Disclaimer: Resident Evil and Resident Evil characters are the property of Capcom. This is nonprofit fan fiction.
Warnings: Slash, yaoi, m/m. Sex between men, rating M. If this bothers you, find something else.
Sunglasses after Dark
"The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist."
He was holding Wesker's sunglasses the first second, and clutching his abdomen the next. It wasn't possible; this couldn't be happening again. Gunfire bowed before Wesker; time itself slowed down when faced with inhuman speed. And then, stalemate: Wesker held a gun to his head, just as he pointed one at Wesker. Sheva thrashed about uselessly under his arm. Her feet no longer touched ground.
Wesker looked at Chris, bending on one knee, and they both knew high ground was all his. Sheva's thrashing made no impact on him; the sight remained deadly precise. He seemed to find her struggle . . . endearing.
Chris didn't move, but he wouldn't bow down. Time was running out, but not for either of them.
Then, Wesker's lip quirked inexplicably. His arm bent down, and Sheva's boots touched ground again. She was pushed out of the way and left free. Chris' surprise showed. He tore his eyes away from the distraction, dead sure his slip had signed his death.
"Deadlock," he pronounced carefully. The clipped, cool voice showed no signs of physical exertion. "My dear, you will not bring that near me unless you want it through your throat."
Sheva froze into place, clutching her knife. Wesker hadn't even turned to look.
"Get rid of her."
Chris could not afford to show surprise. He fixated on the staring match with Wesker, but the sunglasses reflected back nothing but darkness. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Sheva and kept her at bay with a jerk of his head.
Wesker, of course, did not miss the exchange. His expression was almost approving, until a harder look settled. The gun remained in place.
"Send her away, and she may live." Wesker gave the slightest fleer, and then the gun was pulled away and holstered. Without any concern for the gun Chris was still holding on him, Wesker returned to watching the hangar. "Do not take long."
Chris blinked stupidly. His feet felt asleep as he staggered up, and Sheva ran over to him, knife sheathed, a fresh clip in her gun. Chris looked back and found Wesker with his back on them, seemingly detached. He pulled Sheva with him before she could say a word and shook his head in warning; Wesker could hear them. He started emptying his pockets and loading anything valuable to her: clips, health items... Sheva tried to hold him back, but Chris looked at her strangely and brought a hand to the pouch he hadn't emptied. Sheva followed his palm, and horror-struck realization hit. Chris, no.
He had given her everything valuable and kept only the grenades.
"Get out of here. Get off this ship and don't come back. Don't stop." He could hear the wordless objections Sheva was giving him. He tried to will Sheva to understand—at least, to forgive him—but he doubted his success. The look of betrayal was the hardest to deal with. "Go, and don't look back."
All his attention was on getting her out until he heard a door swoosh. Emptiness hit almost overbearingly; from hereon, there would be no backup.
"Wise decision. Come," Wesker called.
Chris blinked stupidly. He glanced over his shoulder, and Wesker was still there.
Chris joined his side cautiously. He held on to his gun, but Wesker was no longer concerned with it. He was watching over the hangar. "What do you see?"
Chris looked ahead and saw a pitch-black future. "Makings of a doomsday. A bomber. Tanks with Uroboros virus that you plan to use to destroy the world," he finally said.
"No, what do you see?"
Wesker was playing with him, and he didn't know what the game was. "Tanks with Uroboros virus."
"You're not even trying, Chris!" Irritated streaks of blood red glinted behind the sunglasses. Wesker's fingers balled into a fist. Taking an involuntary step back, Chris squeezed his gun tighter. "What. do you. see?"
"Containers—" Wesker's expression changed subtly, and the beginnings of an inkling dawned on Chris. He raked his brain as he repeated slowly, "Containers."
"Exactly. Nothing but containers."
Chris' brain was in overdrive. His voice had lowered to a rasp. "How?"
"There never was Uroboros. You only saw samples." Wesker glanced at his side, and apparently, Chris' muted daze amused him. He spoke, almost as reciting a thought, "The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world that he did exist."
Chris' brain was in overdrive. All that he had learned on this hellish mission disagreed with this latest piece of information, and yet...
"What do you gain from this? I thought you were planning to start a eugenics war, be some kind of a 'god' to your mutated freaks."
