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It used to be a manor house.
Three weeks ago it had probably even been a nice one. Before the outbreak. Now the place is a wreck of debris and mutated corpses. Silent. It looks like an earthquake happened here, the countryside around it deathly still. Even the crows seem to have thought better of it. Which is really something, because Chris is used to seeing crows fucking everywhere.
The rooms at the top of the house should have escaped most of the damage. But the one Chris is in looks just as bad as downstairs. One of the walls has collapsed in on itself, there's brick dust and wood everywhere. It looks just as much of a mess as the ballroom, where they'd torn the final gigantic creature apart.
The broken remains of the ornate four poster bed is currently occupied. By the man Chris had been absolutely certain that he'd killed a year ago.
Wesker's lazily checking what's left of his ammunition, though Chris saw some in a cabinet across the room. There's still blood lashed up one side of Wesker's neck, from when he'd gutted the mutated dogs in the basement. He hasn't bothered to wash it off. There are flecks of it on his cheek, and in his perfect hair.
His glasses are still pristine though, and Chris isn't sure how he managed that.
It's still strange to be in the same room without trying to kill each other. Though Chris can't stop the rush of adrenaline and the hard clench of teeth that still comes every single time. Fighting him has become almost instinctive.
But Wesker isn't here to kill him this time. Instead, Wesker's here for the same reason as he is. Because it turns out it's no fun being a god if you have to share the world with a bunch of bastard siblings and their messy experiments. Of course Wesker still does exactly what Wesker wants, and Chris isn't going to pretend that this thing is a change of heart, just because their goals have been mutual for a while now.
He knows Wesker well enough to know his personality traits.
Curiosity.
Arrogance.
A need to control everything.
And a complete lack of understandable morals.
Wesker is supposed to be the villain. He's the one who's supposed to be destroying the world. He's the one Chris has always been trying to kill. Ruthless, brutal, unstoppable, and now quite possibly fucking immortal. He doesn't even need the serum any more.
Which makes what they're doing now instead of trying to kill each other - what they keep doing no matter how many times Chris tells himself to stop - it makes it stupid, really suicidally stupid.
Chris stares out the smashed window and fiddles with the shiny red jewel that fell out of the bed's canopy.
Wesker has eased back against the wall, eyes shut behind his glasses.
Chris gives him an incredulous look. "You really think it's safe to sleep here."
"I'm not sleeping," Wesker says simply.
"Too much in your blood that isn't human?" Chris offers. Wesker's proven himself almost immune to insults. But that doesn't even seem to matter any more.
"Or maybe it's the whelp who won't stop talking," Wesker says without opening his eyes. He doesn't seem bothered in the slightest by the idea that Chris might drag a knife out of his armour and slice his throat open.
Even if his armour is fifteen feet away - and half underneath Wesker's gear. Spilled on the floor together like they could be friends.
"If you were going to try and kill me you would have done it, already." Wesker's slow drawl is half mocking. "You would have done it the first time we ended up here, or the second. Before you'd had a chance to think about exactly what you'd done. Action without thought. The perfect soldier. I know you like to think about it though. You probably fantasise about killing me as often as you do about fucking me."
"The more you talk, the more I'm tempted," Chris says. But he's already relaxed against the wall, even though he's fairly sure he shouldn't. That he shouldn't get used to this. The cold of the stone seeps through the warmth of his t-shirt. He tips his head back, hair picking up tiny pieces of grit.
"Stabbing the person you're fucking is bad manners, surely?" Wesker adds.
"I don't trust you."
There's a rumble of amusement. "I wouldn't respect you if you did. I'm very untrustworthy. You might say pathological."
Neither of them mentions how much heavy ordinance it took to take Wesker down the first time. Or the fact that he came back without so much as a scar to show for it.
From fucking lava.
Chris wouldn't say no to the opportunity to try again. Working this closely together, he can't help but tell himself it could be done -
Wesker's smiling at him, as if he knows what he's thinking. Like he's daring him to do just that.
Chris closes his hands into fists.
Wesker's hand ends up round his throat before he can even process it, clenching tight and throwing him down into the sheets. There's a shower of dust when he hits, hard enough to knock the air out of him.
"We could go back to fighting if you like." Wesker's voice is full of amusement and threat.
Chris digs his fingers into Wesker's wrist, nails clawing at the edge of his glove, but he knows there's not a chance in hell of him prying it free. He can hear his own breath whistling in, and he knows that one more squeeze will shut his throat up completely.
