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The chopper goes down miles outside of town.
It crunches into the side of a hill, with enough force to slam Chris against the back of the pilot's chair, and the outstretched length of Wesker's arm is the only thing stopping momentum from driving him right through and out the front. He feels the blasting pain of impact, that knocks all the breath out of him.
The world comes and goes in snatches. He remembers being dragged through metal - hauled upright - stumbling across the uneven ground - something very loud. The world doesn't pull into focus until he's slumped against the hard bark of a tree. He must have hit his head, because it's bleeding, a sluggish but bright flow of red down the side of his face.
Wesker's still moving him, hands warm on his face, his shadow blocking the sun.
"Chris, talk to me," Wesker demands, and Chris has always been a good soldier.
"Let's not do that again," he manages, and talking makes all his teeth hurt.
Wesker gives a little huff of air, that might be relief, and carefully tips his head up. Chris winces when the movement sets his ears ringing again, and it's far too bright for the pounding in his head to cope with. He hisses and squints, which doesn't help in the slightest. Concussion - he hopes to God he doesn't get nauseous as well.
There's a long, strange pause, and then Wesker slips his sunglasses off and swivels them, sets them on Chris's nose and then up in one, careful push. They're warm from Wesker's face, heavier than they look. Wesker turns away before Chris can get a good look at his eyes, and he can't for the life of him bring to mind the last time he saw them, or what colour they are.
"The pilot?" he asks.
"No," Wesker says simply.
"The radio?"
"Also no." Wesker's head is bent forward, perfect hair threatening to slip down. Chris can't see his eyes from this angle, just the sweep of his eyelashes, the curve of his cheekbone. His face looks strangely naked, even through the dark lenses. He's turning Chris's arm, and Chris doesn't even know he's injured anywhere else until the material tears wetly, and he feels the sting of bloody fabric peeling away from a wound.
Wesker's fingers are red when they lift away.
"I'm going to need something for this." It's almost an apology, and Chris doesn't know what he means. Until Wesker pulls his shirt up, out of his pants. Chris leans a little to the side so he can reach the white cotton of his undershirt. He tears a strip in one movement, and then another, knuckles pressing briefly into Chris's bare stomach. "First aid isn't really my thing." It's a quiet admission, that Wesker himself seems surprised to make.
When he tugs the water bottle off his belt, Chris stops him unscrewing it.
"Should you really be wasting that?" he asks.
"I'm not," Wesker says tightly, and Chris is pretty sure the 'you're an idiot' is implied. Wesker takes off his gloves, washes the wound out, before carefully wrapping it up. He rips the end, and ties it off.
Chris tests it, carefully, while Wesker's draws leather back onto his fingers.
"I'm ok to walk." Chris puts a hand on the rock, to push himself to his feet and prove it.
"When it's dark." It's clear Wesker doesn't intend to argue about it. Chris carefully resettles himself and he's not going to pretend he isn't grateful.
It's not until the sun's gone down that Chris realises he's still wearing Wesker's sunglasses, and he still looks strange without them, all shadows and angles where there shouldn't be any. Even in profile. There's a twist of something Chris can't quite name in his gut. Curiosity maybe. It makes him reach up and draw the glasses down and off.
Wesker looks at him, and Chris still can't see what colour his eyes are in the dark.
He lifts the glasses, as if to hand them over, but Wesker doesn't move, so instead he very carefully slots them back where they belong, pushing them up until Wesker's face is familiar again.