Archive of Our Own

A caged lion.

That was the only comparison Albert Wesker found fitting as he observed his interviewee from the first-floor balcony overlooking the Main Hall of the Raccoon City Police Department.

Below, tired yellow lighting washed over high walls and a stone mosaic floor, dulling what remained of the building's former grandeur. At the centre of it all paced the man who had held Wesker's attention for the better part of five minutes.

Gloved hands tightened around the polished chestnut balustrade as Wesker watched the man move in restless circles, his expression shifting between confidence and anxiety. Every so often he would stop beside the reception desk, engaging in superficial conversation with the receptionist as she worked through a stack of paperwork.

Behind the dark lenses of his all-black sunglasses, Wesker's gaze drifted lower.

Every male candidate before this one had adhered to the same formula: ill-fitting suits, over-polished shoes, with a travel cup of lukewarm coffee in hand. To Wesker, they all looked like clones of the stereotypical bargain-bin lawyer.

It was all so painfully predictable.

Christopher Redfield, however, had taken an entirely different approach.

A brown leather motorcycle jacket stretched across broad shoulders, zipped up to the neck, while tan chinos sat comfortably against slender legs. The only formal part of his outfit—a pair of dark brown Oxfords—appeared to be an afterthought, secured to his feet only by a clumsy, loose knot.

He looked less like an aspiring member of the force's finest and more like someone one might find lingering around a pub's snooker table during the late hours of the night.

Wesker had already reviewed his records and even conducted his own extensive background research to understand how others perceived the man. Amid a track record of punctuality and proficiency in his field, accompanied by repeated praise for his ambitious and devoted nature, sat a singular sentence that tarnished an otherwise commendable file.

INSUBORDINATION AGAINST SUPERIOR OFFICERS.

A lesser man might have interpreted his attire as a deliberate act of rebellion—an attempt to challenge the societal norms imposed by those in higher positions.

But Wesker knew better than to jump to such conclusions.

To him, such open defiance of conformity was as intriguing as it was questionable.

Briefly glancing at his black-and-chrome wristwatch, Wesker pushed away from the railing and moved along the balcony. Descending the stone staircase, he looked the epitome of authority with his back straight, shoulders squared, and head held high.

"You must be Christopher Redfield," he greeted, each word rounded off by his perfectly crisp transatlantic accent. Extending a hand, he held back a smug smile as the man's attention snapped straight to him. "Captain Wesker," he continued. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Contrary to his expectation, Chris couldn't have given him a firmer, more confident handshake if he had tried.

A low, thoughtful hum rumbled in Wesker's throat. Narrowing his eyes slightly, his gaze drifted over to Officer Ryman, watching him emerge from the West Office and head into the east wing. When he looked back to Chris, he took a step backwards and inclined his head towards the staircase.

"Shall we?"

"Yes, sir."

With a curt nod, Wesker turned and set off towards the S.T.A.R.S. Office. From the corner of his eye, he noted how Chris fell into step beside him, only to trip over a step when his attention drifted towards the statue standing proudly between the central staircases.

"They named her the Flying Goddess," Wesker said, sparing a passing glance towards the marble woman holding a flag aloft while feigning ignorance to the stumble. "I am uncertain how extensively you researched the department, but the facility once served as an art museum. Following its closure in 1987, the state acquired the building and converted it for police use two years later."

Chris glanced back up at the statue. "It's… a choice."

"It is perhaps an unusual one to civilians," Wesker replied as they reached the landing. "However, the central location, combined with its extensive storage and parking facilities, rendered it a practical option."

"Yeah, makes sense."

Given the building's labyrinthian nature and preference for form over function, Wesker had little choice but to lead them through the Library.

Inside, emerald-green walls supported high, ornate ceilings, whilst towering shelves of dark wood stood crowded with literature from decades long past. With soft amber light spilling from numerous lamps and the scent of aged paper and mustiness lingering in the area, it possessed a warm, welcoming atmosphere.

Turning his head slightly, Wesker watched Chris's gaze wander with an air of curiosity.

"Are you one for the arts, Christopher?"

