detached amusement. He's seen him pleased, he's seen him relaxed, but very rarely both at the same time. Not before they've fucked, anyway.

"Take those damn shades off. Ya can't see the stars proper that way."

"I've seen stars before. Yours are the same as mine, you know." But Wesker does as he's told and hooks them into the front of his vest.

The sky is clear tonight. The air is warm and soft between them.

Caleb's knee tires of sitting like this before he does. He knows better than to push it though, or he'll spend the next five trials limping after his targets slower than, well, than he already does. He grunts as he eases his bad leg down from the railing.

"Well, they ain't goin' anywhere. Drink?" He gets to his feet and groans as he stretches his back.

"No. I should get going." Wesker stands as well.

Caleb studies him when he offers no further excuse. If he isn't being called, there's nothing else that really needs doing. It's true they fuck at most meetings now, though not all – sometimes there's no time, sometimes one actually succeeds in aggravating the other out of his arousal, sometimes they are both just too trial worn. But this is the first time in Caleb's memory that Wesker has come to him with only a mind to share good news and a comfortable silence.

"Alright. I'll leave you to it, then." Caleb turns to lead the way down the stairs but something catches his eye and he whips around again. "What are–? Hm."

Wesker scowls irritably up at him. "What? Get a move on."

"Did I make a mistake callin' you Red Eyes?"

Because they're not. Wesker bristles and plucks his sunglasses from his vest but Caleb catches his hand and pulls him closer.

"No. Lemme see."

Between a darkened brow and a faint flush beginning to tinge his cheeks, Wesker's eyes stand out golden amber. Caleb has noticed them change before – cool and unyielding as cut rubies one day, blazing hellfire the next. That's nothing new. Might even be one of his more normal features. But never once has Caleb seen them such calm, warm gold.

"It's because for once you haven't worked me into a murderous rage. Yet," Wesker adds as he pulls his hand free and hides his eyes again. He's already halfway down the stairs in the space of one annoyed huff. "Until next time."

"'Til then."

Wesker heads for the far gate at a clip. His path carries him around the corner of a dilapidated building and out of sight far faster than the alternative would. Caleb stares after him, a little bewildered at having discovered an actual, physical symptom of ease.

"Sorry, pardner. You're in for it again."

Caleb tips his hat at the hanged man before taking his usual seat at the top of the gallows. Anything resembling a tune is still far out of reach. Notes still sound like the braying of a sick mule. But the hanged man has been an uncomplaining audience to Caleb's harmonica practice and that's a great deal more than Caleb would expect from the person who gave it to him. He holds the instrument to his mouth and slides it slowly across, trying to eke out as many distinguishable notes as possible. His control's gotten a little better at least.

That's Wesker's problem. That outsized ambition stamps out any flicker of appreciation for the tiny changes that keep more reasonable men at peace here. Simpler men, you mean, he'd sniff, but saying so wouldn't make him any happier. All Caleb dares aspire to is a clean trial. Two dozen shots and no more. That suits him just fine. It's the incentive and the job both, and how's the saying go? Do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life.

A note fizzles out as Caleb smiles wryly to himself. He don't exactly love it, but it ain't exactly work, and this ain't exactly life. The truth of it lies somewhere between each of the three, and that's for great minds like Wesker's to work out with all the industry of an angry wasp's nest: equal parts droning buzz and threat of agonizing sting.

It keeps Wesker fun though. Easy to rile. More of both when he's got a cock in his mouth, too.

Suddenly Caleb's got more than half a mind to take a stroll through a certain derelict police department. See who there is to see, maybe fuck who there is to fuck. He's pocketing his harmonica when his vision grows dark at the edges. A tightness takes hold of his throat, a tugging from behind and within like he's trying to swallow his own tongue. Then the whispers. Low, cold, and distant echoing up from some unseen, depthless well. Even after so long Caleb can't help but tense against them. As the call fades he jerks his jacket tighter and takes up the Redeemer.

Work first. He stuffs his rancor down where he prays She can't find it.

"Five. How many for you?"

"Don't gloat. 'S unladylike."

"Just two, was it?" Wesker clicks his tongue. "How disappointing."

"Good boy," Caleb growls, crowding Wesker against the reception desk. Luck of a shared trial with Wesker aside, he still hates being taunted. "Is that what ya wanna hear? Did ya shed all that blood just so I'd treat ya like a dog?"

Wesker scoffs but Caleb knows he's already running hot. His eyes burn crimson over the rim of his sunglasses when Caleb leans closer and places both hands on the desk, caging him with his arms.