"Why would I want to be a god to a pool of tentacles?" Wesker's face twisted in disgust. "Uroboros was nothing more than a decrepit old man's fantasy. Oswell E. Spenceh." Wesker pronounced the name with such loathing that Chris nearly jumped. "A selective pathogen that leaves no survivors? Case fatality rate: one-hundred percent. There is no use for a world that has no survivors; there is no ruler without subjects. Idiocy."
"I got you here, didn't I?"
Chris fell silent; annoyance set quickly. He faced riddles after riddles. He glanced to his side and found Wesker looking at him. The sunglasses rendered the track of his eyes unreadable, but Chris felt that Wesker was raking him from head to toe.
"You're bigger," Wesker commented.
"You're taller," he shot back.
There was a slightest tilt of expression; a tell-tale sign that the former S.T.A.R.S. Captain was amused, before Wesker returned to the view in front of him.
"All this... for nothing?" Chris said out loud. His voice was rising. "For nothing, Wesker? I don't believe you."
"How does it feel to have your purpose stripped from you, Chris?" Wesker said tonelessly.
Chris tried to ignore the comment that hit like a stab to the heart. "What about Excella?"
"Excella Gionne. Degenerate offspring of a once-prominent family. Social climber. Tactless and unprincipled woman."
"Lowlife. The world will be better rid of them."
Agitation was building up. Chris tried to understand, but rationality was making way for fiendish, betrayed anger.
"What about the civilians whose lives you've cost? All the townspeople on Kijuju?"
Wesker almost smiled. "I like you, Chris... You do not talk about innocent people. Perhaps there is hope for you yet."
"What about them?"
"The only thing wrong with talking to you, Wesker, is talking to you!" And, that once, Chris moved faster than Wesker could process. Before Wesker had had time to react, Chris had landed a terrible backhand that sent him flying. "That's for Jill!" Without pausing for breath, Chris had moved forward and dealt another shattering blow. "That's for Alpha Team!" Chris jotted forward and prepared for a left hook. "And that's—"
"Enough." Wesker had caught his fist and held it motionless. He turned his arm and Chris twisted down forcibly. A painful knee hit Chris in the chest before he was flung backward. He hit the rail and was left gasping for air. Wesker looked on, but didn't retaliate further. His voice was low. "I'll give you one, but not the other. Get over yourself."
Wesker straightened his clothes and inspected his glasses. They had escaped breakage narrowly. With a satisfied noise, he set them back in place. "Come on," he commanded, frowning when Chris was still slumping on the ground.
"I hear ya," Chris mumbled. He brushed a hand over his pants and pushed himself to his feet. Wesker was still examining him, and he matched the scrutiny with a rock-hard stare.
Wesker gave him one look and then started out, fully intent on having Chris follow. The options were short; one last look around gave little indication of what Chris could accomplish by staying back, and he went along. "What's the deal?"
"Let's not be impatient," Wesker said without looking back.
In the spirit of an offhand ceasefire, they started a trek to the location Wesker had in mind. The upper decks were void of guards, but the tanker was still moving at a steady speed. The only conversation they carried out was over the facts.
"Shouldn't someone be at the controls?"
"I think the sea can hold one freighter, Chris."
Answers weren't forthcoming, so Chris settled for tagging along. Wesker led him across the decks that had been riddled with hostiles earlier. They were empty now; there was no sign of another living being, not even Sheva, which Chris observed with gratitude. Wesker had fallen completely silent; he looked around little and seemed even less enthusiastic for conversation. They passed another container, Wesker at lead and Chris following by, just like countless others before, and then...
Chris' body convulsed. Electric jolts spread from his back to his limbs, leaving behind shocks and terrible, creeping numbness. As he keeled over, he saw Wesker spin on his heel.
"Mindless ingrate!" Wesker lunged forward. Next, he plunged his hand through the Majini's chest; it went through the bulletproof vest. The stun rod cast ominous light on the deck. Wesker shook sickening red drops off his glove, but then he turned to inspect the damage.
"Never better," Chris wheezed. He struggled to stand straight, but his hand clutched his abdomen on its own volition. He closed his eyes and fought the pain, and when he opened his eyes again, Wesker was still hovering over him, not quite touching him.
Wesker's posture relaxed just a little, but lines were still etched over his features. "There may be more. Keep close." His irritation was evident, but Chris only nodded, and they resumed walking. This time, Wesker no longer strode ahead, but instead kept to Chris' side and eyed their surroundings restlessly.