"Nah, not really."

Chris briefly admired the unicorn statue in the adjoining area before following the captain through the narrow doorway leading into a short hallway.

"It's not that I don't like art or reading or anything," he added. "It's just... I've never really found the time, I guess."

"There is a smaller museum on the far side of the city," Wesker said, pressing his thumb against the side button of the radio fixed to his tactical vest to silence the crackled chatter emanating from it. "Lambs, I believe it is called. Their collection of paintings is reportedly adequate, though they are somewhat lacking in the sculptures department."

"I'll, uh..." Chris stepped carefully around a janitor crouched beside a trolley, tending to an assortment of cleaning supplies. "I'll have to check it out sometime."

"Yes, perhaps you should."

They turned right, their footsteps sounding heavily against the old floorboards as they made their way down a long, straight hallway. While Chris looked at the white paint peeling from the tops of the walls, Wesker spoke again.

"I am pleased you accepted my invitation for an interview. Mr Burton was quite... insistent regarding your suitability for the role. Given he has witnessed your capabilities first-hand, and considering he is one of my trusted officers, you could not receive a better recommendation."

A faint flush crept up Chris's cheeks.

"Really?" He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, a goofy smile gracing his face as he looked down at the floor. "Guess I'll get him a few extra beers, then."

"Indeed."

Their journey came to an end at a thick wooden door embossed with four prominent diamonds. No sooner had Wesker pushed it open than all conversation within the S.T.A.R.S. office died immediately. Several heads lifted, and all eyes settled upon the brunette peering over their captain's shoulder.

With a wide smile, Barry raised a hand in greeting, receiving an awkward smile from Chris in return as he followed Wesker into the smaller private office to the immediate left.

As Chris stepped inside, his attention immediately began to wander.

An American flag stood proudly beside the door, whilst small oil paintings depicting landscapes and portraits hung from the walls inside dull brass frames. The yellow, blue, and white S.T.A.R.S. insignia dominated the far wall, overlooking a large unit, two lamps, and a broad mahogany desk. Two folders sat perfectly aligned beneath the warm glow of a gold swan-neck lamp, accompanied only by a plain white cup.

The door closed behind them with a firm click.

Wesker turned slowly, his eyes settling upon the back of Chris's jacket as he mentally read the words.

Made In Heaven.

Even now—almost three months after Chris's recruitment—the jacket remained a staple of the man's usual ensemble.

Standing before his office window, fingers prying apart two slats of the white blind, Wesker found himself reading the words once again from where the jacket hung off of a hook beside Chris's desk.

Below it, Chris sat reclined in his chair, carefully balancing it upon its rear wheels with his hands folded behind his head. Beside him, Jill perched on the edge of her desk, midway through an animated discussion about the latest Alice in Chains album Chris had subjected the office to for the better part of two weeks.

Attempting to kick his feet up onto the desk, his weight shifted too much, causing the chair to tip backwards. With a muffled curse, he lurched forwards and grabbed the edge of his desk. His head immediately turned in the direction of Wesker's office, hazel-blue eyes wide with panic as they locked onto those of his captain.

Maintaining an unreadable expression, Wesker slowly raised an arm and pointed towards Chris's computer—the silent reprimand serving as a stark contrast to his true interests.

Releasing the blinds, he took a few steps back and lowered himself into his leather chair, tipping his head back against its sturdy headrest. Running a hand through his hair—careful not to disturb the meticulously maintained slick-back he had spent a considerable portion of the morning perfecting before the mirror—Wesker attempted to relax.

The voices of Umbrella's executives—most notably Sergei Vladimir—continued to cloud his thoughts. It was as if their words were threatening to exit his mind and coil around his throat, ready to choke him beneath the weight of their expectations at any given opportunity.

With Umbrella's exponential expansion, an increase in errors had been inevitable.

During his most recent visit to NEST, sloppy, exhausted, and barely qualified personnel had been all Wesker encountered. Containment procedures were scarcely followed. Contamination had become alarmingly common. Paperwork was completed with little care, and handled with sheer incompetence.