"You'd better start keeping up or you'll be put out to pasture, old man."

"You better shut your damn mouth before I cram this cock in it."

To neither man's surprise Wesker is as motivated to disobey as Caleb is to make good on his threat. It starts with a scuffle, gritted teeth, and hands fisted in shirt collars and ends with Wesker on his knees, Caleb's back against the desk, and a final groan echoing in the cavernous lobby as Caleb pumps pulse after hot pulse down Wesker's waiting throat. His hands finally let up the pressure on Wesker's: he pinned them to his hips to keep Wesker from touching himself while Caleb washed him with praise, murmuring, Yeah, that's a good dog. Such an eager tongue on ya. Good dog, Red Eyes. It was enough: Wesker came hard on a muffled whine long before Caleb did, striping the marble floors between Caleb's feet.

Wesker pants as he rests his head between Caleb's hip and softening cock, eyes closed, his flush gradually fading while he catches his breath. Caleb can't recall a finer sight in all his days. He passes his fingers through Wesker's already mussed hair; Wesker swats him away but Caleb can feel the hint of a smile even through his trouser fabric. It's a few more moments, a few more breaths before Wesker finally gets to his feet again.

"I don't know how you do that to me, Deathslinger, but one day I will kill you for it."

"Come by and try it anytime you like," Caleb chuckles as he buckles his belt, then casts around for his hat. He finds it lying on the floor behind the desk.

"It will have to be sooner rather than later."

"All the better for me."

There is a pause that Caleb can usually trust Wesker to fill with some sleek rejoinder or another. None comes. Caleb straightens up from retrieving his hat, watching Wesker as he returns it to his head. An odd, unbidden tension thins the air in the room. But Caleb's never met an uncomfortable silence he was afraid to stretch straight into abject agony and eventually Wesker cracks under the weight of the unasked question. He lifts his chin, eyes safely hidden and jaw set.

"I thought I should let you know," he says. "I'm leaving."

Caleb stares, then waves a hand to indicate the whole of the lobby. "Where to? This's your place, ain't it?"

"I have reason to believe this place will be gone, too."

Caleb lets his hand fall back to his side. "Speak plain, boy," he warns lowly. But he already knows. That's what's making the desk standing between them suddenly feel like a vast, uncrossable pit.

"I don't know when. But I made time to speak to Ada. She and most of the others believe we will all go."

"Bullshit," Caleb snorts, digging in his pockets for a cigarette and his lighter. His thumb slips on the flint wheel and it takes three flicks, a curse, and a final flick to light up.

"They spoke with that other one too, the one with the infuriating scream," Wesker goes on. "They all have felt what I have, and he once felt the same."

"Mhmm. But he came back here to tell the tale, didn't he? And since when do you fraternize with Survivors?" The lighter clicks shut and Caleb locks his eyes tight on Wesker as he exhales smoke. A challenge. "You goin' soft on me, Red Eyes?"

"Caleb–"

"Don't start with that," he snaps. Another sharp drag of his cigarette scorches his throat. He manages not to cough but his voice is a dry rasp when he next speaks. "So you're going. Good for you. Even better for me that you're takin' this crumblin' hell hole with ya. Too many corners."

"I have not minded this arrangement," Wesker says tightly. Caleb gives a mirthless laugh. Arrangement. Minded. What a charmer. "I thought it only courteous to inform you."

"Oh, most courteous, thank you."

"Are you going to miss me, Deathslinger?" Wesker's clearly lost patience with his stab at diplomacy. The set of his shoulders, the prickle of color returning to his cheeks and the tops of his ears tell a story his sunglasses try and fail to conceal. Whatever he's got going behind those shades, it sure as hell ain't golden. "Is that why you're behaving this way? How very touching."

"Like a snake misses its shed." His cigarette's only half-finished but Caleb drops it anyway and grinds it beneath the toe of his boot. "We've outgrown ya."

"Outgrown me?" Wesker stalks after Caleb when he props the Redeemer on his shoulder and makes for the front gate. "Don't make me laugh. There's not a single cell in that rotting sack you call a body that has changed since you first limped into this wretched fog. There is work – real work – that I should have returned to long ago. A world to shape in my vision."

"Then you better pray that world hasn't already moved on without ya, Mr. Mastermind," Caleb says, eyes fixed firmly ahead. "I know I will."

"Move on, or forget? The two are the same to you, aren't they?"