They made a few doors down, and Wesker opened the door to a part of the ship Chris hadn't been to before. They had reached crew quarters. There were smaller cabins side by side, rather than the freighter storage facilities he had rummaged through earlier. Wesker opened one last door and secured it behind them.
Chris eyed around. They had arrived at the captain's cabin—the fancy one, for in-port use and business entertainment. The room had a desk, a selection of file cabinets and counters in an even succession, technical aids. There was a separate sleeping compartment.
Chris caught the object thrown at him with a wince. Wesker had given him a first-aid spray. The man himself had turned his back on him and was rummaging through the cabinets. Chris considered turning down the offer, and just as quickly concluded that this wasn't the time for misplaced pride. As Wesker's back was turned in some illusion of privacy, Chris used the can on himself.
Wesker removed his coat and placed it away. Chris took to leaning on a file cabinet, eyes on Wesker. Wesker busied himself with the controls. Chris kept a keen eye and inched closer surreptitiously, even though he was sure Wesker wasn't going to divulge useful information in his presence.
"Getting rid of the competition? Was that it?"
The reaction was too small, just an unwilling shrug, to count as a disclosure.
"I got you here."
Suddenly, Wesker was staring straight at Chris. And before Chris had really reacted, Wesker had pressed him backward, into the file cabinet, and was pinning him by the hips. Wesker was close—much too close for any boundaries of personal space—and his face passed Chris' close enough to graze, but never touched. Wesker pulled back and remained facing him. And yet, while he was being held in place, Chris realized his hands had been left completely free.
Wesker was standing by, unmoving, biding his time. His posture gave nothing away. He was standing tall, proud, dangerous...
Something was prodding about, and he dared the devil. Chris grabbed the back of Wesker's neck, roughly, and pressed lips against his.
Wesker's head tipped, met, and reciprocated. Chris' other hand wrapped around Wesker's back. His hips came unpinned unevenly when Wesker brought a hand to the small of his back and pulled him close. The kissing continued; Chris' lips parted gently, and his grip of Wesker's neck eased into something less painful. Wesker was drinking it up.
Wesker's hold around him was purposeful and possessive. Even as Chris kept a countering hold on him, Wesker managed to shift them from the file cabinet to leaning on the counter. It was finally Wesker who pulled apart, uncharacteristic color on his lips and eyes boring through the sunglasses. Chris' eyes matched the challenge with that familiar, resolute, uncompromising determination.
Wesker's hand left his back and pushed at his hips again. Chris cringed uncomfortably as his gear pressed against his back, but he stood his ground and matched the ferociousness with which Wesker delineated his mouth. Wesker pulled back and tilted his head.
He brought gloved fingers to the strap buckle that crossed his chest, but Chris grabbed his hand.
Wesker stilled. He rolled his eyes and stretched his neck. "Fine," he finally drawled. He took a step back, flexing his arms to remove the shoulder holster. He made a show of folding the gear neatly and placing it off reach, still within Chris' line of sight.
Chris bit his lip, but he undid the buckle that crossed his chest and set out to remove his gear, piece by piece. He tore off the headset and set it aside. The utility belt that now held the least valuable items went next. He was fully aware of Wesker's stare as he undid the belt buckle, and found that eyes lingered just below the fastening. As Chris set the gear down carefully, he made sure the combat knife was prominently displayed and conveniently at hand. The counter he picked was on the opposite direction to Wesker's stash.
He ambled over to Wesker and raised a brow at him. Wesker wasted no time snaring his lips and securing him against the counter.
His pants were getting uncomfortable. Chris dropped a hand to adjust himself, but changed his mind. Chris' hands touched down to Wesker's buckle and stooped lower. He had wondered about it earlier, off-handedly, but he hadn't been wrong: the checkered texture provided good screen, but Wesker was straining in his pants. He cupped Wesker's package through his pants and kneaded. Wesker pressed against him and nearly purred. Wesker was warm, and he smelled clean: a stark contrast to his own travel-ridden clothes. And yet Wesker, whom he'd figured to be a prissy prick, was doing anything but retreating.
Chris pushed Wesker off and ran a palm over his chest. The outfit seemed hard on the outside, but running his hand over it, he could feel only lean, toned muscle underneath. He grabbed a hold of Wesker's shirt zipper and pulled Wesker against him. The shirt came undone unsteadily as they kissed, changing angles, teasing, toying... inciting. Opening the shirt got Wesker no closer to exposing skin: it only revealed a tight-fitting, lustrous black undershirt beneath. Growling, Chris pulled his glove off and dug in to stroke Wesker's chest with his bare hand; Wesker's poise nearly cracked, and he retaliated with a demanding kiss that left them almost breathless.
