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The following days were agonizing.
Chris had gotten used to receiving the short updates from Wesker. The occasional sarcastic barb. The brief update on Zeno's life. The commentary on his coffee orders.
Even when Wesker was at his busiest, wrapping up all the commitments from the end of the school year, he felt that the connection was open, that it was there, just asynchronous.
He had gotten used to the late-night texts, for all the attitude Wesker gave him about going to sleep early, Wesker was often up past midnight, busy catching him up if he hadn't had time earlier.
But after the kiss, the silence felt hostile.
He had let Wesker sleep on it, one, two whole nights, before he even tried to reach out.
Chris stared at the frozen chat, the last seen timestamp on the top mocked him, confirming that Wesker had seen his texts and resolutely chosen to ignore them. To shut him out completely.
He was going to tell Wesker to forget it ever happened, to pretend he hadn't royally fucked up by reaching too far. He was aware that he had been steadily pushing himself into Wesker's new life, encroaching on his space an inch at a time, until he was so deep he had subconsciously convinced himself that Albert would let him stay.
Jill had been brutal, spelling it out for him, but it had helped him focus on his priorities.
Chris didn't want to jeopardise the fragile friendship they had built out of collaboration and proximity, but he had gone too far and had screwed up by kissing Wesker.
If Wesker would only text him back. Call him back.
He could apologise, he could try.
Chris had wasted his evenings aggressively scrolling through the local school district’s public calendar, only to realize that, while he’d been left on read, the school year had quietly ended. Summer had started. He didn't even know if Wesker had managed to secure Zeno's spot in the bilingual Chinese-English science program or if he'd had to fall back on French immersion painting, if they had gone anywhere on vacation, or if they still went to the museum on Sundays. He had no idea what their summer routine looked like, and being completely in the dark after being so involved before was frustrating.
To make matters worse, the office was turning into a pressure cooker. The analysts were systematically pulling overtime, churning out data packets and threat assessments that piled up on his desk and jammed his inbox, every single one competing for priority with a bright red 'URGENT' flag. Everyone was on edge, gearing up for an imminent deployment. All field agents were booking extra time at the firing range or sweating through aggressive hand-to-hand drills, the frantic prep only adding to the static in Chris's head.
Predictably, Chris got the summons. One morning, he got unceremoniously dragged from his desk by Jill, led to a briefing where the impending mission was officially confirmed and outlined. The timeline was not as dire as Chris had feared; he would not be carted off in the back of a transport helicopter as soon as the powerpoint ended, but the buffer to prepare for departure was compressed as much as possible. In less than forty-eight hours, he'd be dropped in the middle of a danger zone for a rescue mission with uncertain odds.
Chris felt his stomach drop when the scheduled departure was finalized. Not because he was scared of the mission—he had been sent to more dangerous places, with worse odds—but because the thought of leaving all this unresolved left a cold, sickening weight in his chest. He was still in complete limbo with Wesker.
For all his attempts at reaching out, he had gotten nowhere. Wesker had snubbed every single opportunity to talk it out, ignoring even his weak, uncertain apology.
He was going to be out of the country, unreachable, and he didn't have the luxury of letting Wesker stew in his silence indefinitely. Chris owed it to him to at least tell him that he was leaving. And maybe not coming back, the possibility was always there.
After the meeting, Chris returned to his desk, but couldn't sit still. He chewed on his pen cap, bouncing his leg and earning a sharp kick to his chair for breaking Jill's concentration. He needed to focus on something else for a second and clear his mind, so he got a cigarette from the emergency pack in his desk drawer and headed for the unofficial smoking area outside.
He lit up and took a deep drag. The nicotine started to clear the fog, and a sharp, familiar focus took its place as his resolve locked in. Time was up. No more buffer, no more letting Wesker hide behind his stubborn silence and wounded pride. Chris wished he could just walk away and let the man stew, but he simply couldn't let it go. He couldn't stop thinking about that kiss and what it meant.