Caleb's duster whips his calves as he rounds on Wesker, every part of him screaming to make a play for the man's knife. He knows he's not fast enough. But furious desire consumes him, a savage impulse to wrench Wesker tight by his hair and slice, spilling scarlet – no, maybe inky, viscous black – all over the pavement. He'd drop to his knees, a familiar pose suddenly shot through with despair, eyes begging for forgiveness his mouth can't plead, not while he clutches a gushing wound so deep even that foul virus of his can't heal him fast enough. And when he collapses and blood blooms dark beneath him, Caleb would watch, counting each gurgling breath as they grew gradually wetter, weaker, and finally, mercifully silent.

There would be no forgetting that.

They stand chest to chest before the gate. Outrage burns high in Wesker's cheeks; Caleb's teeth are bared in a snarl. Contempt, bitterness, and crushing disappointment churn hot and thick as tar until Caleb can stand it no longer. He breaks their mutual glare and spits on the ground at Wesker's feet.

Wesker refuses to stand down even as Caleb turns away. He strides through the gate and into the night, leaving Wesker alone under the archway.

The rats pay the price.

Clean, perfect trials, no more than two dozen shots apiece, though he does permit himself a twenty-fifth every once in a while if one of Wesker's is the last alive. Caleb wants those kills for himself. At first he considered letting them go instead, just to embolden them exactly the way Wesker hates most. But Caleb's a Killer of simple wants and needs. The appeal of ripping his harpoon through the backs of their skulls wins out. Every so often a handful of Survivors would dare try to negotiate with him, but even those ones know better than to risk it now. Caleb affords them neither the time nor the mercy.

The gaps between trials shorten. Maybe the Entity is pleased by such diligent work and favors him for the moment, or maybe She just sees a job that needs doing and a fool detached enough to do it without question. He hasn't been up to the gallows in a while. Even so short a walk feels pointless when it seems he can barely get through a single glass of whiskey before he's called away again. He awaits the tugs at his collar in the saloon instead, sharing a table with some miserable feller that died right there in his seat and never left it.

He's tired.

He pauses mid-sip when booted footsteps halt at the door behind him. When he gives no reaction Wesker strides into view on his own. Caleb's eyes slowly track him over the rim of his glass.

Still here, huh? he wants to sneer. He swallows instead.

But Wesker doesn't pause at Caleb's table, nor does he head behind the bar. His head turns the slightest fraction as he passes, just enough for Caleb to be sure he's glancing at him from behind those damn shades, then carries on towards the stairs. He ascends in silence, shrugging off his long coat halfway up, and leaves it draped over the second floor railing before he disappears into the bedroom.

Caleb stares after him. He can't be serious.

Now would be a good time to be called. He waits for it, counting out the dissonant notes plunked out by the player piano for as long as he can stand it, willing Her to seize him by the throat and give him reason to walk straight out the door. Nothing comes. His chest feels constricted, his ribs squeezed tight, but not at all in the way he wants.

He downs the last of his drink in one and curses every step on his way upstairs.

Caleb lets his silhouette fill the doorway, a sight that's sent countless Survivors fleeing in all directions. Hopefully it has a fraction of that effect on Wesker. He's seated atop the worn, lumpy mattress, leaned forward so that his forearms rest on his knees, head bowed and fingertips steepled in front of him. He looks up when Caleb halts in the threshold, hesitates, then draws a breath.

No. Wesker only ever spits venom. He only speaks to injure or paralyze and if anything he says sounds otherwise, it's only because he's letting his venom act slow, granting it time to seep into veins and cloud the mind until his victims don't know they've already long gone mad, unable to remember when the fuck they started caring about things they have no damn business caring about.

Caleb is done listening. He unbuckles his belt and slides it from its loops.

Wesker's lips pull back in a snarl and Caleb can practically hear what will come next – I won't be beaten like a misbehaved child. No doubt he deserves it. No doubt he'd look damn good getting a whipping, neither. But Caleb crosses the room and seizes Wesker by the wrists instead, looping the belt around and jerking it tight before that quicksilver tongue can dart out. Wesker lets out a huff – he thinks he's won because a beating's not in the cards. Foolish. Caleb hauls him back and the rusty wireframe bed screams as he lashes Wesker to the headboard. The man scrambles to adjust but Caleb is already mounting the bed, swinging a leg over Wesker's waist to trap him tight between his knees. He snatches the sunglasses from Wesker's face and tosses them carelessly aside, then takes him hard by the jaw to get a good look at those eyes.

Brilliant, seething scarlet.