The pharmaceutical giant thrived within the shadows, and it was there that its secrets were intended to remain.

Prior to the formation of the unit intended to clean up Umbrella's dirty laundry, Wesker had endured countless board meetings where he listened to endless repetitions of the same mantra.

Hire the best.
Train them to be even better.
Keep them in check and unaware of their true purpose.

Should any of them fail, Wesker would fail. The gavel would come down, and his head would be the one rolling off of the chopping block.

As a precaution, Wesker had selected every recruit without external influence. Through the latest hours of the night, he had sat at the desk within his home office, dissecting records with a fine-tooth comb. If any of them had flaws, or their alleged skill set failed to meet his stringent requirements, the paperwork would be in shreds before sunrise.

And yet, even as they shook hands and sifted through paperwork, the name Christopher Redfield had left Wesker with an uncomfortable feeling deep within his stomach.

The offer of employment had been a gamble through and through.

No sooner had Chris settled into the chair opposite him than most of the nervous restlessness displayed within the Main Hall faded away. A friendly, almost cheeky smile crossed his face more often than not, whilst every answer he provided remained honest, detailed, and free of inconsistencies. Whenever Wesker paused to skim through paperwork, Chris seized the opportunity to ask questions of his own, seemingly unbothered by the captain's clipped responses.

Complying with the department's standard line of questioning—and much to Wesker's chagrin—he enquired about the man's hobbies and interests. As Chris went off on an unexpected tangent about motorcycles, music, and corny action films, Wesker began to realise there were two distinct sides to the man.

At his core, he was caring and somewhat naïve. And yet, Wesker could sense something had hardened him around the edges.

It was whenever familial history entered the conversation that Wesker's suspicions grew. The slightest hesitation. The faint hitch in breath. The subtle furrow of his brow. The brief, restrained answers. All of it pointed to something lurking beneath the surface. The fact Chris provided only a single emergency contact—his sister, Claire—reinforced the theory that he must have lost some of his loved ones. Perhaps it had been fairly recent.

To Wesker, grief held value as much as it did vulnerability.

Perhaps he would uproot and eliminate the rhizome-like weakness entirely, preventing it from resurfacing and causing complications. Or perhaps, should circumstances demand it, he would wield what remained as a weapon.

Instead of probing further, Wesker simply filed the information away at the back of his mind.

Objectively speaking, Christopher Redfield had been the most suitable candidate for the point-man position. With a clean bill of health, exceptional physical aptitude, and a remarkable skill set, there was little room for Wesker to criticise.

Yet his greatest concern remained unresolved.

Throughout the interview, Wesker had treated Chris as if he were a live bomb. Each question acted as an invisible blade slicing through the wires, with Wesker waiting to discover which one would trigger the detonation.

He tested everything from political opinions to professional hierarchies, only to be met with calm, insouciant responses. Even when he dragged the man's employment history into the light, painting his dismissal in the most unfavourable terms possible, Chris barely even flinched.

Wesker tapped his pen thoughtfully against the paperwork spread before him before finally leaning forwards and posing him a single question.

"Why would I allow an insubordinate, unruly young man to join my team? Do you truly believe yourself to be above your superiors, Christopher?"

Chris's response had been flawless.

"With all due respect, Captain, there are always three sides to a story. Just because some guy wrote that I was insubordinate on paper without proper context, doesn't mean it's true."

Even now, Wesker still couldn't dispute such a statement.

Three days after the interview, Chris made his debut appearance. Clad in an olive-green tactical vest layered over a standard-issue white S.T.A.R.S. tee, dark grey tactical trousers, and polished black boots, he arrived with a twinkle in his eye, and pride evident in every step he took.

Within hours, he had seamlessly integrated with both Alpha and Bravo teams. Within three weeks, he had informed Wesker that—setting aside Joseph, whose friendship predated their employment—Jill and Forest had become some of his closest friends.

Not that it came as much of a surprise. With a compassionate nature and a determined mindset, Chris commanded respect from civilians and fellow officers alike. Even Wesker trusted him to watch his six, which meant a considerable deal, considering he could count the number of people he truly trusted on one hand.