He laid down the facts. He could not throw himself into danger with this dangling over his head and consuming his thoughts. He'd be a liability in the field, and his people did not deserve to be put into danger because he and Wesker were too chicken to face each other.
He stubbed out the cigarette he had barely even smoked, having made up his mind.
The moment twelve o'clock hit, he was out of his chair, out of the building, and into his car, driving towards the suburbs with a singular goal in his mind.
He drove straight to the house, parked the Jeep on the curb in front of the driveway, not caring one bit about what the neighbors thought. There was no subtlety to his approach. He marched to the front door and aggressively rang the doorbell, with a simple plan and no courtesy text of warning.
Wesker opened the door and just stood there, as rigid as a marble statue, his expression hard and unwelcoming.
The house behind him was silent, a clear hint that Zeno was away attending some summer activity, at least.
Wesker didn't say anything, didn't move to the side to welcome him. He just stood there, blocking the way.
"I need to talk to you," Chris said, boots firmly planted on the welcome mat in a steady stance.
"You can talk," Wesker replied, without budging. His sunglasses were firmly back in place, rendering his expression a flat, unreadable pane of black glass.
"I wanted to apologize for the other night, but you have been ignoring me."
"Apology accepted. You can move on, Redfield," Wesker replied curtly. He made a subtle, definitive movement to close the heavy wooden door, expecting the conversation to end right there.
Chris didn't retreat. Instead, he deliberately slid a heavy tactical boot forward, wedging his foot firmly inside the threshold to block the frame.
"I still don't think it was a mistake," Chris said, looking him dead in the eye.
"Then you're an even bigger idiot than you look," Wesker countered, his voice carrying an edge of cruelty that Chris hadn't heard in years.
Chris didn't flinch, he just leaned a little more of his body weight into the door, keeping his tactical boot wedged firmly against the frame. He knew exactly what Wesker was thinking. He could practically see the calculations running behind those black lenses. Albert had the physical strength to shatter every bone in his foot, and they both knew it.
But Wesker didn't move.
Instead, Chris caught the subtle, irritated twitch of Wesker’s jaw as his gaze flicked past Chris’s shoulder, scanning the sunny, manicured cul-de-sac. It was noon on a Tuesday. The neighborhood was calm, but wide awake. Wesker's next-door neighbor was cooking with the window open and the radio on, and a delivery truck was idling three houses down. Raising his voice or having a physical altercation would be noticed, and he was sure Wesker wanted to avoid attracting undue attention.
Chris hid a smirk of satisfaction, knowing that he had found a way in.
"Remove your foot, Chris," Wesker hissed, his voice a low warning meant strictly for him.
"No," Chris said, matching his low volume but keeping his tone immovable. "Not until you let me finish. I’m being deployed on a mission in two days, Albert. I don't even know when I'm coming back." The word 'if' was left unsaid, but was hanging heavily in the air between them. "I'm not leaving with this looming over my head. Just because you got spooked—" The word hit exactly where Chris wanted it to: right in the man's pride.
"I do not get spooked," Wesker hissed, the smooth, composed mask fracturing just enough for Chris to spot the defensive edge underneath.
Wesker must have realized that he couldn't close the door, couldn't maim him, and couldn't let him stay at his door like that, because he let out an annoyed huff, and then he abruptly stepped back, swinging the door wide open.
Chris stepped inside, and the heavy wooden door snapped shut behind him, cutting off the outside world with a solid thud.
The house was dead silent, save for the low, constant humming of the air conditioning. Just like he thought, there was no sign of Zeno.
Wesker turned on him instantly, crossing his arms, his posture a clear indication that he was not open to conversation. He didn't ask Chris to remove his boots, either, clearly expecting him to leave immediately after he was done saying his piece.
"You have five minutes," Wesker informed him, the dark glasses fixed entirely on Chris's face. "Say whatever ridiculous speech you rehearsed in your Jeep, and then you will leave my property."