Caleb lets out a breath and yanks the front of his pants open. Wesker's mouth drops open automatically but he catches himself and closes it again, fixing Caleb with a heated, calculating look that goes straight to Caleb's cock. Caleb shifts closer, takes himself in hand, and brings his cock to Wesker's lips. Sharp, stubborn exhales ghost warmth over the tip. He traces Wesker's lips with his cock, a coaxing, teasing tenderness that strikes a scathing mismatch for the flinty glare in which he's locked Wesker. Daring Wesker to deny him. Daring him not to take what he's given and be fucking grateful for it.

Daring him to leave.

Wesker yields, crimson eyes rolling back on a groan as Caleb sinks inside his mouth. He feeds Wesker his cock slowly, inch by agonizing inch until his balls brush Wesker's clean shaven chin. He always takes him so goddamn well. Made for this, practically. Made to be here, in this bed, made for Caleb – nowhere, nothing, or no one else in this fucking world or any other. Caleb grits his teeth as he fucks into Wesker's mouth, one hand gripping the wire headboard and the other held firm to the back of Wesker's neck, keeping that angle just right so he's free to take in every detail of the dutiful desperation beneath him, the flared nostrils, the furrowed brow, the flex and release of a throat determined to take all of him. Every roll of his hips sends need surging to his cock; Wesker notices and moans around it, hands tight in their bonds above his head. He squirms and Caleb knows he's lifting his hips behind Caleb's back, aching and twitching for even a whisper of friction.

Caleb's cock slips from Wesker's mouth with a wet, obscene pop when he pulls back. Wesker is flushed and panting, lips slick and eyes burning as his gaze flicks between Caleb's face and now rigid cock. The belt has dug red rings into his wrists but he doesn't fight them, doesn't demand to be released.

As if Caleb would let him go.

Seized by renewed ferocity Caleb pulls Wesker's shirt open and smooths callused hands over the pale, muscular planes of Wesker's body. His, his, all of it his. He bends down and pinches a nipple hard between his teeth. Wesker hisses in pain but bucks his hips again, the hard line of his erection pressing impatiently into Caleb's. Caleb takes it in stride and rocks against him until Wesker's heavy breath thickens into moans, slow, rhythmic, no longer a demonstration of control but the measured confidence of possession. He shifts again to palm Wesker's cock and the responding gasp is all it takes for Caleb to lunge for the other end of the bed. He makes short work of Wesker's boots and pants, leaving the man splayed out on the bed, every part of him so taut and hard and aching that Caleb surprises even himself when, after stripping off his own jacket and shirt, he dips his head and takes Wesker's cock in his mouth.

Immediately Wesker bucks up into him, shock betrayed by a ragged cry. Caleb pushes his hips back down and stifles a smile – it seems odd now that he's never done this for Wesker before. The man gets off on servicing Caleb with such impressive consistency that it never really occurred to him, but now all that feels like time wasted: if Caleb knew a little kiss to the cock would get Wesker whining like that he'd have done it ages ago. He takes him deep, then back up again to swirl the head with his tongue before burying his moustache at the base, licking lightly at Wesker's balls. A glance up at Wesker finds him stunned, dazed with want, and Caleb locks eyes with him as he pauses to slick a finger in his mouth, then ease it inside. Wesker lets his head fall back as another groan takes hold of him.

Caleb would have spent much longer there, teasing Wesker with his tongue, stretching him, making him writhe, if every fucking sound out of Wesker's mouth didn't threaten to make him cum on the spot. He gives his own cock a few harried pumps as he straightens up, then slings one of Wesker's legs over his shoulder and lines himself up. Caleb's gaze flicks to the nightstand drawer – there's lube in there, wickedly thin stuff Wesker brought from god knows where. But Wesker's mouth thins resolutely and he jerks his chin up. A challenge as much as a promise. Caleb rises to it and presses slowly inside.

Heat and tightness grip his cock and the pleasure of it radiates through every nerve as Caleb begins to move. They've never been quiet by any measure but their mingled breath, their alternating shameless moans of satisfaction fill the room with a closeness that cleaves them yet faster together. Caleb won't last like this but fuck if he'll be the first to cum – he grasps Wesker's cock, another kindness he affords only occasionally, and strokes in time with his own thrusts. Wesker is a mess beneath him, a rag doll at the mercy of Caleb's pace, eyes squeezed shut and face turned into his bicep like it does anything to muffle the wordless pleas every rhythmic drive claws out of him. No. Caleb lashes out, seizing Wesker by the jaw and capturing him in a vicious kiss. It's their first, a desperate, heated sweep of tongues plunging for more, more, more until Wesker tears back with a cry and cums hard. It arcs over Caleb's hand, pulsing in hot, thick ropes over Wesker's chest. The sight of it is so perfect, so obscene, so his that Caleb's own pleasure crests just moments later: he kisses Wesker again as he cums too, holding him in it, emptying all of himself deep inside.