They took an awkwardly coordinated effort to be rid of Chris' knee pads and even chuck off his combat boots, socks still crumpled inside, but something remained. Courting, almost, Wesker brought a gloved hand, graceful and delicate, down Chris' chest, past the belt, and stroked his inner thigh. He tugged at the gun holster briefly. The earlier snarl had turned to a smooth croon. "Get this off."
The holster was removed and chucked gliding along the floor, without heed to the previous neat pile of Chris' other life insurances.
Wesker moved to Chris' fly, but he was held back again. Chris' cheekbones were more prominent as he clenched his jaw. He was a lot too late in saying this, but... "Nothing's happening without protection, and I'm not packing."
He wasn't expecting anything good to come out of making a stand. Unexpectedly, Wesker looked like a winner. "Have faith, Chris," he said. Out of his personal confines, Wesker fished out wrappers and a tube, setting them aside.
Smirking, Wesker scooped down just a little, in anticipation, before undoing Chris' pants. Face to face, Wesker grasped his length and stroked from base to tip. His hold was firm and sure; it was delicious. Wesker pressed a rough kiss on him and pulled away, and next thing, the gloves were off and Wesker was crouching, face to his crotch. Wesker gave him another hefty stroke and, unhesitatingly, took the head of his shaft in his mouth. Chris groaned.
He pressed back for brace as Wesker kept stroking him his one hand, and using his mouth like he wanted to. His other hand kept fondling Chris' balls. Chris' senses were stimulated into short circuit; Wesker was going down on him, and he was losing himself into it. He could only compliment himself on both seconds he had insisted on safe play because Wesker clearly wasn't indulging in any. Chris glanced down for a good look at Wesker: something he hadn't considered doing, on a personal level. Wesker's body language told him he was just as much into it as he was.
Wesker's sucking and stroking were having an effect, but before Chris could hit the finale, Wesker had pulled away and stood again. His bare hand was still on Chris' cock, but it was just light fondling now: nothing that would get him to peak.
"I had more in mind," Wesker said evenly, measuring him from behind his sunglasses.
"Yeah, yeah. I figured."
Wesker pushed Chris against the counter and was finally undoing his own pants. Even when Wesker was clearly intent on keeping him faced the other way, Chris twisted around for a look as Wesker was rolling on a condom. He stayed looking a little too long, only to face Wesker's amusement.
A hand on Chris' back returned him facing forward. Wesker ground against Chris, whose prick wasn't sure how to feel about the naked glory against his ass, pants brushing against his bare thighs. Anxiety and arousal vied for lead. Wesker reached forward and cupped his genitals, and Chris braced back. All too sudden, the bodily contact was gone, and he heard the cap snap. Wesker was goading him to spread up and relax, but he still jumped when wet fingers touched him too intimately. There was circling, smearing, goading...
"Goddamnit," Chris swore under his breath. His eye scrunched up at the fastidious prodding. He knew goodwill when he found it, but still it felt too much like a medical examination, and that thought wasn't getting him off. "Look, Wesker. Just do it and go slow."
A chuckle resounded behind his back, along with a blithe, "I'll be delighted."
Close enough to radiate body heat, Wesker guided his thigh up, and Chris leaned against the table. He was knocked off guard when he felt lips to his back, but then the inevitable intrusion started, and Chris found his stomach knotting. Wesker paused and, briefly, one hand wrapped around Chris' midriff and sneaked under his shirt, drawing circles around his muscles. It wasn't really helping; Chris was struggling, but he couldn't find another way except jumping at it head-on. He nodded several times too fast and steadied himself as Wesker supported his thigh with one hand and guided himself in with the other one.
Chris found his neck cranking toward his chest as he braced against the intrusion. Wesker was going in slowly, paused to give a breather and took back, even held back, for hell he cared, but it wasn't going to make getting in any easier.
A questioning sound came from behind him, and he nodded. "Yeah." Hell, he wasn't ever going to be ready.
Wesker had buried himself in; Chris could feel his thighs against his own, abdomen against his back. He dropped his foot on the floor; the earlier position was too uncomfortable without a chair to lean on. Wesker grunted disapprovingly, but they adjusted into place, and then Chris was taking on a speed trip as Wesker gripped his hips and built up a rhythm.
