Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Prologue 

There were many red flags that you ignored if you took a hard look back on your life. Reflecting on the moments that you worked side by side with Albert Wesker in S.T.A.R.S. all those many years ago. 

Well, not side by side technically speaking. He was your superior after all.

And at this very moment, he’d still call himself your superior even if your formal ties with him ended that night he betrayed the entire squad.

How long had it been? Ten years?

Funny how moments in your life could play back perfectly as if rewinding an old VHS tape over and over again, while others became distant blurs. Lines distorting and corrupting to the point of questioning if it ever occurred in the first place. But every moment with Wesker was vivid. It always had been. The betrayal alone caused his memory to linger and haunt you.

But now?

It consumed you.

Constant isolation from the others in moments of downtime only assisted in that. You were not entitled to socializing here, unless of course it was with him.

Reminiscing on it all, you certainly realized that small things here and there should have shown you that something wasn’t right with him. He wore his tie a little too tight. He lacked emotion even in the delivery of lines that would warrant them. But instead, you ignored it and were now plagued with overanalyzing each and every interaction you ever had with him before your imprisonment.

But… logically speaking, you really could have never guessed this man was going to turn into... all this. That simply didn't happen. It was something out of a piece of fiction.

The captain of your squad... a man you admired, respected, and looked up to. A man that painstakingly trained you and made you feel like you could make a difference in the world one day. With one terrible night, he was able to erase all that and end multiple lives in the process.

And how ironic it is that now you were going to change the world, by his side… and change it into something terrible. Something you absolutely did not want to do. Blackmailed into submission, as he knew you'd risk your life to save anyone you cared about.

But it was starting to reach a boiling point. You were starting to get desperate. You needed to get out of here or sabotage his work… or something…

You couldn’t take much more of this and having Jill's life flaunted in front of you as his bargaining chip to your compliance..... 

Two Years Before The Mansion Incident


When you first met Albert Wesker, it was brief.

You were introduced in passing, rather than the formal introduction you expected when meeting one's supervisor. You were being led by someone from the Human Resource department around the police station. The grand tour as they put it, which was welcomed, but it felt more like you were being led around by a museum docent as you passed statues and art pieces that seemed both out of place and exactly where they needed to be.

What a strange place to house a police station became a reoccurring thought.

Although you always lived in Raccoon City, you never had run-ins with the law that required your attendance in such a place. It felt ironic that somewhere with such beauty could host the city's worst degenerates. The thought crossed your mind of someone sitting around in handcuffs while finding their muse within a painting of a white horse over a country landscape.

But somewhere along the path to the S.T.A.R.S. office... it happened.

You ran into the man that would forever change the trajectory of your life.

Somewhere between flyers advertising a police department's chili contest next month and a detective passing by harshly barking into his phone about the printer being out of toner....

...the devil himself approached quietly in a S.T.A.R.S. uniform.

“Oh, my, actually----” the woman escorting you beamed. “This is your captain right here. Captain Albert Wesker." Her eyes were glued to him the moment he came into sight. She stepped to the side to allow the flow of the hallway to continue past her.

"Captain Wesker!" She waved her hand in the air to get his attention. "This is your newest recruit for the Alpha Team.” The woman said your full name to him while gesturing toward you as if you were on display in a shop window.

“Sir,” You spoke respectfully with a small smile, nodding your head to him. “Nice to meet you.”

Getting your first look at him, you found him handsome. Who wouldn’t? 

It was clear this woman beside you thought the same thing. It was not hard to notice the way her smile morphed into one that was vastly different from the curved grin she was giving you as you made your rounds in the station. How the fake professional kindness that she had to project out suddenly turned into a sincere smile of admiration. The way she adjusted a lock of her hair over her shoulder and turned her body to give him a better view of her.

The man stopped just before the two of you, lacking any sort of emotion on his face.

You would have stuck your hand out to shake his, but his arms crossed as he listened to your tour guide speak before his neck turned to let him eye you.

Once he made a complete stop in his walk, you were able to gather that this man was very... very tall. Towering over you with enough height that caused your chin to tilt upward.

If that wasn't imposing enough, on top his head held thick blonde hair slicked back in a way that you wondered if it ever fell out of place. While most men were starting to suffer receding hairlines by their late twenties, this man put them all to shame with how his held onto its youthful fullness even into his mid to late thirties, which is what you guessed him to be.

Perfectly styled as if he spent meticulous time on it every morning. You bet he had a comb handy for his well-kept locks. It seemed too well managed to be something left to chance all day, especially in a line of work that required physical activity frequently.

A chiseled jawline was held firmly together in a stoic line. Not an ounce of imperfection on his skin. He wore a tactical vest with a dark blue shirt underneath. It was rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that were well toned and indicated that the rest of his body under that uniform must match in its definition, though you wouldn't describe him as bulky. His height certainly assisted where one may think he lacks build.

But who knows? You had seen your fair share of men in the army that seemed to have normal builds. But then upon ripping their shirts off during one of their little tomfoolery sessions in the desert, you'd be doing a double take at the abdomens that came into your sights.

Okay... enough checking him out.

Man was blessed with good looks. You get it. The woman next to you got it.

Question was did he get it and let his looks go to his head? Because most people you knew to look as good as this tended to know it and let it create an air about them that was rather infuriating.

But more importantly... (and the only thing you could actually focus on) was the strange addition to his body shielding his eyes from you.

A dark pair of sunglasses.

That was what took you out of your brief once over and instantly brought about a feeling of intimidation.

You were not easily rattled by men, but this oddity stirred something in your gut that wasn't too pleasant. It was the middle of the goddamn day in a hallway and this man was wearing black tinted glasses hiding his eyes from the world.

It was the only thing about him that gave slightly douchey vibes. Maybe majorly douchey, but what did it matter to you?

Maybe his personality didn’t match the way he presented himself.

You gave him the benefit of the doubt and thought – it must be prescription ones that change when you go in the sun and he was recently standing by a window or just outside.

But you’d later find that no, in fact... he did just wear them constantly and others made off-handed comments about it because it seemed unnecessary and off-putting.

There was a chance he had sensitive eyes. Perhaps an injury from the military, as you'd come to find out he served after eyeing the many prestigious awards littering the wall in his office.

Or maybe it was just his ‘thing’. It certainly projected an air of arrogance on him.

Being unable to see his eyes often led to making it hard to read him. Relying on subtle body language and his mouth to indicate emotions. But at that current moment upon first meeting him, his body language indicated an aloof reaction. Perhaps slight irritation to be stopped in his walk down the hallway as if he had bigger and better things to do with his time.

Still, he remained standing in front of you. Looked you up and down (well you assume he did) and simply said, “Rookie,” as your form of acknowledgment.

Then he kept walking.

That was it.

One word was all you were good for.

The absolute disinterest in meeting you or regarding you clung to the air even as he started to vanish from view and turn the corner. To you, that was… not how you wanted to meet your captain, but again, you tried to tell yourself he probably was busy and didn’t have time to chat. 

You knew the squad you were on was rather small, so there would be plenty of time to get to know him as the days rolled on. At least that's what you told yourself, trying to ignore your gut as it found alternative ways to label him an asshole.

So began your life under Captain Albert Wesker.

The happier days masking the dark truth that was brewing unseen to your entire team.

You were instantly drawn to Jill as you started to find your bearings. She was easy to talk to, had a hilarious sense of humor, and listened to similar music as you -- even knowing a band you swore only five people on the entire planet knew of. When you or she had downtime, you’d often be seen in each other’s company. Perhaps having another woman in the ranks assisted in this pull you had to one another. 

Both knowing and experiencing the hardships of having to work twice as hard to prove yourself in a career that only recently allowed women to pursue.  But so far, no one in Alpha squad seemed to hold that aspect over your head or Jill's. 

Chris was the other member of your team that you felt connected to rather quickly.

He too was very handsome, but more in a rugged boyish way and it intimidated you sometimes to find yourself training alongside the likes of him. He put a lot of men that fought alongside you in the military to shame. He was fantastic and his giant flaw was that he knew he was fantastic. He was the best shot this side of the Mississippi. He still held these young bright eyes that wanted to go out every night and enjoy downtown. He'd whistle at an attractive woman within a magazine and try to get Barry to give him some sort of agreeance.

Barry was one of the oldest on the team, a family man with a wife and children. He held a great sense of humor that slipped out here and there, but often he was quiet. His witty remarks would come out of nowhere and leave everyone nearly in tears. Brad was a bit on the younger side, excelling at his pilot skills. Joseph was one of the quieter ones but greatly excelled at disarming bombs.

Everyone in S.T.A.R.S. held their own unique background. Most were in some form of previous military and you found yourself not being the weakest link to the group when it came to overall skill. That award went to Brad, who seemed to have Wesker's office door becoming a revolving one with how often his name would be yelled out for an audience with the captain. One that would leave Brad looking rather dejected upon dismissal. 

When it came to your particular set of skills, six years in the army had you excelling at stealth and using a sniper. Something that was difficult for many. Besides the gun itself being a heavy load to cart around in the field, moving targets from far off distances were tricky. One wrong move and everyone's position is given away.

But you trained hard and could hit targets far away with ease at this point. Close and personal encounters were a bit more difficult for you, but you tried to practice when you could. Still, when you excel at one skill the army tries to trap you into performing it more. So you didn’t get to practice with a knife or handguns as much as you’d liked. They kept you practicing with far-away targets or hitting things while in a helicopter.

That was one of the main reasons that S.T.A.R.S. claimed to desire you within its ranks.  They said it was for your sniper skills, needing someone on the team that could take down a target from a distance. But you knew it had to be more than just that. The team was hyped up to you as an elite force and they would train you in the areas you lacked, to bring you up to your optimal status.

And so it seemed this was your new path in life.

For now.