However, with S.T.A.R.S. having spent the better part of the week drowning in paperwork following Chief Irons' decision to place them on the back burner, Wesker decided the time had come to ensure that trust still existed.

Following an exhausting meeting earlier that day—and knowing he would be descending far beneath Raccoon City for another meeting later that evening—he could not afford for his point-man to be even slightly off the mark.

Pushing himself up and off the chair, Wesker grabbed his black tactical vest from the cabinet behind him and secured it around his torso before pulling open the door and stepping out into the office.

The mundane conversation about the weekly special in Jack's Bar died almost immediately, not that Wesker cared, given his attention was fixed on one man, and one man only.

"Chris, you're with me," he said, voice crisp and authoritative as he crooked a finger. "And make sure to put on your gear and bring your firearm."

"Yes, sir," came Chris's immediate reply as he rose from his desk and began gathering his equipment. "I won't be a minute."

Wesker lingered outside the office, one foot tapping quietly against the hardwood floor whilst he waited. A few moments later, the door opened, with Chris offering his captain a faintly amused smile as he emerged.

Without acknowledging it, Wesker turned and set off down the hallway at a brisk pace, hearing hurried footsteps behind him.

"Are we going on patrol or something, Captain?"

"No," Wesker replied as he slowed, allowing Chris to walk beside him. "It has been some time since you trained, has it not?"

"Yeah." Chris nodded to an officer Wesker didn't recognise in passing. "I haven't been to the range lately, to be honest. I've spent most evenings shooting bottles and cans out in random fields."

"I am certain those have been some of your most productive evenings," Wesker murmured, his gaze briefly dropping to the pistol holstered at Chris's hip. "With the increase in nocturnal crime, I suspect we shall find ourselves in high demand before long, which means you will need to be in top form. I simply wish to assess your current level of proficiency."

"Sounds good to me."

As they descended the staircase, Chris was intercepted by the receptionist, who was attempting to move several boxes near the Flying Goddess. After offering Wesker an apologetic smile, the pair stepped aside to speak.

Leaning casually against the newel post, Wesker eavesdropped from afar. Though most of it was spoken in hushed tones, he managed to catch the vast majority of the conversation revolving around whether or not Chris was still meeting her at a bar that evening. Despite assuring her twice that he would be there, Wesker could tell the woman looked unconvinced.

Wesker folded his arms and cleared his throat.

“Redfield, is the world to wait whilst you and Miss Greene sort out the details of your social lives?"

Visibly flustered, Chris immediately stepped away, bidding farewell to the receptionist before hurrying after Wesker.

As they passed the East Office, Wesker found himself replaying the conversation inside his mind's eye.

The idea of one of his finest officers letting himself loose in a bar, doing God only knows what, left a bitter taste in Wesker's mouth. He knew Chris was sociable and outgoing by nature, but the thought of him surrounding himself with inferior people who would inevitably lead him astray irked Wesker to no end.

"Whilst I understand socialising may serve as something of a morale booster," Wesker said as they passed the Watchman's Room, well out of earshot of anyone else, "it does not seem befitting for a member of the police force to spend a Wednesday evening drinking in a bar. If you arrive late because you are hungover, I shall not hesitate to write you up."

"I—" Chris flapped a hand awkwardly, briefly glancing over his shoulder to make sure the receptionist hadn't followed them. "I can't really be bothered to go, to be honest. I just said yes to be nice. I'll probably have one beer and be home by ten."

Wesker clicked his tongue. "That is what they all say."

"Pinky promise," Chris replied, his usual cheeky grin finding its way onto his face. "And that reminds me, actually. I passed that art place last night and it made me think of you—I mean, of you telling me about it. I was wondering if you were free Satu—"

"No."

"Oh." Chris's shoulders sagged slightly as his gaze dropped to the floor. "I wouldn't take up too much of your time."

"I have plans that afternoon."

"That sucks. I mean, I could get up early and we could go in the morn—"

"I am incredibly busy this weekend," Wesker interrupted, his tone considerably firmer this time. "As will likely be the case for every weekend in the foreseeable future. I am certain Miss Valentine would appreciate an invitation, given her vested interest in history."