"No," Chris stated firmly, taking in the way Wesker's mouth twitched at his audacity. "I didn't prepare any speech." He took a deep breath to steady himself, because he hadn't. He hadn't planned anything of what he said so far, he was acting out of pure adrenaline. His plan had stopped at the doorbell. "I'm taking back my apology, I will not pretend nothing happened, and you will have to deal with the fact that my opinion of you hasn't changed." He took a step closer to Wesker. "I think you've become a decent person, a good father, and that you're still an ass at times. I've been carving a space for myself in your life, in Zeno's life, and I want to stay in it. And I'm wasting my whole lunch break, again, just to come and tell you that I want to kiss your stupid face." Chris’s voice echoed slightly in the quiet hallway, his chest heaving as the words caught up with his adrenaline.
Wesker needed a second to process all that—the insult, the compliments, the declaration of intent. He opened his mouth to voice a retort, but Chris didn't give him the chance. He took one more decisive stride forward and kissed him again, and there was nothing tentative about it this time. He put a hand on Wesker's nape and pulled him close, trapping Wesker's crossed arms between them. Wesker parted his lips to make a sound, but Chris sucked it out of his lungs, using the chance to slip his tongue past Albert's lips, exploring his mouth.
Wesker pushed his chest away just enough to free his hands and grabbed his hair to keep him close as they kissed, letting Chris tilt his head to the side to get a better angle. Chris put his other hand on Wesker's waist and squeezed, pressing on the solid muscles under the soft linen, keeping him close while he pulled at his lower lip, sucked on his tongue, and stole his breath away.
When he was satisfied, Chris pulled back, licked his lips, and let out a long sigh to gather his bearings.
"Ok," Chris said, his voice rough but entirely level. "I've said what I needed to say, did what I came here to do." But he was not done. "If you want to ice me out, fine. If you want to kiss me again, you have my number. I have to go back to work."
Chris didn't wait for a reply. He didn't look at Wesker's face to check if the dark glasses were askew, and he didn't stick around to let Albert come up with a counter-argument. He turned on his heel, opened the front door, and slammed it shut behind him.
The bright, quiet, oppressive heat of midday hit him squarely in the chest. Next door, the radio was still playing through the open window. The delivery truck was gone. His battered Jeep was still in front of the house, sticking out like a sore thumb. Everything in the neighborhood looked exactly as boring and serene as it had ten minutes before, but Chris’s blood was roaring in his ears.
He marched down the driveway, threw himself into the driver’s seat of his Jeep, and slammed the door. His hands were shaking slightly against the steering wheel as he turned the key, the engine roaring to life.
He didn't look back at the house.
Wesker would call if he wanted to.
He had spent months playing by Wesker's rules, hiding behind the script, and tiptoeing around the ghost of their past.
Enough.
He drove back to work on autopilot, parked the Jeep in the subterranean garage, and finally felt the tension leave his body at the familiar surroundings. He told himself to get a grip and checked his reflection in the overhead mirror. His lips were slightly swollen, and his hair a little messy from where Wesker’s fingers had locked into it. He smoothed the hair down with a heavy sigh.
He strode back inside and, walking past the break room, saw two colleagues chatting over sandwiches. His stomach grumbled, and he realized that in his urgency to go yell at Wesker, he had entirely forgotten to eat. Not that it mattered. The high-voltage combination of the morning briefing and the breathless kiss he’d just shared with Wesker had injected so much adrenaline into his veins that he felt a steady, electric buzz the entire afternoon. His mind kept looping back to the moment he had snapped, grabbed Wesker, and kissed him.
It wasn't good; he was supposed to focus, to rest, to mentally prepare for his mission. He had checklists to go through, gear to check, and things to pack. And yet, in his mind, he was back in Wesker's hallway, dirty combat boots on the spotless hardwood, his tongue in Wesker's mouth, fingers wrinkling the softest linen, the nape of Albert's neck hot under his touch, his nose full of that subtle cologne he insisted on wearing.