The training was the bulk of the job. There was paperwork and investigating leads that were more often than not, nothing but a false alarm. You'd assist in major robberies, hostage situations, and the occasional lost hiker.

You held missions every so often that would get your heart racing. The skills of your Alpha Team became very apparent when you were out in the field and you all worked very well together. Even if someone made a mistake, it wasn’t held over their head…

...well unless Wesker saw it.

You knew you should have trusted your gut on him.

It no longer was the thought that he might be an asshole. He was an asshole.

When it came to Wesker, he was very formal as your captain. Professional in every sense. Precise, decisive, and organized.

You could sense his ex-military side influencing his strategic planning, whenever he’d brief you all on your next mission. A sense of Deja-vu to your own experiences with former leaders you served under.

There was always an air of uncertainty when he barked someone's name and demanded them to enter his office. Never quite able to tell, if you were about to be asked a question or if you were in for a ten minute lecture about how you royally fucked up. His voice held an accent uncommon to this area and while he never outright yelled loudly, it held firm confidence in every syllable and enough weight to have you following whatever he asked of you. 

He didn’t praise much, but he certainly always had time to point out when someone was doing something wrong.

He seemed to expect perfection out of everyone and even then it wasn’t enough for his taste.

Never satisfied by good -- he wanted perfect.

Most of your first personal interactions with him after that initial hallway exchange were simply orders. Orders to go train. Orders to research information and file away stacks upon stacks of paperwork. Orders to go out and investigate something. Orders to clean specific areas.

It was a few brief sentences and that was that.

You would often see him chatting more to the other members of S.T.A.R.S. and deduced that maybe since you were new, he didn’t know if he could trust your abilities and contributions to the team. You thought you had to prove yourself. So, you always did your best and tried to go above that to push yourself whenever he’d be watching. Particularly when you were training for combat.

He didn’t attend all your training sessions as a squad, but when he did and you knew his head tilted in your direction, you wanted to look good. If you were going down this path for your career, you wanted to eventually move up. Impressing the captain would certainly help that.

But instead of praise, he often would walk by, belt out a suggestion or critique something and keep moving.

It was starting to feel like nothing was ever good enough for him when it came to you. You had heard the far and few between compliments he’d give other members of S.T.A.R.S., but you had yet to receive even one indication that he was satisfied with you being a part of the team.

Even when you completely knocked Chris on his ass for the first time ever while sparring with him, Wesker looked at Chris on the floor --- then at you --- then rattled off the way you took him down was too messy and you left your left side open for another attack.

It felt like you could suddenly sprout wings in front of him and he’d tell you that you didn’t have enough feathers.

Or you could present him with someone off the World's Most Wanted list all pretty and wrapped in a bow with handcuffs and he'd say you it took you too long to complete the task.

So overall, you found him to be a douchey guy in sunglasses with a stick up so far up his ass that you could see the end of it when he opened his mouth.  Handsome, yes… this was still true… but that didn’t help make him less of a thorn in your side.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he constantly reminded you of being the new person on the squad. 

“Raise your arm higher next time, rookie.”

“Stop slouching like that while you sit rookie.”

“Stop bringing in snacks with peanuts in them rookie, Brad is allergic and our EpiPen is expired.”

“You’re going to end up with a knife in your chest with moves like that rookie.”

“Iron your uniform better, rookie.”

Oh, it pissed you off to no end. Was this his form of hazing?

You mostly just took his seemingly foul attitude towards you. Remaining silently irritated, but offering a nod of acknowledgement. Maybe a quiet yes sir  here and there. But after enough times, your mouth was itching to return fire. You were practically suffering from lockjaw from how tightly you held it shut whenever he'd appear to let you know how awful you did something in his eyes.

You knew one of these days you were going to snap back at him.

It be one thing if you sucked and he ran his mouth. Then whatever. You deserved it. But you were checking all the boxes and held skills equal to those around you. You were rather good with people too. Often able to strike conversation with anyone, even the hard-asses.

But Wesker was this wall you could never seem to find a weak spot on. Any attempt at conversation that wasn't about your skills, was quickly shot down with one word answers or a simple nod of acknowledgement. It was as if he had absolutely no interest in anything to do with you. After enough attempts, it seemed like wasted effort. And you weren't trying to kiss his ass, you merely wanted some shred of conversation with him to allow you to feel like he actually considered you a person and not a checklist of flaws that he ran in his head upon seeing you.

“God damn...he has a stick so far up his ass today,” You groaned to Chris privately, finally letting the world hear your first outward insult towards your captain.

This occurring after Wesker told you he saw better aim from a blind and armless granny after you missed only two of your ten shots on a target. You were finally getting in that practice with a handgun and for it not being your main weapon of choice, you were still doing it rather well. But as usual, he was not satisfied.

You pulled the empty mag out of your handgun and placed it on the counter in front of the targets, "I bet even if I hit all of them, he'd complain it wasn't fast enough. Or my arm wasn't in the right position."

This drive to impress him just to shut him up was starting to eat away at your thoughts. You never experienced this before. Someone pushing you like this, with no sign of gratitude. Even your military superiors would give some praise once and a while. It really felt like he hated you. Maybe he didn't want you on the squad? Perhaps he was fine with the number of members he had and then he was forced to add another -- you.

And now his attitude was a roundabout attempt to get you so pissed you'd quit?

But then again, hadn't you heard that Wesker himself was the one to handpick the candidates from the pile of applicants? Maybe you misheard. 

“Relax, rookie." Chris chuckled.

"Hey don't you start too," You pointed at him narrowing your eyes with a grin.

Chris shook his head with one side of his lips curving upward, "He just hasn’t warmed up to you yet. That's all. It takes time."

Chris too had missed a few shots, but he certainly wasn’t receiving the unwanted peanut gallery comments Wesker was spewing earlier. All he got was a keep it up Chris, which was spoken as if on purpose after Wesker reamed you a new one as if to further drive the knife into you.

“Oh yeah? How long before he was off your back?” You asked him while reloading your gun.

“You act like he’s not still on my back,” Chris grinned shaking his head.

You internally rolled your eyes. Sure, it's easy for Chris to say that. He was the golden boy.

It didn’t take many days within the ranks of S.T.A.R.S. to see that Chris was Wesker’s go-to person. If Wesker was out roaming the area where all your desks were, he often spoke few sentences to others, but to Chris, it would be held conversations. And if Chris was summoned to Wesker’s office, he always walked out in a good mood (9 times out of 10), while if Jill, Barry, or Brad was summoned, they would leave looking irritated or stone-faced.

You hadn’t had the pleasure of being summoned to his office yet and were thankful. You didn't even want to fantasize how that would go, because a one-on-one session of him on his high horse with a checklist longer than freedom trail full of all the things you did wrong in his eyes sounded dreadful. And it would likely lead you to the bar afterwork. So the longer you could keep yourself out of his office -- the better.

It made sense though to see that Wesker would take Chris under his wing like that. Chris was the most well-rounded person on the team. And anything he didn’t know, he was able to learn rather quickly. You resisted the urge to protest Chris’s claim and point this out. 

“Give it another month… you’ve already proven yourself to the squad.” He said confidently. 

You both fired another round of shots into the target. You only missed one this time. Internally you could hear Wesker's voice saying not good enough rookie, even without him looming in the background.

Chris placed his gun on the table. He sensed that you weren't satisfied with his answer, so he offered, “Ooorrr.... come out for a drink with us sometime. Maybe that will get him to lay off a bit. See him after-hours and relaxed. Sometimes he even takes his sunglasses off," Chris chuckled under his breath.

“He actually goes with you guys to get a drink? I can't picture that man ever being relaxed, let alone out drinking with you all.” You asked with a laugh of disbelief.

The Bravo Team was often spotted out together with their captain, Enrico. Although he was of the ‘same rank’ as Wesker, Wesker still held seniority over him and the division as a whole. Sometimes you wished you were under the Bravo Team, as it came with the perk of having a much less annoying squad captain. Enrico was kind and funny. The man always made you laugh when he spoke with you. Hell, he already had complimented you here and there for feats he witnessed.

Meanwhile, you don’t recall Wesker ever laughing... even once. And his grins always felt like they were sarcastic. As if some joke was being told that only he understood. So to picture him at the bar....

“Not often. Only if we go to the cop bar down the street and he’s in a good mood. We offer all the time, but..." He shrugged. "Couldn't hurt for you to try it out."

“I don’t know about that,” You said thinking to yourself for a moment. It just seemed like it would be... awkward.

"Hey, if you want to attempt to have him get to know you, there's an easy in to it. Low stakes and beer never hurt anyone. I even managed to get him playing pool with me once. He kicked my ass. I was shocked. Besides," Chris looked away as if suddenly fascinated with his gloves and readjusting them, "We been wanting ya to come out with us. You're one of us now, so that means getting tanked on a Tuesday every now and again."

He met your eyes and grinned sheepishly.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." You smirked. "Maybe not about the getting tanked part. I'm not a fan of hang overs."

He put his soundproof headphones on as he raised his gun and pointed at the target. “Don’t worry rookie, if he actually hated you… you’d already be off the squad. He just wants us all to be the best we can be.” Chris said that in a way that mimicked Wesker’s voice as if he has heard that phrase from him a thousand times before. “So if he seems tough, it’s his own way of showing he’s invested in your growth.”

"Hard to feel like I'm growing, when he's stomping on me every day," You muttered as you reloaded your own gun.

1 Year and 9 Months Before Mansion Incident

Perhaps it was the fact you completed all your work without complaint or that you managed to do the paperwork side of your job quicker than most, but you noticed that Wesker started to say a smidge more than just orders to you as time went on. Maybe not always pleasant words, but it was a start.

It had been a few months now and the job started to feel more comfortable to you.

You no longer had to ask simple questions such as where the hell is a stapler?

