Chapter Text
Chris Redfield wakes to a splitting headache and a cold emptiness in his bed. He groans as the gray light sears his eyes from the nearby blinds. Lurching into a sitting position, he presses his palms into eyelids until he sees patterns and swirls, halfway hoping the futile gesture will lessen his headache. He blinks away spots as he glances to his nearby alarm clock, defunct save for its ability to display time in crisp red LEDs: 1:47PM.
Terribly late in the day already, but it doesn’t matter. He’s off the next few days from the only thing between him and living on the streets. Working as a bodyguard is mind-numbingly simple: stand around and look menacing to deter potential ne'er do wells. There are no missions. No bioterrorists cursing his name in their dying breaths. No more lives slipping through his fingers, innocent souls snuffed out while he has the audacity to still be breathing. A part of him is disappointed he woke up at all.
As usual, the previous night’s events are a hazed blur, an out of focus strip of film that is unquestionably unimportant in the reel of his life. He groggily stretches his limbs, noting the lack of bruises or aches in them this time around. Moving to stand up, the harsh clink of several empty bottles are what finally startles him into wakefulness like a cold splash of ice water to his face. That explains the headache. He groans while scrubbing a hand down his face. He distantly recognizes a gnawing feeling in his stomach and can’t remember the last time he ate. Shuffling towards the kitchen of his small apartment, Chris catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror near his bedroom door and freezes.
Jesus, he’s really let himself go. On the darkest of days, sometimes he thinks his reflection serves a purpose as a cruel reminder–a culmination of his failures. In this moment, taking in his pitiful scraggly beard and heavy bags under his eyes–Chris feels it. He stares into his haggard reflection until the edges of himself become wispy like trails of smoke. His vision waivers for a moment as he notices movement in the corner of his eye, a flash of crimson and accompanying shuffling noise overtaking his trance. He flinches, turning around to face the bed. His alarm clock stares back at him: 2:18PM. The blinds clink softly against the wall from the open window’s draft.
Feeling suddenly unsettled, he makes his way back to the blinds to close the window. Had he really left it open all night? Was that why his room was so cold? A chill settles into his spine as he finally enters the kitchen to throw two slices of stale bread into the toaster. While the bread toasts he pours a glass of juice and opens his laptop to check the news and current events. As expected, the world marches on without him. Although it’s only been a few months since he went off the grid, there are still new disasters cropping up around the globe constantly. He sees the BSAA mentioned in one of the headlines and clenches his jaw as guilt needles him. Their operations are better off without him now anyways.
The stale air of the apartment is suddenly suffocating, and for a stifling moment Chris is stuck staring at the words until they become meaningless symbols swimming in his sight. He flinches as suddenly a shadow moves across him from outside his window the same time the toaster decides it’s finished. Chris curses as his juice spills all over the table, thankfully missing his laptop. Scrambling to wipe up the maroon liquid with paper towels has him feeling that prickling feeling in his spine again from earlier. Suddenly losing his appetite he glances towards the window, but the dull gray of the overcast village is all that greets him.
Chris decides he’s had enough sitting around. Hastily making his way back to his room, he pulls on his everyday clothes, glancing at himself in the mirror again to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He tries to ignore the pang in his chest at the familiarity of the black coat and pants, telling himself it’s because he needs to dress warmly due to the cold weather. But his traitorous mind can’t help but conjure images of black leather gloves and sunglasses.
Thinking about Wesker is one of those things Chris tries his best not to do on a regular basis. Unfortunately on a regular basis his mind will find some way or another to think about the man who he once called his captain back in S.T.A.R.S. He’s had plenty of time since Wesker’s death to contemplate just what went wrong, and how far back the corruption had been from the beginning. Chris had spent countless hours pouring over the Project W files–trying to rationalize to himself why Wesker had turned into the monster he eventually became. In the end, it was pointless. Albert Wesker was a man who lived to take what he wanted from others, who finally met his wretched downfall thanks to his own hubris. Rose tinted memories from S.T.A.R.S. be damned.
The brisk outside air rushes past as Chris walks further into the village with no particular destination in mind. Dull orange and red rooftops pass him by as he wanders, breathing in the crisp Spring air. He’s far enough North that it’s cold year round, and he can’t find it in himself to complain. The cold suits him just fine. He walks until his legs ache, until his nose and ears feel numb from the cold and the frigid prickling of his spine finally dies down. Eventually, as the gray of the sky becomes darker signifying the approaching night, Chris finds himself at a familiar bar.