"I can't say I don't miss fighting you. I always liked fighting with you more than anyone else, Chris."
"I noticed you always trying to get my attention," Chris chokes out. Wesker's grin stretches out sharp and white, but his eyes are nothing like human. When Chris's knee jerks upwards he shoves it sideways.
"Consider this a more interesting way to crack a rib or two. And I intend to."
"Fuck you," Chris spits. Because it's bad enough that they do this at all. Without dragging it out into the open and giving it words. Without Wesker holding it over him like it's just his weakness.
"Are we switching today? We've never done that before."
Chris inhales and swears, but it comes out as a choked mess of noise.
Wesker's hand flexes warningly. "You've never quite been motivated enough to put me on my back. Though you're welcome to try."
Chris lifts his other hand and pulls Wesker's glasses down. The pupils of his eyes narrow quickly in the barely-there light but there's a faint but noticeable loosening of his fingers. He's always willing to let Chris surprise him. But Chris doesn't pull them down any further. He pushes his fingers into Wesker's perfect hair instead, pulling all the strands out of order. Wesker's growl of irritation is loud but he doesn't try and wrench away. Doesn't tighten his grip.
His armour is slippery under Chris's fingers, but he grasps hold of it anyway, brings him down until they're breathing against each other. He intends to bite hard enough to draw blood - Wesker tastes sharp and bitter and his mouth is hot inside like he's another species altogether, pulse impossibly fast in his throat. Chris kisses him hard enough to hurt, tangles fingers in his hair and closes them tight until there's a rough exhale that sounds...not quite pained, something else instead.
"You're trying to distract me." It comes out slow and deep.
"And you're going to let me," Chris says, fierce and strangled.
"Sure of yourself." Wesker voice is mocking.
But he lets Chris wrench him back, lets him catch his laughing mouth and crush it, until Wesker is just breath and arrogance - and suddenly Chris can breathe properly again, as Wesker's hand moves to hold his jaw rather than his throat.
Wesker's eyes are animal behind his glasses, expanding in a way that they shouldn't be able to. His head drops, mouth moving from the line of Chris's jaw to the side of his throat. The heat of his breath leaves Chris stretching and swallowing - the sudden dig of teeth is hard enough to break the skin.
Chris hisses and shoves Wesker away, hand going to his neck.
"Ow, you son of a bitch." His fingers come away bloody.
Wesker draws back, laughs, and the white flash of his smile is now striped with red.
"What the fuck am I supposed to say about that? I don't heal like you do, you bastard."
Wesker's tongue slides over his teeth. "Tell them one of the villagers did it, tell them whatever you like. I don't care."
"You're fucking insane."
"Who better to take into a den of monsters," Wesker says simply.
His hands drop, dig into Chris's waistband. Something tears and Chris wants to punch Wesker in the face, break his teeth, wipe that smile off his face at least. But instead his fingers are clawing his shirt up his back, pulling it high and dragging it over his head.
Wesker's hair ends up fallen over his forehead, covering his glasses in pale lines. It makes him look something close to human. Until his eyes flash through glass, fix on Chris's, bright and sharp and wrong. Chris doesn't know why they're even doing this, when Wesker is one of them. Why Chris lets him, when he's never fucked around before, never crossed the line with people - good people. He doesn't understand.
"I hate you," he says simply.
Wesker laughs. "Of course you do."
Something pops in the bed and Chris grunts in surprise, misses his shirt getting hauled over his head, or the way his belt and pants are now undone.
That's when Chris swings. Though Wesker's more than ready for it, twisting Chris's hand back and pinning it up under his jaw. Chris doesn't have enough room to try and knee Wesker hard enough to hurt. Or even get him off him. He twists, strains against his grip.
"Is that all you've got," Wesker barks. "I'm disappointed."
Chris gets his other arm up and hauls Wesker down hard enough for their heads to clash. The man has a head like a fucking wall, he doesn't even crack his glasses, and Chris is left blinking away spots. But he has both arms free again, and enough momentum to twist a knee back behind Wesker's and roll them on the bed, which gives an almighty crack underneath them.
Chris is the one undoing Wesker's belt then, which for some stupid, confusing reason is more complicated than his own. He settles for pulling the knife out of the man's boot and slicing the whole thing in two. Wesker grunts like he's impressed, then steals the knife from him in one sweeping movement, slams him down onto his back again, and jams it up under his chin.
Chris can feel a trickle of blood running down his neck.
"I advise you to stay still. I'd hate to have to explain how I unintentionally drove ten inches of steel into your brain."