Or even, whose baked goods should be avoided at the company potlucks. Not everyone's kitchen was a place to create edible food free of cross-contamination. Apparently the answer to that one was Jane from the mail room.

Don't trust her cookies.

Sometimes you did join the group out at the bar for a drink, declining offers at first in favor of sleep. But eventually, you felt you should put yourself out there and bond with your coworkers outside of the offices. Alcohol certainly assisted the cause.

Most of the time Wesker declined to join, but on the rare occasion that he did, you saw the once-in-a-blue-moon state of him looking at least partially relaxed. A little less stern, as if the muscles in his face could actually move beyond its typical bored and rather stoic presentation. You did see that he was capable of smiling without it having a cocky sarcastic I’m better than you undertone to it, but it never went beyond one side of his mouth curving upwards for a brief moment.

He’d sip his glass of amber liquid on the rocks and join in the conversation if it had to do with swapping military stories, being a veteran himself. But he'd mostly keep his eye on the muted televisions within the bar. He seemed to favor looking at the ones that broadcasted the news over the sports ones, but you had gathered he enjoyed football from bits and pieces you'd overhear as Barry and Chris chatted with him. Sometimes other higher-ups from the police station would come in and crowd around Wesker, obtaining his full attention.

Cop bars were weird to you.

You never went in them before this job. They weren't exclusively for cops, but it was so well known to be the hang out for the department, that it kept away many who were wary of them. It felt like half the station was here most nights, so drawing attention to yourself was out of the question and made you always decline another drink by the third or fourth round to keep yourself in check. No need to be the talk of the station if you made a fool of yourself doing or saying something that was foolish in a drunken state of mind.

You especially declined another round if Wesker was there.

Whenever Wesker was actively participating in the conversation between you all -- he never spoke of things he liked to do, his interests outside of work, or really anything personal. It was work or commenting on someone else sharing something personal about themselves.

While you originally thought that having him out with you all would provide you something to learn about him and use it to strike up a conversation sometime, it was a wasted notion.

He was shrouded in mystery. You wondered what the hell he was like when he was with friends or if he had a girlfriend or wife --- which you found he had neither after subtly dropping a line to Jill that made her reveal this information casually. You weren't sure if he purposely avoided talking about his personal life or if he simply was the type to be so invested in his work that there really was not much else to him. No... that couldn't be it.

No man this much of an asshole was that... dull.

All the achievements on his wall seemed to tell a story, but he never even boasted about them. It was as if he let the shiny golden plaques do the talking for him, so he didn't have to bother opening his mouth.

It didn't matter anyways because you never really spoke to him when you were all out at the bar. Opportunity never seemed to present itself. You always sat off on the end, because Chris or Brad practically threw themselves into the seats next to Wesker. He was a rare treat to find out and about, so they relished in moment to share some booze with their captain.

So if this was the 'golden opportunity’ to have him see you as more than just a rookie, it was failing.

You weren’t about to brown nose him outside of work to make him like you, so you never went out of your way to capture his attention. You were simply attempting to maybe find some common ground, but it seemed there was nothing common about Captain Albert Wesker.

But one night after a long day of filing incident reports on false leads, when you all went out to that same cop bar, it became one of the first occurrences that he acknowledged your existence.

You were speaking to Jill, who mentioned that she was rejected for some program a long time ago before she was in the military and how it bummed her out.

"I think it worked out for the best though... I can't imagine being in a regular office job all the time." She wiped her lips on the back of her palm from the dribble of beer that threatened to spill down her chin. "Even when we have to do paperwork for more than a few hours... I feel like I'm going stir crazy."

"I hear ya," You smirked. "And it's hard to get in the zone when Redfield busts out his guitar."

"Hey---" Chris, hearing his name mentioned, peered over Barry's shoulder to stare at the two of you. "You two have actively requested songs from me."

"You guys are a bit of enablers." Barry chimed in surprisingly, as he appeared to paying more attention to the television's current football game broadcast.

You and Jill shake your head, but are unable to resist the guilty smiles on your faces. It was true. The three of you were turning into quite the trio, feeding off one another's energy for better or worse.

When Jill's attention shifted back to you, you took the opportunity to mention a similar case in your life about rejection -- how nearly every college you applied for rejected you. One of your life's biggest mysteries to remain unsolved. One that stumped your family and teachers to no end, because you were one of the top students at your school. If anyone was going to go down the academic route or attend ivy league schools, it should have been you.

Originally you held an interest in science. Chemistry, engineering, and virology, if you were being more precise.

You grew up on those little play kits that were simple experiments to create volcanos or change the color of water. That evolved into you wanting to go bigger and your backyard childhood shed ended up on fire from one-to-many experiments gone wrong. That incident your parents will never let you live down.

School always came easy to you, but mostly bored you – except for, as one would guess—- science.

Something about it just tickled the nerves in your brain and satisfied you whenever you got your hands on something that was related to the field. While others read fantasy stories of wizard boys beefing with adult warlocks who peaked in wizard high school— you’d be browsing the non-fiction section.

So that's why the sting of rejections still bothered you to this day, because in reality, this path you were on was not your first choice. Hell, perhaps not even your second or third choice. Even the one college that did accept you, held such a high tuition that it would have been impossible to attend as every scholarship you applied for rejected you. 

That's where the good ole military came in and sort of... made the choice for you in a sense.

It was as if recruiters knew you were hurting for funds and a future. Your mailbox was often full of letters trying to convince you to enlist. Promises of scholarships, free schooling, and abilities to work your interest in science into the military field, eventually convinced you to join.

One gets rejected enough times and it just starts to feel like the stars are aligning and pushing you in another direction.

Perhaps this should have been your first sign that your life may not have been something you were in control of. That something was pushing you in a direction on purpose.

Jill seemed surprised that was your intended major and choice of study. You never really spoke of your background or interest in science before that moment to them. It just was never relevant to any conversation point.

“Didn’t take you for a science nerd, rookie,” Wesker voice suddenly broke through the air. You weren’t even aware he was listening to you. He took a sip from his glass and was staring off behind the bar counter as if he hadn't just spoken. He was seated two seats over, so you had to lean forward past Chris to look at him.

“Failed science nerd,” You corrected, trying to stay light-hearted as you couldn't tell if he was making fun of you or found it interesting. “If I was a true one, I’d be at an ivy league school finding the next big cure for the CDC.”

Wesker still wasn’t looking at you. His face was forward, pausing his glass midair near his mouth. You swore you saw him chuckle to himself and you thought at the time it was because he thought you were ridiculous or something. Maybe he thought science was a wasteful thing to preoccupy your time with. You never could tell what the fuck he was thinking. You had a better chance of correctly guessing a card in a deck of fifty-two while blindfolded.

“You’re not a failed science nerd,” Jill elbowed your side lightly on the bar top, grasping her beer bottle between both hands. “They didn’t know what they were missing. Probably were too busy picking students who had family members that funded the expansions of their schools or their research. That kinda stuff happens all the time. Big pockets line the education system.”

“True. Big pockets line all spaces now a days. Look at our city. Umbrella capital of the world now. Crazy... I actually wanted to work for them when I was younger. Felt like a good fit for my interests."

"No offense, but I could never picture you in a stuffy little white lab coat." Chris joined in, patting the top of your head lightly. "Or... having the ability to sit still for longer than ten minutes."

Had he noticed how you always were tapping your legs when forced to sit down? How observant of him. It made you stop tapping your leg in that moment as if to deny his statement, but your smirk gave away that you knew he was speaking truth.

"Yeah. I guess I dodged a bullet on the terrible fashion statement I'd have to make."

"White after labor day.... a curse..." Jill gave a mocking cheers in the air with her beer and slugged it down, pushing the empty forward to indicate for a refill.

You tapped your fingers on the counter idly, giving further ammunition to Chris's previous statement as you added in, "I still do my own research at home in my spare time. So my one and only hope is I can just rub it in their faces one day that they missed out on taking partial credit for whatever I discover.” You said. “Cause universities? They do that too. You discover anything while attending or working for college – and suddenly it's their idea, not yours.”

Jill gave you a funny look as the bartender slipped a full Miller Lite into her palm. “Your own research? Like what?”

"Hopefully it's how to make the coffee at work not taste like ass..." Chris muttered.

"Chris you drink that shit black. That's your own fault for not adding sugar or cream to the mix." You teased.

"Trying to watch my figure," Chris slightly flexed one muscle to show off with a devious grin.

Jill reached around you and punched his shoulder, "No you just get distracted by the secretaries dropping off paperwork while you pour yourself a cup." When her hands returned to her beer, she looked back at you. "So what ideas? Whatcha mean?"

“I don’t know,” You shrugged. “I just get random ideas and follow them.”

"Coffee." Chris cupped his hand to his mouth in your direction and playfully whispered. "Figure out the coffee situation little science nerd rookie."

Jill ignored him, “Random ideas?”

“Like finding a way for a cell to heal itself after a mutation or the next cure for the flu or how to make a sustainable cell that doesn’t need other factors to grow.”

She blinked at you slowly, smiling ear to ear. “Your house isn’t full of whiteboards with crazy ass formulas lining the walls, is it?” She teased.

“No… I only could afford one whiteboard, thank you very much.” You smirked. "And I don't have access to stuff, so it's all just kinda... blueprints in a sense. Nothing I can test properly."

“Oh my, you are a nerd.” She was teasing you, but not sincerely. “That’s okay my little sniper scientist. If you find a way to cure me next flu season, I will be forever grateful.” She patted the top of your head once, just as Chris had earlier.

“Sniper scientist, wow I might have to trade mark that. Make a sticker for my gun.” You laughed. "Have it shooting out test tubes instead of bullets."

You both continued to add onto the sticker idea, coming up with an outlandish idea that never seemed to stop, ending in laughter.

You knew she wasn’t sincerely making fun of you.