Chris slowly nodded a few times. "Yeah. I'll ask her. Sorry for being pushy."

"I can assure you it is perfectly fine."

But deep down, it wasn't.

Ever since stepping foot into the office for the first time, Wesker had maintained a strict professional distance from every member of the team. Yet despite his best efforts, they remained relentless in their attempts to pull him into more than just a working relationship.

Though he generally kept to himself outside of field operations, Wesker had heard the whispers circulating throughout the station. Recluse. Narcissist. Bitter divorcee. He had heard them all.

And in some ways, he understood the speculation, given his behaviour while on the clock.

When the team went to Jack's Bar on a Friday night, he stayed behind to work overtime. When they gathered in the corner of the office, laughing over something frivolous, he remained in his office. When they congregated in Barry's garden, enjoying a barbecue beneath the summer sun, he always claimed to be engaged in other events.

In his world, there was little point in investing time in forming pseudo-bonds with the fish he would one day be instructed to feed to the sharks circling in the shadows. And even if he had wanted to—which he most certainly did not—juggling two jobs left him with little to no free time to spare for such matters.

Although he felt it was the best course of action, small cracks had started to appear in his carefully constructed façade every time Jill looked irritated, or Chris's eyes lingered on him in disappointment following another declined invitation.

As they finally reached the Firing Range, Wesker found himself noticing, once again, that Chris's hazel-blue eyes had hardly left the floor since mentioning the museum.

"Go and get us both a pair of ear defenders," Wesker instructed, gesturing towards a side room as he wrote his name in block capitals on the thick sign-in book.

While Chris rummaged through the lockers, Wesker moved into one of the booths and studied the targets from afar. When Chris returned and handed him a pair of black ear defenders, Wesker jerked his head towards the book.

"Make sure you sign in."

Once both men were geared up, Chris stepped into another booth and inspected his pistol.

"The target is heavily armed and has already participated in a mass shooting," Wesker explained, coming to stand just behind Chris. "There is no room for negotiation. A shoot-to-kill order is in place."

Chris gave a firm nod as he raised his Beretta and disengaged the safety mechanism.

"Understood, Captain."

With a strike of his fist against a button at his side, the target began sliding along the rail, growing closer to Chris by the second. Bullet after bullet left the chamber, the sound splitting the air as each one punctured the cardboard silhouette's torso and head.

When the magazine was empty, Wesker moved through the side door and pulled the target from its clip, examining each hole in silence.

"You missed a vital area by a considerable margin," he said at last, running a finger across a shot that would have struck the target's liver. Standing on the opposite side of the booth, he held up the target for Chris to see. "A shot such as this would neither have incapacitated nor killed the target. In a real setting, you would have opened yourself, your team, and potentially civilians up to a counterattack."

"Sorry, Captain."

"Apologies are meaningless unless you take steps to improve."

Wesker tossed the target into a nearby box and secured a fresh one to the clip while Chris reloaded his pistol. Returning to Chris, he stepped into the booth beside him and pulled his own Beretta from its holster. After giving the weapon a brief inspection, he levelled his gaze with the target.

"Observe."

Leaving the target stationary at the rear of the range, Wesker raised his arms, his pistol pointed dead ahead. When he glanced towards Chris, he found the younger man's attention fixed on his forearms, his eyes tracing the pale skin and corded muscle exposed from where his navy shirt was rolled to the elbows. Though his gaze was intense, there was a certain distance in his eyes that suggested his thoughts had drifted far away.

Wesker cleared his throat loudly.

"If you are quite finished ogling me, Christopher, I would like to proceed."

"Oh, sorry," Chris said, seemingly snapping out of a trance as he looked back towards the range. "I was, uh, thinking about a barrel modification I might ask the Kendo brothers to sort for me."

"A wise decision," Wesker replied, flicking off the safety switch. "Your form is off. Keep your dominant arm extended and your support arm slightly bent at the elbow."

"Yes, sir."