Chris glares at him but doesn't move.
"You really do need to try harder." Wesker sounds disappointed. He uses his other hand to unclip the holsters Chris is wearing and fling them hard enough to hit the wall. He tugs his jeans down carelessly, denim scraping the skin. All the lacings on one of his boots snap when Wesker tugs it free and throws it over his shoulder.
"Could you not rip all my fucking clothes."
"The thought had crossed my mind," Wesker says. Though he clearly has no intention of stopping.
Chris shifts away from the heat of Wesker's hands, and the knife point digs in, just a little.
"Get that thing off my fucking neck," he snarls.
"I don't think I trust you to behave otherwise."
"Wesker."
"Spread your legs," Wesker demands. "And I'll think about it." The tone of voice is flat, but the pressure against Chris's thigh is brutally hard. Wesker laughs and presses down like he knows Chris can feel it.
Chris exhales, glares and then very slowly shifts his thighs open around Wesker's waist. The other man doesn't waste a minute pressing in close, grin a thousand miles past trustworthy. But the knife tilts, and then very slowly eases down and away.
"Behave yourself or I'll put it through something less vital."
Chris knows for a fact if he gets the knife he's putting it straight through Wesker's chest.
Or his throat.
But he grunts impatience when Wesker strips off one glove and carelessly tosses it onto his chest.
"Get on with it." Chris doesn't mean his voice to shake out like he wants it. He never does.
"Always so impatient," Wesker says slowly, but doesn't disappoint him. A long hand pushes one thigh up, fingers trailing down the back of it. After a pause there are two fingers pressing into him, slicked up with god knows what, and sliding all the way in deep. It's a long burn that isn't even half as unwelcome as it should be.
It leaves him exhaling and cursing, and spreading his thighs just a little more - hating himself for it.
"It's because I'll always give you exactly what you want," Wesker says, in response to the noise Chris makes. Chris's thighs tense then shake, but he refuses, fucking refuses, to push back into Wesker's hand. The bastard doesn't deserve it.
The fingers slide free and Wesker pulls sharply on his thighs. Chris swears and jolts untidily down the bed, one leg drawn over Wesker's shoulder, the other pushed open to the side.
There's nothing clinical about the steady, aggressive push that opens him up. He's not quite slick enough and it's more than a burn this time, something that's all edges and warfare.
Chris can't be quiet for that.
"Fuck," he breathes out, then bites his lip and groans. One hand fold round Wesker's arm, the other flung over his head to grip the broken wood of the headboard
Wesker's fingers dig into his thighs, pale on one side and leather-clad on the other.
"Next time," Chris manages through a groan. "I'm fucking you."
"You have to earn it first." Wesker says smoothly.
Chris tenses his thighs and tilts his hips up and listens to Wesker grunt out a breath when the angle goes deep and raw.
"I'll stick a knife through your heart and hold it there while I fuck you," Chris hisses and he manages to pretend that he wouldn't enjoy that. Pretends the thought is as horrible as it should be. Like a normal person would find it.
Even though they're both anything but normal.
Wesker smiles with nothing but his teeth, and braced over Chris his glasses are just black holes in the darkness.
The pace is all his, even though he can't be trusted with it. He can't be trusted not to make this brutal and there's always a threat there, always a whisper of breaks and bruises and blood under the surface. When the sex goes harder than it should, harder than is sensible. Sometimes it's the possibility that makes it good - and Chris has killed too many damn monsters. Because he knows how fucked up that is.
Chris is already shaking, thigh sliding damp on Wesker's waist, muscle dug into his hipbone, where the cut-through waist of his pants hangs. It's too real, it's always too real. Like there's too much to be seen when they're together like this, together in ways they shouldn't be. As if the nightmares and the past don't matter.
Wesker curls over him, body too hot, fingers too sharp. It's possessive and angry and triumphant, every damn time. Chris has no fucking idea what he's thinking. This is a fucked up, vulnerable position to be in. Wesker could kill him like this so easily.
He could kill him.
Every time.
And there's nothing he could do about it.
Chris's eyes roll up in his head and he's gasping and choking and tightening in release. This is the only time, the only fucking time he ever hears anything human from Wesker. That soft indrawn breath that hitches and splinters into a quiet groan.
Ten seconds later Chris is empty, and still breathing. There's a gloved hand tracing the damp curves of his stomach muscles, sliding through the mess of his own come in a way that's lazy and almost smug.
"Still alive," Wesker says slowly, and the bastard sounds amused.