Each of them had their hobbies anyways that were their own special kind of nerd. Chris liked to research guns and design custom parts for them, boasting about his walk-in closet at home that was filled to the brim with tiny parts and tools for his workshop. Jill enjoyed maps. Any kind of them really. She liked to know and map out places she’d never been, she’d like to go, and just anywhere she found interesting. Barry liked model airplanes and building them with his wife. Joseph had revealed his fascination with collecting vintage teacups.

So if you were a person that liked to attempt to find the next cure for cancer in your spare time, it wasn’t that weird. Not like you had any high-tech equipment to even attempt something so vigorous, but writing the formulas was always fun for you.

And sometimes you dreamed of the day you could shove a great scientific discovery in the face of those schools that rejected you.

You hadn't even noticed when Wesker left that night.

He seemed to be rather skilled at suddenly disappearing from the bar at any given moment. 

1 Year and 8 Months Before Mansion Incident


Another sparring match with Chris and you ended up on your ass. You had bested him a few times, using your figure to sneak under his arm and trip him from behind, but this particular time when Chris just knocked you down harshly and swiftly --- Wesker just had to be watching.

“Truly a disappointing display…” He shook his head at you.                       

His voice was itching your ears.

You hated it.

You were starting to hear his voice in your head when you made simple mistakes on your own even outside of work. You'd stub your toe in your apartment and think to yourself in your best Wesker impression Well, the door didn't just appear out of thin air rookie -- pay attention!

He was really getting to you. The months upon months of endlessly being put down by him.

You didn’t even have to see his face to feel that sudden surge of heat rushing to your cheeks. You knew he was leaning against the far wall, looking smug. Sometimes quiet for so long, you’d almost forget he was in the room observing you all. But just as that started to happen, he’d always throw in a comment.

And more than often -- It was directed at you.

And today’s comment tipped the scale.

It might have been how tired you were from the multiple sparring matches you already had with Chris today (two of which you won) or maybe it was the adrenaline, but Wesker’s comment just entirely pissed you off. 

So much so that you muttered furiously, “Just get off my back….”

But it was louder than you intended or Wesker just had better hearing than you could have pictured, because the way he stiffened showed he heard you all too well.

“What was that rookie?” Wesker voiced sternly. His back straightened as he pushed himself off the wall.

Chris looked at you with a face that said you should have just kept your mouth shut, wincing as if Wesker's words physically smacked you and all witnesses in the face. You noticed everyone else paused in their movement, knowing that a trainwreck was about to occur.

You froze, but tried to play it off. “Nothing sir, just… I was doing better earlier. Sorry.”

“Forgetful from knocking our heads on the ground one too many times, are we? That’s not what you said. I believe you said I should get off your back, meanwhile, you’re spending most of this training session on yours.” His tone was incredibly annoyed sounding.

You had been out of line to talk back like that, but hearing his incessant criticism, was too much. You could either grovel now or keep pushing back on him. And the brief looks you saw in your teammates faces showed they thought you should start getting ready for the one hundred pushups you were about to be forced to do.

He strode over to you slowly, his hands by his side as he calmly approached.

“Let’s see it then.” He challenged.

“See what?”

“Well, you claim you were doing better before I got here. Show me. You have my complete uninterrupted attention.” It sounded like a warning more so than a statement.

You looked at Chris who stood before you with a confused look, hesitating to raise your fists in a readied stance, but you did so and Chris slowly followed.

“Okay…” you muttered.

But Wesker’s black tactical vest blocked your view suddenly, your eyes taking a moment to adjust him into focus and look up.

“I believe I said show me, not show Chris, rookie.” Wesker’s tone was that of if rolling one’s eyes could make an audible noise.

And you realized he meant for you to spar with him. To say you felt intimidated was putting it lightly. You had seen Wesker spar with Chris many times and occasionally Jill, but he never challenged you before. Watching him fight before in those mock trials showed you how skilled he was and further confirmed why he was in charge of the lot of you. Sure he was smart and calculated with strategy, but his fighting skills were equal parts strength, wits, and speed.

He sent Chris flying numerous times. But Chris has returned the favor back. Maybe that was why he valued Chris so highly. He was the only one on the team that could down Wesker back.

Wesker was the type of use an opponent's own force against them. Letting them take the aggressive stance and he'd find a weakness to exploit. It was like playing chess with one's body parts.

So --- you knew if he was asking you to try against him, that likely… your ass was going to be even more well acquainted with the floor in a few short moments. But you couldn’t refuse and you forced your face into returning him a look that feigned as if this sparring match was a wonderful idea. As if you couldn’t predict the ending already.

But you knew... and he knew... what was about to happen.

You had wanted to prove yourself, but this was not your method of choice. Whatever. Can't give up before it starts. Maybe you could use your speed and size to your advantage. Trick him into tripping over you and pin him.

You backed up a little from him to give space and tried to ignore the grin and shaking head of Chris just beyond Wesker's left shoulder. You shot him a brief silent look that said without saying  I'm so glad you think this is entertaining, Chris!

You hoped no one would pull the camera footage from this..... but Joseph seemed to be the type to do so. It's always the quiet ones....

You raised your fists in the air and readied yourself, “Sir…” you curtly state, daring him to move.

He didn’t even ready himself. He stood there arrogant as could be with his arms folded across his chest.

“Well… what are you waiting for?” He asked as if he’d been waiting hours, beckoning you --- egging you on to make a move.

Oh, he knew just what to say to piss you off and it seemed like he was counting on it. Because you let the irritation get the better of you as you went in to strike....

...

...

...

...And promptly were handed back your ass.

He blocked your punch and not only that, he managed to use his other hand to grab your wrist and twist it painfully. Then he used his leg to sweep your foot from the ground and flip your entire body in the air. He let go of you and let gravity do the rest of the job.

He couldn’t have just knocked you down… he had to do it with flair and  an extra little side of humiliation for good measure.

From your view on the floor looking up, you could see him standing just as he stood before your match. Arms folded across his chest, peering down at you. That cocky stupid smirk on his face. The lights above him seemed a bit brighter than normal. Maybe you were hitting your head one too many times lately. 

Oh, fuck this guy…. You blinked and stared at the ceiling, just to avoid looking at him for a moment.

But the worst part was how quickly he managed that, so now you looked like a real ass in front of everyone. Or they felt pity for you. Neither of which you wanted.

They were definitely pulling that camera footage. You would.

“I hate to say it, but I think you’re right…” He said softly at first. “You were doing better earlier. At least with Chris, you lasted more than six seconds…”

You laid there longer than you should have, but this was a new low. There was nothing you could say back to him.

“So, until you manage to stay off your own back… don’t tell me to get off yours rookie.” He scoffed and left your line of sight.

After that day, you were motivated far more than before. It held a familiar tinge to it. Similar to how the rejection from colleges fueled your at-home research. That sort of drive was the same type of energy fueling you to train harder right now to shove it in Wesker’s face.

Your shift would end and instead of going home, you’d go train. You’d practice on dummies, go to the shooting range, do strenuous workouts, try to reach a new personal best for pullups or pushups, and practice your knife skills the best you could.

You even turned down a night at the bar with the squad to train. You didn’t often because you had a damn good time out with them, but sometimes you just wanted to keep riding this wave of motivation. You’d get a burst of energy just as everyone else was tiring for the day. The long shift over, but you’d stay behind. Enough times, it becomes second nature. Just another addition to your routine.

And in a way, it was better to do this after your shift ended. Fewer distractions. Chris wouldn’t be playing guitar in his downtime, distracting you. Jill wouldn’t be there, so you wouldn’t be tempted to chat. Brad wouldn't be... well... doing whatever he did. It was far easier to focus when it was just you, a punching bag and…

“You keep leaving your left side wide open when you do that move,” Wesker’s sudden voice nearly made you jump.

You were certain everyone had already gone home. Wesker’s office door was often shut, so it was hard to assume he was in there or not, but it was well past ten o’clock by this point. Not a single person from the day or mid-shift was still in the building.

“Maybe that’s the point. So, I can trick them into going for my left and I swoop them with my foot.” You said, but really that wasn’t the plan, you just didn’t want to hear it from him right now.

“You’re a terrible liar.” He shook his head. He read right through you. 

Stupid sunglass wearing perfect-haired asshole. The thought of his attraction level had gone down significantly ever since that first day. The aura of douchebag overtook any and all thoughts of him looking good. Sort of. He looked better to you when his mouth was shut.

Although you had to admit, the first time he took his sunglasses off a few months ago in front of you and you saw those blue eyes, you had to keep yourself from staring and ensure your face didn’t give away how flustered it made you.

Of course, he’d have perfect blue eyes. Of course.

Douchebag pretty boy.

He just became ugly whenever his mouth moved and the stench of arrogance came out.

You ignored him and continued what you were doing. Slashing away with your knife. Sending a few kicks in the air toward an invisible target. And all the while, you could still feel him on the side of the room watching you.

Doesn’t he have something better to do? You were off the clock. Shouldn't that warrant a judgement free training session?

This was just extra for your own benefit. You weren't here hoping to run into him or anyone for that matter. But he also tended to stay late. Locked away in his office doing.... whatever it is he does. He seemed to have a lot more paperwork than any of you. No one ever questioned what he did. The sound of him typing away on his computer was near constant if he wasn’t out in the general office spaces with you all. No one would generally opt to disturb him, unless it was deemed necessary. A few times he did barge out of his office telling everyone to keep it down, because you all were being too chatty as he put it.

“Why are you here so late rookie?” He asked with a hint of an accusatory tone that felt misplaced to you.

“Training.”

“I have eyes. I asked why, not what.”

“…I stay late because I like doing it without an audience.” You added to give more context, trying to watch your words, but slipping in a slight jab. Hinting that maybe he should just let you be alone.

“Well, if you wanted me to participate you should have just said so.” He stated, taking your words as an invitation rather than a dismissal. He pushed himself off the wall, “Looks like you could use the pointers and I'm happy to oblige.”