His near-orgasmic erection had waned away, and Chris tried to resurrect it, but the constant stimulation prevented him from getting hard. Other thoughts ran over him like a whirlwind and the sensations alternated between discomfort and stimulating. Chris braced himself tighter as Wesker sped up.
Except, suddenly, Wesker detached. Chris frowned until he found himself coaxed to face the other way. Wesker pushed him into sitting on the table, guided him close to the edge, and readied himself. Chris lifted a leg against his shoulder and, after slight hesitation, wrapped the other around Wesker's waist.
This time, the preliminary work had been done, and initiation was effortless. Wesker seemed to enjoy the increased visual; his eyes positively roamed over Chris' body, and he pushed Chris' shirt up to feel his stomach muscles. He even reached forward, his shirt flapping wide over Chris, and kissed Chris on the mouth aggressively.
Chris wasn't feeling similar liberties with the view, and grew self-conscious of his cock flapping around aimlessly. Wesker was nearly dressed; his fly was undone and his shirt open, but his attire was almost decent, while Chris was sporting nothing but his T-shirt and pride. He covered himself with a hand, but Wesker pushed his hand away and started stroking Chris himself. Chris found that the new position was incredibly intense; his prostate was nearly screaming praise at him, and he found himself hardening again. The stimulation was overpowering.
Wesker's pace faltered suddenly, and even before any audible confirmation, the final slam told Chris he'd come. Wesker seemed uncoordinated for a moment—almost disoriented. For the first time, Chris could hear his breathing, and the loss of control was incredibly arousing. Then, Wesker got his bearing and focused on Chris' dick with almost brutal intensity. Still inside, he stroked Chris to completion.
Chris' orgasm was hardly as silent, and Wesker seemed to relish the grunt and groan before Chris' body went slack.
Wesker had already gone soft by the time he pulled out, and he took care to keep the condom tightly wrapped. As Wesker stumbled off his feet and went on to clean up in the head, Chris remained dangling on the table side, sore and a little shaken, with an odd mix of relish and apprehension. Sighing, he pushed up and tested whether his feet would still support him. They seemed reluctant.
Wesker had emerged from the bathroom and tossed him a box of tissues. He was tucked in, but his shirt was still open, and moisture had pearled along his forehead.
"Thanks." Chris made for an awkward cleaning of himself and tossed the tissues away. Wesker had disappeared again. He thought of making himself decent, but the stacks of clothing and gear... Chris grabbed a blanket and fell on the bunk. He couldn't bring himself to care about his bare ass or dick; he didn't want to do anything except catch his breath.
Wesker's absence in the bathroom was prolonged, and Chris found himself dozing off.
He woke at some point when the cabin lights had been turned off and Wesker was moving about in the room. He waited in silence until steps headed his way directly. In the dark, he felt a slight dip as Wesker settled beside him on the mattress. Chris let his eyes stay closed with a heavy breath.
He didn't stir later as Wesker got up and scanned the room. Wesker picked up Chris' pants and dug into his pants pocket. He found the wallet and inspected the driver's license. He left the clothes and gear neatly piled.
Still out for the count. The voice took a snarlier note.
Chris joined the awakened kind and found Wesker looming over him. As he shifted, he became acutely aware that he was unclothed from the waist down. He pulled the covers into a tight fist over his lap and groaned.
"The ship will execute a self-destruct sequence in ten minutes."
"What?" Chris shot up.
He looked at Wesker and took no time to decide he wasn't being tricked. Modesty be damned, he threw the covers off and went after his things while giving a full view, which Wesker observed with close interest.
"You have ten minutes to leave. I suggest you make use of the lifeboats."
Wesker waved a noncommittal hand. He had places to be. He made to leave.
Wesker hesitated. There was no demand, not even audible resentment in Chris' voice; just his name spoken out loud. "We'll meet again. I'm quite sure of it."
He continued for the door but stopped. He looked over his shoulder.
"And Chris?" Wesker waited until he had Chris' attention. He conjured a devilish grin right before disappearing through the door. "Nine and a half minutes."
The devil quote by Charles Baudelaire is coined in movie The Usual Suspects (1995).
Case fatality rate (CFR) is the ratio of deaths within a population exposed to a certain pathogen.
Eugenics is the idea of genetic improvement of the human race through controlled selective breeding.
American driver's licenses have the holder's address on them.
Hearty thanks to Gypsie (Gypsie Rose) for the proofreading!
Published August 25, 2012.