"Your aim has been wandering a great deal this week," Wesker continued, casting another glance his way. "Keep your eyes on the target, and do not look away until I tell you otherwise."

With that, Wesker looked straight ahead, firing shot after shot until his magazine had been drained. By the end, the target's head was so riddled with holes that they'd begun bleeding into one another.

"You need to maintain the Weaver stance properly," Wesker said bluntly as he slid his pistol back into its holster, "because your lax posture is what is affecting your accuracy."

"Yeah, I guess I've been getting a little lazy," Chris admitted, rocking back on his heels with his arms folded across his chest. "You made it look easy."

"That is why I am the Captain."

For the better part of an hour, they repeated the exercise over and over, burning through several boxes of 9mm Luger rounds in the process. At the end of their eighth run, Wesker set the target down on Chris's booth and studied it in silence.

Every vital area had been struck with lethal precision, three runs in a row. A small smirk crept onto Wesker's face for the first time that day.

"This is more like it, Redfield."

Taking a few steps backwards, Wesker slid a fresh target into the clip and adjusted the supporting arm, lowering it slightly before turning back towards Chris.

Given the lack of staff actively supervising the facility, he decided it was time to push the test to its limits.

"For this next scenario, you will find yourself in the midst of a high-stress situation. I have unfortunately found myself in the position of being held hostage by a desperate armed robber," Wesker explained, positioning himself so that he obscured the target's torso while leaving a portion of the head visible above and to the left of his shoulder. "Given the immediate threat to my life, assume you have been authorised to eliminate the threat through the use of deadly force."

Chris stared blankly at him. For a moment, he looked genuinely stunned by such a request.

"I'm not shooting at a target with you standing in front of it," he said, his brow furrowing with a mixture of confusion and irritation. "What if I miss? I'd kill you."

"There is a rather simple solution to that, Christopher," Wesker replied evenly. "Do not miss."

Chris's mouth opened and closed several times. Then, he shook his head and dropped his pistol onto the counter with a solid bang.

"No. I'm not doing it." Taking a few steps backwards, he raised both hands slightly into the air. "I'll happily shoot a shitload more of those targets, but whatever you're asking is just... too far. I won't do it."

Wesker stepped closer, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Are you disobeying a direct order, Redfield?"

Chris immediately moved back into the booth, hitting both palms against the counter with enough force to make it shake.

"Call it what you want, but there's not a chance I'm pointing my gun at you for no reason."

Wesker's jaw tightened. "If I give you an order, I expect you to trust my judgement and follow it without question."

"I won't do this," Chris replied, his voice quieter but no less firm. "I'm not having your blood on my hands. I'm sorry."

"I have often wondered how long it would take for you to disobey me," Wesker snarled, stalking forwards until he stood directly opposite him, separated only by the narrow counter. "My first glimpse of the reputation that tarnishes the Redfield name."

"I'm not—"

Chris blinked rapidly, trying and failing to conceal the hurt flashing across his expression.

"I... I just—"

"I suggest you listen, and listen closely, Christopher, because I shall only offer you this choice once," Wesker said evenly. "You either carry out my order, or we return to the office, where I shall arrange a disciplinary hearing. Given that you are still within your probationary period, I suspect the outcome would not be particularly favourable from your perspective."

Running his gaze over Chris, all Wesker saw was that familiar look he had become increasingly accustomed to. Sagging shoulders. Down-turned lips. Sadness etched into every part of his hazel-blue eyes.

He found himself wanting to reach into the depths of Chris's soul, tear the emotion out, and crush it in the palm of his hand.

"You'd... you'd really fire me for not wanting to hurt you?" Chris blinked several times, seemingly at a loss for words. "Trying to fire me for refusing to do something unsafe would never hold up."

"I am perfectly capable of assessing risks and upholding safety standards," Wesker replied, briefly glancing over his shoulder towards the target. "This exercise is simply a reflection of what could easily occur in the field. In here, you are free from distractions and external factors. You have trained extensively under various circumstances, and I am satisfied with both your performance and accuracy."

He jabbed a finger against the grip of Chris's pistol. "So yes, it would hold up quite easily, given that my order is within reasonable parameters."