Of course.

Of course, of course. Things were going a little too well tonight and here he was to stomp out your fire.

You were glad your face was turned away from him because the redness in your cheeks from the surge of irritation was starting to cause your jawline to twitch.

You were training purposely so you could one-up him some day and now he was here teasing even the concept of you putting in all this extra effort. It could just be his poor timing of walking in on you randomly or perhaps he just saw you as a weak link, but you swore he made these comments and mocking tones to you more than anyone else. You felt more sure than ever before that he had some weird grudge against you. Even if Chris said they all endured it. It felt like he was targeting you for one reason or another.

And it was getting harder and harder to convince yourself you were just reading too into things. Any other captain would praise their squad members for going the extra mile, but to Wesker, it was like he wanted an extra one hundred miles. And even then it wasn’t good enough.

“It’s fine,” You tried to sound as nice as you could. “It’s late, I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“And what kind of captain would I be if I let my rookie do the same move over and over again incorrectly? I couldn’t sleep tonight knowing that.” He mocked.

His jab felt a little less harsh and much more sarcastic. A bit lighter toned than how stern and commanding he was when he had all eyes on him in a room. Part of you wondered if he was making a joke to you, but your anger dismissed it. In your mind, he just wanted to show off how much better he was. The know-it-all within him unable to resist a lecture served up on a silver platter for him.

It made you wonder if he was the type to thoroughly enjoy performance reviews just to be able to tear someone down for a lengthy period of time. Maybe he marked it in his calendar with big circles and stars.

Your shoulders visibly sagged for a moment as you took in a deep breath and turned around to face him, keeping your arms by your side and the knife pointed down against the side of your leg. You were going to say something, but he spoke once more.

“Here…” He had a knife in his hands. It looked different from any knife you’d used before. Something was off about it, but you couldn’t pinpoint what yet.

“What’s wrong with mine?” You asked, placing yours safely down on a nearby table.

He took the knife and stared at it for a moment. Then he promptly stabbed it into his chest unphased. You let out a tiny squeak of shock, “Captain-”

But the knife came out and there was no wound, no puncture, nothing.

He put his finger to the tip of it and pushed the knife in, “Retractable… allows you to see and feel when you’d get stabbed in a knife fight… with less mess. A bit boring if you ask me, but it serves its purpose.”

“Coulda warned me of that before you did that.” You exhaled sharply. “I gotta be honest…. I thought you went crazy there for a second.”

He ignored you, holding out the knife for you to take. When you went to reach for it, he made a noise of realization and pulled it away. He pulled out this red powder-looking substance and coated the edges of the ‘blade’ part with it. Then he handed it back to you and did the same with his own fake retractable knife, after testing it with his finger as if to alleviate your nerves.

“What’s this for?” You asked, eyeing the red color along the tip of the blade.

“So if you get ‘slashed’ rather than stabbed, you can see where you failed.”

“Smart.” You acknowledged. “Let me guess… you're going to try to get me on my left side.”

“… try isn’t the word I’d use.” He let out a smirk and readied himself. You mimicked the pose and you both went for it.

You charged first slashing your knife forward. When he attempted to slash at you, you used your forearm to hit his arm and send it off its intended forward course. He ducked himself down, aiming up with the knife, which you narrowly dodged, hearing the swoosh in the air near your ear. You rolled on the ground behind him, but he turned towards you quickly. You attempted another slash. Then another. Another dodge, and then, you felt plastic run against your arm in one swift motion.

You paused to look at it, seeing a line of red on your exposed skin. The action didn’t hurt at all, but your pride stung knowing he got the first hit. The red line marked your failure and remained there even as you instinctively went to wipe it off with your hand.

“Based on the speed and size of the blade, your right arm is now bleeding at an alarming rate. It will numb over, but would you be able to continue to use that arm as well as before?” He lectured. “Switch hands with your knife.”

You did so and noticed he did as well.

He watched your eyes follow the knife, “Might as well play fair with you huh?” Implying he was dumbing himself down by using his left – less dominant --- hand.

“You don’t have to give me a handicap.”

“I’m not giving you one. Who said I was better with my right hand?"

He charged at you this time, swishing the blade in front of your face a few times. You’d backstep just enough to narrowly miss his attacks, but felt yourself nearly tripping once you realized how aggressive he was being with his movements. He didn’t allow you time to plan or think. He just attacked as if his life was at stake. Each step you took, made you realize you’d be backed against a wall soon if you didn’t pivot yourself.

You swung an elbow towards his chest, a small delight at the sound of impact, followed by your slashing down towards his leg, leaving behind a red streak on his pants.

But that victory was momentary as you felt the plastic run down your cheek. The red was barely visible at the bottom of your eyes.

Then he sent the blade into your chest. The sound of it retracting echoed as you stood there for a moment in disappointed realization, staring at the fake blade ‘impaled’ in your chest, directly where your heart was.

He got you. You were ‘dead’.

If this were Chris or Jill, you'd fall dramatically and they'd say a fake eulogy in good humor. But Wesker didn't seem the type to joke around with to that extreme.

He pulled the knife away from your body and it sprung back to its original form. “Well… that was… something…”

You were going to remain silent, but the words fell out, “At least I got one hit in.”

“One hit? You damaged a person’s lower leg, granting them full access to their arms and hands. The very spot they’d be holding the weapon they are using against you. Sure, you managed to cause a papercut, but in doing so, I cut your cheek, which would nearly stun you. Had I allowed it to run over your eye, it would have blinded you. Then I was able to finish you off.” He said this all rather quickly as he snatched the fake knife away from you and started to walk towards the exit of the office. “One hit, that cost you your life. You have to wager when its worth it to attack someone. Something gained is another thing lost."

He paused, then continued. “You have a lot to learn there rookie. I didn’t realize whatever branch of the military you were in was skimping on its teachings.”

He knew you were army. He knew you specialized in long range. He was just being an ass. Again.

“I didn’t handle close encounters… I attacked from hilltops, buildings…. helicopters...” You tried to stand up for yourself, but you figured he thought you were trying to brag. “I am trained to kill from a distance not this, but I'm happy to learn and try hard.”

“Well when we have a mission where we have a hilltop, you’ll be the first I request to be there, but until then you need to master your other combat skills, so when your ideal scenario of a mission doesn’t happen, you won’t be a burden on the rest of us.” He sounded so cold. "You and I know very well, although the priority is whatever mission we are on, that if you were gravely injured.... Jill or Chris or any of those guys would become distracted in trying to help you. That's two members lost for one person's incompetence." 

When he left, you felt such anger. A silent ringing in your ears that did not fade until you were home.

And the anger only got worse when you realized a key detail he managed to leave out about the knife fight you just had with him.

When you arrived at work early the next morning, Barry was laughing upon seeing your face. The look of recognizable humiliation. “Well… looks like someone sparred with the captain yesterday.”

You groaned and walked right into Wesker’s office, not bothering to knock. Normally that was a big N-O, but he didn’t deserve formalities today.

He was seated at his desk, sunglasses off, writing up some paperwork. His eyes snapped up instantly. A slight and brief baffled look on his face realizing you barged in unannounced and he looked like he was going to tell you off for not knocking, but upon seeing it was you... you saw a very subtle smirk form. Then he looked back down at the paperwork and continued to write as if you weren’t there at all.

“Really? Nothing to say?" You tried to lower your tone once you spoke since your voice came out on a high note of rage. "You could have mentioned that red powder you used was…. permanent!” 

He continued to scratch his pen against the paper, the smirk remaining there for a moment in his purposeful pause. "Did I forget to mention that? Must have slipped my mind.”  

“Oh it didn’t slip your mind, you knew….” You took a deep breath, “How do I get this off my face?” You pointed at the red line running from under your eye to your chin. 

“Get better at dodging next time, that’s how.” 

Oh fuck you Wesker...        

As you left his office and sat at your desk, you stared at the surface for a moment, muttering “Asshole….”

"Hey... ya got a little something there on your--" Chris started to trail off grinning as he wiggled a finger in front of his own cheek.

It took a few days for the mark to finally wash off, fading a little bit each day. But the sad reminder in the mirror each time you looked at it that you needed to grow stronger still was unpleasant. Wesker knew how to get under (and on) your skin and evoke this desire to beat him.

So you continued to train. Taking any opportunity to spar with Chris, Jill, Barry, and especially Wesker. He’d never spar you in front of people anymore and you bet in his mind it was to ‘spare you the embarrassment’. He did however join in on your training sessions if he noticed you stayed late and by yourself.

At first, it just pissed you off, but once you could get over the annoyance of his very presence and condescending attitude, you were thankful for it. You’d never tell him that though. Why fed his ego? It certainly wasn't famished.

When he wasn’t being a complete asshole, he was quite helpful. The man knew his stuff. He knew how to use an opponent’s own force against them. He knew how to handle a knife fight well suggesting he may have had hands on experiences with such encounters. He knew how to dodge incoming attacks with surprising flexibility for a man of that height.

And he did know how to piss you off… still.

But slowly, he started to become… less irritating.

His helpful tips and straightforwardness were welcomed. He didn’t sugarcoat it if he thought you made the wrong move or if he felt you weren’t giving it your all. And while this ‘tough love’ approach to his leadership certainly made you feel like you were constantly not up to his standards, you found yourself thinking differently while on the job. As if his voice was in your head, asking you to rethink your next move or strategize differently. All moves and outcomes considered before acting on them. Training your brain to make the difficult choices quicker than you normally would. Because part of all that long-range training was waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

He wanted you to strike even when the moment was far from perfect.

Create a well-rounded you.

Of all the people to ever train you, the ironic part of it all was that he seemed to be the most impactful and thought provoking. You could easily see the results of his work on you, which showed that the improvements were substantial enough to notice in the first place.