Their kiss breaks only for breath as their peaks finally subside. Even then they pant into each other's mouths, eventually coming together again, again, and once more before Caleb manages to peel himself away. Somehow he finds the force of will to loose Wesker's wrists from the belt before collapsing beside him; Wesker lets his arms drop to his sides without resistance or complaint, utterly drained.

A pack of cigarettes waits in the nightstand drawer beside the untouched lube. After a long while Caleb rifles for one, fits it between his lips and, like always, offers the pack. Wesker, like always, wrinkles his nose and waves it away. Yet again Caleb is seized by the impulse to kiss him. He could fling away his cigarette and descend on him, and Wesker would be ready for it, he'd have been waiting since the last like it was years rather than just moments, and he'd meet Caleb with parted lips and a sinfully welcoming tongue. They could stay like that, skin to skin, unrushed, unhurried in their mutual indulgence, until lust gripped them both again or else they ran across a moment of real, true rest. Neither would be better than the other. The ease and warmth of it would flow like liquid gold.

Maybe next time. They've met like this a hundred times before, and for all they know they'll meet a hundred more times before Wesker goes. If he goes at all. Maybe he's mistaken. Maybe next time.

Wesker doesn't stay because Wesker never stays. His sunglasses rest on the nightstand to Caleb's right but Caleb does nothing to make retrieving them any easier: he blows smoke contentedly over both their heads as Wesker is forced to reach over Caleb's body, then give up and climb over him entirely, muttering irritably all the way. Caleb doesn't quite catch it but he's sure it's some variation of "annoying old man." The first words either of them have spoken all night. He chuckles.

Caleb stares openly as Wesker buttons and zips himself away again with all the passion of one sorting file folders. Everything laid smooth just so, every seam, button, and hair in its proper place. Controlled, predictable, and boring as all hell. He has no idea how odd he is. Even if he did, Caleb is sure he wouldn't care. Caleb smiles to himself; Wesker catches him at it and shoots him a reproving look. Warm amber disappears from view as he slips his sunglasses back on, and he clears his throat.

"Until next time."

"'Til then."

Wesker tugs the cuffs of his shirt straight and proper, then goes. There's the slightest pause at the top of the stairs as he retrieves his jacket, then boots on worn hardwood, then nothing.

Caleb's cigarette crackles as he takes another drag. The barest tremor shakes his fingers.

Maybe next time.

Forty-two trials. Forty-two trials since he's set foot in that marble-metal high-walled headache that calls itself the Racoon City Police Station. Forty-two trials since he's seen any trace of Leon, or Jill, or Ada, or any of the less common rest from that world.

Forty-two trials since he's seen Wesker.

Not that he counts them.

That's it, then. Wesker finally set those damn eyes on the thing he actually wanted, and by Her grace he got the chance to chase it again. Or maybe he got sent to some other hell more to Her incomprehensible liking. Maybe he was sent nowhere at all and the real goal was to carve Caleb hollow like this, to make him hear the hum of every trial start and wonder whether one of the handful Wesker hates most is on the other side of it. If they're still wandering the fog, maybe he is too. Sometimes the hope of it is crushing.

But they never are, and that doesn't feel fair. Caleb does his job. He's not a Survivor. What good is his hope to Her?

Hope has no place here and you know it.

Maybe he'll forget after all, eventually.

He sits in his chair at the gallows. The seat to his right stands vacant. He smokes a cigarette, then another, then another, flicking away the ash like an offering to a campfire and watching the smoke dissipate into the unending dusk, the unchanging stars.

When the third is done he leans over his knees and takes out his harmonica. It still sounds reedy and hoarse, but the beginnings of a tune are in there somewhere. It's a mercy Wesker isn't around to hear it. He'd mock Caleb in that ridiculously superior tone of his, that hoity-toity city drawl he was too self-important to recognize was no better than the one Caleb used on him. He should've made Wesker try it when he had the chance. The boy was damn good with his mouth, maybe he could carry a tune too. Could have been worth a laugh at least. And Wesker would have glowered and grumbled and maybe chucked the harmonica at Caleb's head.

Caleb sits there for a long while and stares at the stars.

"Red Eyes, I swear," he mutters. He stands, stubs one last cigarette out on the railing, and tramps down the gallows steps.