Settling down in his usual spot, he ignores the baleful glare sent his way from the bartender as he opens his tab. The air of the bar is as stuffy as usual, with the sound of music and meaningless television chatter filling the air. Chris cracks into his first beer, grateful for the familiarity of the place and warmth of liquid running down his throat. Thankfully it doesn’t take long for his churning thoughts to turn into a pleasant buzz, and he glances at one of the TVs when he tires of people watching to pass the time.
Soon enough one beer turned into a few, which soon turned into several. Chris hiccups, laughing stupidly at one of the TVs as some of the other bar patrons side eye him. He’s fucked up enough now that just about anything is entertainment to him, and he brushes off another glare from the bartender as another bout of laughter hits him. Burying his face in his arms to stifle his hiccuping laughter he fails to notice the man that is now seated directly beside him. Unusual, considering that most regular patrons of this bar know to avoid him. He distantly hears the man order a single whiskey, and eventually Chris lifts his head up enough to regard his neighbor with droopy eyes and starts laughing again, burying his face back in his arms.
No fucking way.
Of course. Of course the man who decided to sit next to him would be wearing all black and sunglasses of all things. What were the fucking odds, when he had spent nearly all afternoon trying to get Wesker off his mind for the random stranger sitting next to him to look like this. The universe really is playing a cruel joke on him at this point. He keeps his head buried in his arms, letting out a noise of frustration.
“Would you mind clueing me in on what’s so funny?” Chris is once again stunned–this time by the fluent English from this stranger typically uncommon in this region. He lifts himself up again, swaying to face the man in his chair. The other man simply watches him while he sips his whiskey, a neutral expression on his face. There’s something pink running across his face, interrupting the otherwise smooth texture of his skin but with Chris’ swaying sight he can’t make out what exactly it is.
“Nothin’,’' Chris slurs out. “You just. Look… like someone…” He leans forward slightly, squinting his eyes. Suddenly this man has just doubled in his vision. “I used t’know. Y’know how it is!”
“Hm, I suppose I do ‘know how it is.’” The stranger drawls, taking another sip of his drink. He regards Chris with a small smile, clearly amused. “It’s funny, I was about to say the same thing to you.”
“Whaaaaat, there’s no way man, I look like fuckin’ nobody,” Chris sloshes his current open beer and some of it spills onto the counter. “Nothin’ to see here, I’m jus’ a face n’ the crowd n’ shit… But you,” Chris cocks his head at the stranger taking in the odd texture of the skin on his face not covered by the glasses. “It’s like seein’ a fuckin’ ghost.”
“Is that so?”
“But that doesn’ matter!” He downs a few more gulps before letting out a loud belch. “S’ been dead for years…”
“The dead have a problem staying dead, it seems. What with all these outbreaks over the years.”
“Yeah…I know. I know…” Chris hangs his head, setting his beer down. “That used t’ be my thing. Killing zombies, takin’ down assholes…Not anymore…”
The stranger lets out a dry chuckle at that, looking over him a few moments before downing the rest of his drink. He takes a slip of paper and pen from his pocket and writes something down, sliding the paper over to him. “How amusing. Well, I’m sure you’d just love to tell those stories sometime.” The man stands up, smoothing out his coat. “However, I find I prefer to hear it in more… favorable conditions. Take some time to think it over. Farewell.”
Chris merely takes the note without reading it, mumbling an incoherent reply as the stranger places a few crisp bills on the counter before leaving. For a while, he rests his head on his arms again, frustrated on feeling sad again when earlier he had been so entertained. Eventually Chris sobers enough to fumble for his own wallet, slapping an assortment of bills on the counter before stumbling out of his own chair. It was getting late after all.
He’s made the walk to the apartment in worse conditions, and in an even worse state of inebriation before. But this time it's made all the more difficult from the dam of his mind breaking with that small interaction with the stranger. Like a flood, memories from his time in S.T.A.R.S. are coming back to him. The parties his squad used to throw after a successful mission, the office banter, even the goddamn paper work he finds he misses. Barry’s stupid dad jokes, Jill’s exasperation at said corny jokes. And Wesker. He remembers the countless hours at the shooting range, Wesker teaching him proper form and technique to hone his aim to a razor’s edge. Every time Wesker would look at him with pride when he proved himself in the field, every small quirk up of the man’s lips when he would come to his office to chat. And the look on his face when the one surprise party the S.T.A.R.S. the team held for their captain was revealed…
Too bad it had all been all a lie from the beginning.