You wondered if this was why the rest of your squad regarded him so highly. The fact he was taking the time to train you and ensure you were bettering yourself, rather than just letting you be. You suspected he had done this with everyone that slowly joined the ranks of his Alpha Team.

But you didn’t know. You didn’t ask. Why would you?

For some reason, you never mentioned to anyone else how you’d stay late to train and Wesker would join you. They knew you stayed late, but not that your captain would often appear out of his office and assist you.

You couldn’t pinpoint why you never mentioned it, but then again no one asked. Why would they?

And he never mentioned it during the day. Never acknowledging it ever happened in the first place.

It wasn’t even a big deal really.

It’s not like these trainings made a difference in how he treated you during the day to day.

Regardless, you found yourself knocked on your ass again, his face coming into view. Sunglasses off so you could get a full read on that cocky disposition. You blew a strand of hair out of your face roughly.

“That was better… you lasted ten seconds rather than five.” He feigned being impressed.

“Look at you being the optimistic one,” You said sarcastically still looking up at him from your grounded view.

You pushed yourself up, as he never offered you a hand when you ended up like this. You readied yourself instantly, feeling a small burst of energy and sort of jumping in place lightly as if anticipating to make a move in any direction he came at you.

“Eager are you?” He looked amused. “You must have a thing for pain.” He teased. “Or humiliation… but who am I to judge?”

You rolled your eyes at his comment, smirking. “Hardly the case.”

Perhaps though... his treatment of you during these trainings was a bit different. He was seemingly more chatty. Less bark, but still some bite to his words. But... every so often hints of playfulness would seep out within his tone. His sarcasm held less of something to put you down and more just amused at whatever was happening before his eyes. Maybe due to it not wasting the tax payers dollars since you were off the clock? You weren't certain. You just knew a small shift was occurring if you read between the lines.

Maybe he finally thought you weren't hopeless, even though everyone else already thought that since your first week on the job. He had yet to catch up.

He threw a punch at you --- dodged.

He threw a kick --- you caught his leg and pushed backward on him. He seemed to not expect this. The slightest stumble to stop himself from falling with his other foot firmly pressing to the ground.

You seized the opening and spun down to the ground, letting your other leg sweep across the floor and knock into his singular grounded leg.

He fell.

A few strands of his blonde hair came falling forward on his face.

You were ecstatic.

You felt you could dance happily to gloat, but held it in. The cheesy grin on your face couldn’t contain itself though.

You finally knocked him down. The urge to brag was there but contained well inside your stomach. And the worst part of it all was those few blonde strands falling down, gave him the first sign of even remotely ‘messy’ hair --- and that in turn made him look even more handsome. That perfect persona shed just for a moment. On top of those baby blue eyes? It felt unfair that one person could both be handsome and rather skilled at almost everything.

“Wipe that smirk off your face rookie. What’s that for? Feeling happy you bested me one in forty-seven attempts?” He asked returning to himself, half pushed up on his elbows and eyeing you above him.

“I’ll take what I can get,” You shrugged, knowing he was trying to smush down your small victory.

“Make that more consistent—” he pushed himself to a stand, brushing back the fallen hairs with his gloved hand “—and then you can have something to smile at.”

“Sure thing, captain,” You said, but sounded still rather excited.

And you swore that you saw a small smirk from him. Not a cocky one. But one that seemed to be pleased with your progress.

It continued like this for months. It got to the point that you’d just expect Wesker to join you for training. You tended to stay late twice a week to do so and often he’d just be there. Maybe he caught onto the nights you’d frequent or maybe it was a coincidence. The nights he didn’t join you, you felt something was missing and you realized that your training did not feel as satisfying without him there.

Of course, you’d never admit that out loud and certainly not to him. His ego was stroked enough daily by Chris.

There were some nights he’d just remain in his office. The sound of fingertips clicking against a keyboard was muffled behind his door. Other nights he’d leave on time in a hurried stride. But most of the time, he’d suddenly poke out of his office after watching you for a moment and then rattling off some suggestion in a tone that would add fuel to the fire that was your motivation.

In a sick way, he was a great motivation and you realized that anger fueled you to do your best. If he pissed you off, you found yourself walking away from the workouts with more sweat and muscles in your jaw that would hurt from clenching it so much to bite your tongue. And you swore he knew when you were about to say something that would cross the line. He’d give some cocky one-off comment and you’d more often than not would have to let out a deep exhale to keep in whatever insult you wanted to throw back to him. Though sometimes, it simply couldn't be helped. They'd slip out.

And you enjoyed it. The little power struggle game being played. The thirst to prove yourself genuinely rather than by kissing his ass.

Oddly, it made you feel closer to Wesker to train with him so often. Sure, he still had some intimidation just by the way he held himself and how he felt like the only person you had to walk on eggshells around in the office, but spending at least twice a week at night throwing punches and fake knives at another person consistently makes one feel connected, to say the least.

It never got too personal in those trainings. Health, fitness, sarcastic banter. That was typically the vibe of those sessions. Slowly you started to give him a little back talk, but it was much more censored than what you'd think of to say originally. Testing the waters to see how far you can toe the line.

But through it all, you did have to admit... you respected him and that respect just grew the more time you spent with him.

He could talk the talk and walk the walk.

He could easily be a captain that sat behind a desk, barking orders, and sending out his squad to do the grunt work, while he remained in an air-conditioned office filling out paperwork.

But anytime a mission occurred, he’d be right there alongside everyone.

One particularly nasty mission involved a large drug bust from some foreigners. It was odd, because the drugs were not your average everyday substances like cocaine or ingredients for heroin. It was pills, plants, and some weird liquid substance that you couldn’t identify.

Your squad was shot at. Chris’s bulletproof vest came in handy when one bullet was aimed right at his chest. It was a panic-inducing mission, ending in the arrest of seven men and four holding a bullet in their heads. One of which belonged to your gun.

Back at the station, Wesker limped back to his office after having to jump down from a high-up surface to push Jill out of the way of incoming fire. His ankle had twisted enough to cause a small sprain, but he acted like it was nothing as he continued to shoot at the criminals and tackle one to the ground.

Everyone was worn out. Some more than others. But no one was badly hurt. Well, maybe Brad was…

Wesker pulled out a bottle of whiskey and poured everyone on the squad a glass. Wesker was a stickler for following rules, so the act in itself had you raising your eyebrows, but everyone else seemed to have a silent understanding of the action. He must have done it before, only for the special occasions such as this. To show... he cared in a manner of speaking.

Even if you didn’t care for the stuff, it was not the time to refuse such an action. You all held up your glasses as Wesker thanked everyone for their hard work and how well the team worked together --- staying true to the formations that he mapped out prior to the raid. He said as a generalized statement, that he was proud of everyone. Which was a rare thing and you all knew he meant it.

He saw all the time and energy he had invested into all of you coming out into action.

You all drank and felt this warmth inside of you that was not from the liquid burning your throat. But the solidarity. You were a team. Through the bickering, the insults, the good, and the bad --- you were all there for one another.

Out of habit that night, you ended up sitting at your desk longer than you meant to. Nearly everyone went home after a job well done. It was a night you would have stayed to spar.

But instead, you sat at your desk with your completed paperwork from the mission, staring at the floor. Feeling one of those weird self-reflection nights. The empty glass of whiskey still held in your hands idly. Your mind scanned over the how did I end up here in life questions and you felt like you held a sense of belonging, finally in the world.

Maybe this path in life was the correct one. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe you were never meant for that academic path. Perhaps this was where you needed to be. The fact you fell into place among your coworkers so easily was not something to be taken for granted. 

“Don’t tell me you’re looking to keep training tonight, rookie.” A voice pulled you from your thoughts.

Wesker was leaning against the threshold of his office, eyeing you. His sunglasses were tucked in his pocket. A bruise on his lower lip and a cut by one of his eyes. He looked rather disheveled and that cocky aura of his was missing.

He felt the most human you would…. had ever seen him.

You shook your head giving a half smile, “No. Not tonight sir.”

His hands were in his pockets. His sleeves were rolled up near his elbows. “Good. I think you’ve had enough action today for the week.”

He sounded slightly exhausted, but maybe it was just the fact his arrogance was missing as he spoke so he sounded tame.

He grabbed something off a table near his door. Once his hand was back in your sight, you saw it was the whiskey bottle. Half empty from the glasses he poured everyone and you suspected he had a few more himself in his office, likely to dull whatever pain his ankle was in. He approached your desk, not bothering to ask, and poured more of the liquid into your cup.

You were certain it was highly illegal to be drinking in this office, off the clock or on, but.. oh well.

He then backed away and half-sat, half-leaned on the edge of Chris’s desk facing you. You were surprised by this gesture. You figured if he was going to switch back to the hardened leader, it would be now. You seemed to be his favorite thing to tease and make jabs at, but all signs of that were gone.

It had been a long day though. So perhaps it was not too surprising. You felt that you were finally starting to see that side of Wesker that made everyone else on your team feel glad to be under his leadership. And after today, you had finally proved to be an asset to the team in front of him.

“Why are you still here then? I heard Chris and Jill were off to the bar. You three are attached at the hip, I would have thought you’d join them.” He asked, pouring another into his glass. One fingertip-less gloved hand gripped it tightly. 

He never spoke so casually to you like this. Did whiskey subdue him? Small talk was possible with the man? You may as well have been seeing the eighth wonder of the world right now. You finally reached the idle chatter is acceptable stage with him that everyone else seemed to have.

You shrugged as your fingers wrapped around the small glass with textured intricate designs along the rim. “I don’t know. I didn’t feel like going out… or going home yet.”

“The adrenaline?” It felt more like a statement than a question.

You nodded. Surprised he could know that without you eluding to it.