After a long moment, Chris picked up his pistol. Avoiding eye contact, he gave a small nod, accompanying it with a resigned, "I'll do it."

"Excellent."

Wesker slowly returned to his position in front of the target, clasping his hands in front of his body as he gave a firm, "Whenever you are ready."

Chris raised his arms, pointing the barrel directly in Wesker's direction. Sucking in deep breaths, his chest visibly rose and fell as concentration set his expression in stone.

Seconds ticked by.

The pistol remained fixed in Wesker's direction, but Chris made no move to pull the trigger. The man's Adam's apple bobbed with each swallow, and sweat beaded across his brow, both clearly indicating he was waging some kind of internal battle.

When it was clear that Chris was stalling to buy himself time, Wesker huffed.

"Any time today, Christopher."

When Chris gave no response, Wesker's jaw clenched as the hesitation begun to grate on him.

"Shoot. The. Gun."

Again, Chris made no attempt to carry out the order. The fine threads of Wesker's patience began snapping one by one until he finally decided to force the man to act.

"For God's sake, Christopher, quit overthinking and pull the trigger!" Wesker barked, dropping his arms to his sides as his hands curled into loose fists. "Do your job and shoot him before he—!"

A single brass, hollow-point round whizzed past Wesker's ear, striking the exposed side of the target's head.

For a brief moment, everything seemed to stop.

Wesker swallowed, eyes fixed on the pistol still pointed directly at him, a fine wisp of smoke curling upwards from the muzzle.

Slowly, Chris lowered the weapon, fiddling with it for a moment before holstering it at his hip. Meanwhile, Wesker turned to face the target, staring at the hole left behind as a strange surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins.

"Outstanding work, Christopher."

When he turned around, however, the main door was already closing behind Chris, leaving Wesker standing alone at the rear of the Firing Range.

After noting the time both he and Chris had left on the sign-in book, Wesker briefly glanced at the spent casings littering the concrete floor before exiting the facility. Ascending a short flight of stairs, he moved along a narrow hallway lined with notice boards before tapping a recruit on the shoulder.

"Have you seen Officer Redfield pass through here?" Wesker asked, briefly glancing at the charity event poster she'd been reading. At her blank expression, he let out a fairly audible huff. "Dark hair. Green vest. Average build. Slightly shorter than myself."

"Oh, yeah," she said, awkwardly tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "He went into the Break Room." She pointed back towards the stairwell. "He looked a bit upset."

"I appreciate your assistance, Miss."

Wesker took several steps back the way he'd come before abruptly stopping. Flexing his hands by his sides, he debated on pursuing Chris before turning on his heel and walking away, not stopping until he reached the S.T.A.R.S. Office.

Pushing the door open, he ignored the conversations that tapered off at his arrival, gaze fixed firmly on the floor. Without acknowledging anyone, he entered his office, and shut the door behind him with considerably more force than intended.

Dropping heavily into his chair, Wesker tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, letting out a nasally sigh. After a few minutes, he turned to look at the blinds, right in the direction of where Chris's desk would be. Rolling his chair across the floor, Wesker adjusted the blinds until there was a thin gap between the slats.

Returning to his desk, he reached for the nearest folder, deciding to make a start on the paperwork with the nearest deadline. With every scratch of his pen against the paper, however, his mind drifted further and further away until it returned to the vacant Firing Range.

Inside his mind, pride, ego, and the tiniest sliver of his conscience warred with one another, creating a storm so loud he could hardly hear himself think.

Ever since opening his eyes that morning—immediately riddled with fatigue from a pitiful two hours of sleep—Wesker had felt as though everything had set out to test his patience.

First, his milk had curdled—the unpleasant white lumps ruining the tea he'd been craving. Then came an infuriating set of text messages from William Birkin, half-garbled and complaining about an error during the incubation stage, causing issues with his beloved G-Virus project. To make matters worse, his shirt sleeve snagged on the front door as he left the house, and a distracted driver running a stop sign almost put him in the middle of a collision.

Christopher Redfield had been the cherry on top of his sour mood.