Chris forced himself to take a deep breath, holding it to the count of four, and releasing it slowly. He needed to return to the present.
He could spiral in his spare time. After dinner, on his own lumpy couch, after tossing down a beer.
Chris managed to hold his intrusive thoughts at bay until the first sip of beer that evening.
He said it, and he meant it. Wesker should be the one to reach out this time.
Chris was done talking. He was done pretending. He'd been slowly carving himself a place in Wesker's suburban life for months, without even realizing it consciously. And now he wanted to stay, he wanted more. He wanted to walk into his life, not tiptoe around the edges.
Jill was right, as usual.
He was gone, fucked up, head over heels. With Wesker. But the heart wants what the heart wants.
It took him too long to admit, and he wasn't taking it back.
Hopefully, Wesker would admit he wanted him back. Because if that kiss was any indication? He did. Just as badly.
Chris didn't even care that it would make the PTA moms right. He'd join the PTA. He'd do the school runs and the bake sales and the recitals and anything they threw at him. And he'd do it with a smile, because he wanted to be there for Zeno just as much as Wesker did.
His phone buzzed, pulling him out of his reverie. He checked it automatically, expecting a reply from Jill, but it was Wesker.
Trust him to go straight to the point and give Chris no indication of why he was asking. Did he want to apologize? Did he want to talk?
Did he want to make out?
Didn't matter, the answer was the same.
Any other time, he'd have added a touch of humor, perhaps, 'Why does it always have to be at dawn?' But after that lunch break, he didn't feel like playing games anymore.
Again, saying only half of what he needed to say.
Chris hit the call button, not caring if Wesker was still in the middle of a bedtime story. He knew it was unlikely, anyway. Zeno came first, always. And that was one of the reasons he fell for the man.
Wesker picked up, but there was silence on the line. Neither of them knew what to say.
"Hey," Chris started.
"Hi. You said I should call you," Wesker repeated.
"What do you want, Albert?" He tried to keep the distance between them as small as he could, so he took the deliberate liberty of using his first name. He thought he'd earned the right.
"Isn't it obvious?" Wesker asked him, and Chris grew irritated. No, it wasn't. That was why he'd asked in the first place. "I want to kiss you again."
At least it was something. Chris sighed. "You've got shitty timing. I'm gonna be fucking busy until my departure."
Wesker hummed. "I understand. I just wanted to let you know."
Chris knew he was weak; if Wesker asked, he'd hop in his Jeep for the thirty-minute drive over there just to make out on that spotless couch for a few hours. He hoped that Wesker wouldn't ask, because he really needed the sleep. But damn it, did he want him to. Chris took a shaky breath at the realization.
"Thank you for telling me," Chris said, grateful that they were on the phone, so that he could at least pretend that he still had some self control left.
"I should let you go to bed."
"Yes," Chris agreed softly, staring at the empty beer bottle on the coffee table. "You should."
Neither of them even tried to hang up. Chris didn't know what to say. He couldn't talk about the mission, didn't want to break the spell by changing the subject to Zeno. He brought the phone with him to the bedroom and put it on speaker, despite the silent line, placing it face up on the bed while he undressed for sleep.
Wesker must have heard the rustling of fabric, but he offered no comment.
Eventually, Chris put the phone back to his ear and walked into the bathroom. Necessity forced him to break the charged silence. "I need to brush my teeth now," he said, and heard a small chuckle from the other end, finally cracking the lingering tension.
"I will let you go then," Wesker said, his voice dropping into something softer. "Be safe."
"I will."
"Come kiss me again when you come back," Wesker demanded smoothly, leaving absolutely no room for an alternative outcome.
Chris opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, letting a second of silence go by before he replied. "I will. Goodnight, Albert."
"Goodnight."
Chris hung up, put down the phone and stared at his reflection in the mirror, his chest heaving slightly as he tried to process what had just passed between them.