That mission was your most intense yet for being on S.T.A.R.S.. The army held tense moments, but there was some sort of different feeling held in your gut when the action and danger were just down the street within your home city. So easy for innocent casualties. So much corruption happening under everyone’s noses. At least when you were deployed, you were in a constant mindset of something bad was going to happen. And you felt distanced from everyone and everything you ever knew. It was a weird numbness.

To have it in one’s backyard is a whole other story.

“I know, I already said this, but… thank you… for saving Jill.” You told him, meeting his blue eyes with a serious tone. Everyone had already thanked Wesker extensively for today, but you felt you needed to again. As if hearing it from the one who gave him back sass would amount to a little more.

“I did what any of you would do for your fellow teammate.” He looked to the floor near his shoes. "I just happened to be the closest one to her at the time."

“Yeah but… not every leader does it.” You countered.

“You say that as if you’ve experienced it.” He eyed you, placing the bottle down on Chris’s desk. He took a swig from his glass, not breaking eye contact.

“Well… in the army… not every leader should have been a leader. Not everyone leads by example.”

“Well, they sound like a waste of space and resources.” His tone was annoyed, but not at you.

“I’m just trying to say is all… that… I’m glad you’re our leader…” The whiskey gave you a small ounce of courage that let you add, “Even if you’re a bit of an ass sometimes.”

The air was still after you said that. The instant regret washes over you but…

You gained a chuckle out of him. And then perhaps it was his few glasses of whiskey that made him say,  “You’ve been improving extensively. Although, that mouth of yours still needs some straightening out...”

“D’awh, but where would the fun be in that? Sounds rather boring.” You smiled at him, feeling this was the first sincere compliment he gave you.

And slightly realizing in this moment that you… sort of liked this little ‘rivalry’ you held with him. And by his reaction, it seemed he did too... as you were certain if anyone else said that, he'd be shoving his foot far up their ass.

He pushed off the desk, grabbing the bottle once more and returning it to his office.

“You still have to work on your left hook.” He threw in, the only statement sounding serious, as if he remembered that compliments were not in his vocabulary.

“I’ll take that as a challenge for a rematch soon. Once you get over the limp.”

“Please…” He scoffed, “Injured or not, I could still have you on the ground before you stood up from your seat."

“We can go right now if you want,” You challenged and internally hoped he’d say no, because fuck that right now.

“I fear you’re a liability at this point and I don’t feel like paying you out worker’s comp for what I do to you.” He delivered his line so flat that it was hard to tell at first he was joking. Well… actually was he joking?

You chuckled,  deciding it had to have been a joke, “I think the whiskey is clouding your judgment sir.” You teased, feeling less on edge to speak to him.

“Keep running that mouth of yours and I’ll have you cleaning up all the stock weapons in the closet… with a toothbrush.” He suddenly sounded very serious and you snapped out of it, thinking you went too far. But a sudden smirk came across his face as his hand was on the door to leave. “Don’t let me find you sleeping on your desk tomorrow morning. It doesn't do wonders for the neck. Believe me. You should go home, rookie. Get some rest.”

“I will…. Night, captain.” You smiled at him.

He looked as if he was about to leave, but then his head rolled to the side and eyed you, “You do know you are allowed to call me by my last name rookie, right?”

“You don’t call me by mine, why should I to you?” You grinned.

But he shook his head smirking and left the office. You felt like that had been your best interaction with Wesker to date. You got a little bold with your words and he gave it right back. But nothing seemed to come from ill intentions. 

You sipped your glass and sat at your desk in silence for a little while longer, wondering why the pit of your stomach fluttered as he smirked at you for that one last jab before he made his exit.

Or why he stayed in your mind a little bit on your drive home. You shut your eyes in the comfort of your apartment and decided it was just because you liked the challenges he posed to you. You enjoyed bettering yourself and having him as your mentor was like having someone aligned with your personal preference for learning styles. Except prior to this, you never realized that his methods were what you needed in your life.

He was your best and worst boss.

After that interaction over whiskey in the office, you noticed Wesker was much more tolerable.

Still an ass --- yes—but tolerable.

You still trained together twice a week and he even humored you by sparring with you in front of everyone else, something you were a bit hesitant to do at first wondering if he’d go extra hard on you in an attempt to diminish your progress, but the match was a good one. You both got in a few good hits and ultimately he did win, but it lasted much longer than your typical spars.

Chris seemed surprised at your progress, still in the dark about your weekly trainings with Wesker.

You still didn’t know why you never mentioned it. It’s not like it was a secret. You weren’t doing anything wrong or crossing a line. So what made those words stay lodged in your throat and swallowed down? Were you wanting to keep it hushed? Did some part of you enjoy the one-on-one with him and felt like telling someone would cause them to invite themselves?

You weren't entirely sure, but every time you thought of casually bringing it up to Jill, your throat clenched and the words never found their way out.

The next time Wesker happened to go out to the bar with you all, for the first time, you ended up seated right next to him. He just happened to be in stride with you as everyone piled through the door and made their way to the bar stools. The realization hitting you only after you were halfway through the motion of plopping down on the circular cushion and noticed the blonde hair to your left.

Jill was to your right and at first everything was normal. You thought you'd just have a silent companion to your side, keeping to the tradition of barely interacting with you. But when Jill was distracted and turned away to speak with Chris, an odd nervous feeling started to seep in. You stared forward behind the bar, silently fidgeting your hands together to resist the urge to down your beer faster than normal. Feeling him next to you, staring forward dully in the same direction.

The silence between you was... not helping your nerves.

You never went out of your way to speak to him at the bar. But that was a whole lot easier when he was seated three people away from you.

You didn’t know how to act around him when you were in a setting like this. How you spoke to each other in those private trainings was relaxed. The entire environment was familiar and any insults thrown out could be retaliated against with a swift kick to the chest. Moments of silence were full of action or the pants that would come out after tirelessly going after one another for an hour.

Even around the office, you were a little less bold with him if other eyes were watching. Still sarcastic – but less mouthy.

But in public after work among everyone at the bar? You couldn’t help but feel a bit timid and it confused you. There was nothing he was outwardly doing to evoke this emotion out of you. But there clearly was something residing in your gut that made you feel as if there was something a little different than normal occurring between the two of you --- sometimes at least.

You started to wonder if you should ask Jill if she knew of anyone else being trained with him as you were. Was it normal? Was the fact he barely interacted with you outside of those nights a sign? Did anyone else see him twice a week for two to three hours clashing fists and bodies against one another just to better themselves?

There never was a line crossed during those moments. But still, something tugged at your gut and it wasn't going away.

Your internal thoughts were interrupted by Wesker initiating a conversation with you. Much to your shock.

“Do people actually like this music, or is someone here trying to slowly torture us with this foul-sounding song? I think it’s been on repeat for the past fifteen minutes.” Wesker eyed the jukebox in the corner as if he wanted to set it on fire.

His sunglasses were on, making the emotion in his eyes hard to read, but the stern frown he held was more than enough to show his disdain.

“I think Barry put it on. Said it was him and his wife’s first dance song.” You told him, eyeing Barry who might have had one too many and was feeling extra reminiscent. His wallet was pulled out with about twenty-seven different photos dangling down of his family. He was telling Joseph the same story he told a million times, but Joseph never had the heart to tell him to stop.

“Did they do an entire fucking production for their first dance? It couldn’t have lasted this long.” Wesker looked at Barry, shooting an unseen sneer, before returning his gaze to you. He wasn’t one to swear often with his language, so it made his sentence hit you that much harder. Actually... that may have been the first time you had ever heard him curse. The concept of it seemed beneath him, so this casual slip had your mind circling back to it.

“He kept saying the machine was eating his quarters… not realizing that it was meant to do that. So I think we’re stuck with this song until all the change he put in runs out.”

“How much did he put in it?” Wesker looked slightly horrified at the thought.

“Well… the next round is on me, so you tell me. I am certain he walked in here meaning to pay his way the whole time. He never accepts when one of us pays for a round.”

Wesker rubbed his thumb and index fingers on the bridge of his nose. It was kind of cute to see him this frustrated. Especially over something that you deemed a more tolerable thing.

“Don’t mind me if I get the top-shelf whiskey next round to dull the senses,”

“Maybe wait for Chris’s round for that purchase.” You tilted your head at him.

He eyed the machine again as it started the song up once more.

“I could always unplug it.” You offered, not meaning it.

“I could always shoot it.” He said without hesitation. Meaning it.

“This is a cop bar… you fire a shot and the whole place will start rooting, tooting, and shooting.” You chuckled, taking a swig of your beer.

“At least that be more entertaining than this.”

“Until one of us gets hurt.”

“Good time to get some practice in on medical field training.”

“I did enough of that in the army,” You countered. “Besides… the song isn’t that bad once you get passed the first 3 or 4 minutes of it.”

“That’s when it loops again.” He stated realizing your implication.

“Exactly.”

He scoffed taking a rather large sip of his drink, then pushing the empty glass towards the inner side of the bar to indicate a refill.

“Nights like this, I wonder why I even come out.” He muttered.

“To bond with your crew,” You said rather overdramatically and sarcastically.

“I can do that at the office.” He retorted.

“But you can’t do this,” You lifted your glass in the air a little and then brought it back to your mouth.

“Still can do that at the office.”

“Captain….” You said feigning seriousness. “In our building of law? Heaven forbid."

You realized at this point you were starting to cross the threshold of flirting. While you didn’t intend to nor realized you were doing it right away – that small flush of heat on your cheeks started. Your smile felt like it held a bit of a second meaning to it. You found your body angling towards his just slightly. When it did hit you that your tone of voice was the same you used on men when you went out to the bars with your friends outside the squad, you straightened up a bit in your chair and did a mental cool it! throughout your body.

This was your captain. This was a man that pissed you off entirely. This was a man… that you looked forward to sparring with every week.

Oh, what the fuck?

Did you have a tiny crush on him?

Was this weird drive to impress him actually much deeper than that?

No.