The man had arrived seconds before the start of his shift as usual, jacket swinging from one finger while he whistled a cheery tune to himself. Within minutes, he had struck up conversation with almost everyone until the walls reverberated with laughter.

Wesker had seldom encountered someone so naturally carefree, who had a bright smile and enough optimism to make Wesker feel physically sick. Chris had no Umbrella breathing down his neck. No needy colleagues hounding him. No long nights against his will. Instead, he was surrounded by love, and a calendar full of plans with people who genuinely wanted him.

As much as he wanted to test Chris’s skills to settle his paranoia, a part of him he preferred not to acknowledge was drawn to the man’s presence, even if only because it offered a brief reprieve from everything else.

But, to no surprise, such a feeling never materialised.

The plans Chris had made with the receptionist irritated him. His persistence in trying to demolish the walls Wesker had carefully constructed only deepened the feeling. And then, the man's reluctance to obey an order that Wesker now recognised as recklessly dangerous had twisted that irritation into something far uglier.

A shadow moving past his office snapped him from the thoughts. Wesker looked over the rim of his glasses, watching as Chris lowered himself into his chair. Within mere moments, Jill had noticed his sullen mood, shifting closer and reaching out to touch his arm. Even from another room, Wesker could tell what the reply was from the movement of his lips.

"I'm fine."

A lie, if ever Wesker had heard one.

As prideful as Wesker was, the faintest trace of guilt had begun to gnaw away at him. He had pushed what he'd describe to be his best man dangerously close to breaking point with a venomous threat he never would have carried out.

Although part of him still wanted to break Christopher Redfield apart and rebuild him into a formidable, emotionless, obedient machine of a man, another part of him felt strangely uncomfortable knowing he was the root cause of the man's deflated mood.

After a minute or two of looking between Chris and the office door, Wesker dropped his gaze back to the desk, burying himself in paperwork until the end of his shift. As soon as the clock struck five, the members departed one by one. Given his inability to keep track of time in conjunction with his hit-and-miss organisational skills, it came as no surprise to Wesker that Chris was the last one still there.

Wesker opened his door slowly and leaned against the door frame, folding his arms.

"Tomorrow marks three months since you joined S.T.A.R.S."

When Chris paused, midway through packing his bag, and looked up, Wesker hesitated before continuing.

"You have excelled in the role. You are a valuable asset to this team, and I am proud to call you my point-man."

Chris nodded before returning his attention to the tan satchel as he slid an empty travel cup inside. "Thank you, sir. Time has flown."

"Indeed it has."

As Chris made his way over to the main door, Wesker held his hand out, halting him in his tracks.

"Which, speaking of time, I would like to ask what time you intended to visit the museum, and if you would require a lift, given your truck is currently out of service."

"It's alright. You've got plans and—"

"Christopher," Wesker cut him off firmly, taking care not to sound angry. "My plans are not so important that they cannot be rearranged for the following week. Now, please answer both of my questions."

Chris rubbed the back of his neck, gaze lingering on Wesker's collar.

"Uh… any time? And yes please, if you don't mind?"

"Excellent." Wesker gave him a small nod. "Then it is settled. I shall meet you in the car park of your apartment complex at nine o'clock. Please be punctual for once."

"Thanks, Captain," Chris said, a small, almost timid smile returning to his face. "I'm glad you changed your mind."

"It has been quite some time since I last found time to visit such a place, and I believe you would benefit from going with someone capable of answering your inevitable barrage of questions."

The faintest trace of a smirk tugged at his lips as he stepped closer, resting a hand upon Chris's shoulder.

"Besides, you have been working hard, so it is only fair that I indulge your request," he said, tightening his grip on Chris's shoulder ever so slightly. "But do not make a habit of extending further invitations."

"That I can't promise, Captain."

With a final squeeze of the younger man's shoulder, Wesker tilted his head towards the door, taking a step back with a firm, "Enjoy your evening, Christopher."

"You too."

As the door slowly closed behind the point-man, Wesker caught sight of the familiar words sewn into that brown jacket once more.

Made In Heaven.