You were just two drinks in and feeling it. Your brain was just running random thoughts all at once. That had to be it.

He was handsome, but so were half the other men in the bar. And most of them likely held only a quarter of the ego this man next to you did.

You were glad he didn’t seem to be giving you the same smiles or body language that you were exerting. You suspected he wouldn’t even be able to see that momentary flirting you evoked. You put yourself in check, and tried to conversate with Jill, but Wesker did keep joining in.

It was a work-related conversation, but your eyes kept fluttering over to him. Eyeing the smaller details as he spoke. His blue shirt with the top button undone. The brown suspenders crossing in the back and rolling over each shoulder. Without the tactical vest on, it was easier to see in this formfitting shirt that he held muscles. And perhaps the shirt was a little too tight or that tactical vest had compressed it all day to fit snugly against him.

But you had logic holding you back.

Even if the few drinks in your system wanted to allow you some eye candy, you knew that was all he could be to you.

If you were to remain in S.T.A.R.S. and move up in this division, crossing the boundaries of anything more than professional with your captain was like a career death wish. Ethics aside, the reputation of someone sleeping with their boss only makes an achievement they receive diminished to statements of oh they only got that because they slept with so and so.

That was not the path you wanted to follow.

And besides… it’s not like he was doing anything to you that you’d deem flirting. Unless your one-on-one spars were his attempt at it. But… doubt it.

He was professional. Cool. Collected. Often times something of a mystery, but perhaps that’s what drew you in. The desire to know what was under that hard-ass disposition. The fact in private he held more relaxed humor to him was alluring. Even more so knowing that it disappeared during the work day in favor of orders barked across the room. 

He did joke and tease you a little more than the others, your mind tried to convince you. It teetered back and forth on the concept of him showing any sort of interest back. Maybe you had caught him looking at you sometimes when you weren’t fully paying attention here or there, but… that didn’t mean anything. It could easily be just happenstance.

You watched him wipe some of the liquid that dripped from his lips with the back of his hand and the muscles that inadvertently twitched in his arm as he did so.

You just wished he didn’t look so attractive, because it would be way easier to manage this.

1 Year Before Mansion Incident

That is the way it remained between Albert Wesker and you for the next very long year.

A full 356 days.

Full of training, very few moments he’d join the squad at the bar, missions that were easy, missions that were tiring, missions that ended up with cuts and bruises, random one on one conversations with him in the office often about work.

But nothing happened.

Nothing that crossed the line, anyways.

Sure, maybe he still did happen to glance at you and stare a little longer than normal some days.

Sure, maybe you noticed that somehow he’d always end up seated next to you of all people if he did happen to go out to the bar with the squad.

And maybe the fact he still was spending two nights a week with you after work to train you even though at this point it was well past your introductory phase was something you pondered often.

Or... how…. you were the only one that could walk into his office unannounced and he didn’t yell at you as he did to everyone else, echoing out the proper etiquette of knocking on one's door.

But those were just tiny threads that when strung together made not even a rope. Just small little things that could just mean a whole lot of nothing. And easily overlooked whenever he got into one of those pissy moods.

The days you’d mess something up, a minor inconvenience really --- any attempt to explain yourself was met with his hand in the air towards you, shushing you silently. Not interested in excuses.

Or the days he’d walk in as Chris was playing his acoustic guitar after you or Jill demanded one song whenever it had been nearly an entire day of nothing important to do. He’d walk in, a sneer present, and a look towards the three of you as if he’d never been more disappointed in his entire fucking life. He seemed more often than not, tightly wound up, as if relaxation was impossible for him. Never joining in one the fun. Never making those little quips he did when he was alone with you.

The days his temper was flaring, it was much easier to hate him rather than have this weird interest in him. He didn’t seem like he had much of a playful side anyways -- only present when he held the upper hand in sparring or if he had a few glasses of whiskey at the bar and the two of you would hold a conversation mostly unheard by others.

You didn’t act on that newfound feeling of admiration you had for him and each time he was a sarcastic asshole to you, it further instilled in your mind that you were doing the right thing by burying those feelings. That he was something to simply look at but not touch.

You just hoped your attraction to him was well hidden beneath your surface.

You knew he must know the pull he had on most women in the police station and you hoped to remain free from that group. He must see it daily in the faces he spoke to. The way all eyes turned to him as he walks by. It likely only assisted him with that smug ego rattling around in his brain. You were determined to squash it and not give him the satisfaction to know that his baby blue eyes did their magic to you as well.

Even if you and Jill never spoke of it, you did see the way her eyes would twinkle just a bit whenever he complimented her agility.

Or you’d notice how most of the women in the administration offices would make excuses to drop off paperwork for him that they could have easily sent in an email.

Or how when he’d stop at the front desk, the woman behind it often blocked her wedding ring from eyesight as she spoke to him.

There was no way he, of all people, didn’t notice these things. He was very perceptive, which made it even more taxing on you when you found yourself slipping while face-to-face with him. You always caught yourself though. You had self-respect and restraint.

But when you’d be in a sparring match with him and he’d approach you and gently lay a hand on your knife-wielding one and tilt your wrist just slightly to get what he deemed the perfect posture, that damn fluttering in your stomach would happen.

You wished you could shut it off, but it was just an automatic response. His touch was always the center of your attention, all nerves targeting it.

You’d feel dumb once you registered the emotion. And sometimes you’d bite at the inside of your lower lip just to numb yourself to that lull.

You found yourself having a few dreams about him, picturing a sparring match. You’d land a blow on his face, knocking him over and pinning him triumphantly to the ground. You’d be straddling him, not realizing how close to his body you were. Inches between your chests as you both gasp for air from such a good and tiring match.

The rest of the dream would end with him fucking you on the mat where you lay. He’d be rough, yet tender. Holding your orgasm over your head, lingering on your skin, and tantalizing you with promises of making you cum.

They… were pleasant dreams.

You figured if that happened in real life, this small crush would evacuate your system entirely, as he seemed entirely closed off emotionally. To anything. Perhaps his body in your face day in and day out was just what you wanted and obtaining that would be the end of this.... fascination.

He never showed fear on duty or off. The only emotions you’d see would range from humored smirks to oozing confidence to utterly pissed off. Rarely you’d see a stressed look tug at his features, and often times it was when you’d enter his office unannounced. He’d be staring at folders or something on his computer and look as if he was failing to solve world hunger with the way his eyebrows knitted together in an aggravated expression. But it would leave once he knew he was being watched.

As if he couldn’t show any sign of emotions.

Maybe that was why he wore the sunglasses so often.

And finally, when you started to spar with Wesker and found yourself winning just as much as you lost, did he do something to you that you hadn’t seen him ever attempt before.

He had just lost to you. A rematch ending with you on the ground, losing all your momentum.

He managed to hit you under the chin, rather hard. Perhaps harder than he expected, because your vision blurred a moment and you felt a stinging sensation that was morphing to a low throb. You knew it would bruise.

You looked up at him to see him leaning down to offer you a hand.

Offering to help you to your feet.

He never offered that before. Always distracted with his own voice or condescending energy to bother.

And you took it.

Your hand was firmly encased in his gloved one as he pulled you to your feet.

You were expecting some snarky comment, but instead, he merely said, “I think that will do it for the day. Good work,” and he addressed you by your name. Not rookie. Not anything else.

Just your name.

Your first name.

It sounded like a foreign word to be leaving his lips.

In the entire solid year under him, you never heard your name spoken. To the point, you wondered if he simply forgot it and now ‘rookie’ was your permanent brand. Jill even jokingly got you a nameplate that said rookie on it for your birthday.

But to hear your name uttered in that honeyed voice of his.

You smiled through the stinging that was still under your chin.

You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but he never stared this silently at you before as you were staring back.

With his glasses on, you couldn’t tell if he was feeling that weird tension in the air you felt or if he was eyeing you like he was just proud of his pupil, finally holding their own. Or if he was wondering why the hell you were keeping this silent eye contact.

Whatever the case, you took a step back, still smiling. Giving a small nod, “Thank you, for always training me Captain Wesker.”

After packing up your things, the pair of you made the walk towards the parking garage together, just as you always did when you stayed late.

“You’ve got to stop aiming for my face…” You said to him as you stepped into the elevator.

“Why’s that?” He cocked his head.

“Because I think the lady at the bank I see every other week is about to call a hotline for me, thinking I’m in danger.”

The noise of a tiny chuckle in his throat barely registered in your ears.

“No promises,” He said after a few moments of silence.

“Then I suppose there are no promises on my end that I won’t start going for your hair. Make sure you keep gel handy..”

“That’s low, rookie. Real low.” He sounded so serious, even though you knew he thought you were being funny. You supposed him calling you by name was reserved for special moments, because he slapped that rookie title back on instantly.

Why was it that every time you spoke to him alone, it felt different than when you were in a group?

The elevator opened and you both were emerging into the parking garage.

"Well... goodnight..." He had the privilege to park up front and center. He’d often stay in his vehicle until your car passed him, perhaps to wait and ensure you made it safely to your car, or maybe he was just slow at getting himself ready to take off.

But that night, maybe it was because they finally had fixed one of the lights near his car, you noticed oddly as you drove by that he was writing something.

Pen pressed and waving around furiously in a journal or something behind the wheel, propping it against it as he scribbled whatever down. Writing as if he was going to forget something, not skipping a beat with his pen against the paper. His sunglasses were off and you could see he was deep in thought.

 You hadn’t meant to stare, but your eyes were oddly drawn to him and of course, he did look up just as your car passed him.

Eyes locked together briefly. He looked void of all and any emotion.

You felt a twinge of embarrassment to be caught staring at him as you passed by, shooting your eyes forward to pretend it was just a coincidence you were eyeing that direction.

Damn… that man was always writing or typing something up. Maybe all his stoic silence was spent with an overactive and loud train of thought he could never escape.