Chapter Text
It was just another dead end; the lead coming from an unnamed source and containing all needed details regarding the trade of bioweapons in Paris just had to have some catch behind it. If BSAA wasn’t so desperate to get their hands on any relevant information, they might’ve even allowed this case to quietly decay in the depths of their database. However, now weren't the times to ignore a potential case, even one as suspicious as this one.
And that’s why Chris Redfield spent nearly two hours in a room with a handful of his most trusted men, going over every tiny detail of the received information in order to decide whether or not to take the bite. In the end, after a sleepless night full of thoughts, he hastily packed his travel bag with most needed things and fled to Paris in order to get to the bottom of this hellhole.
It wasn’t Chris’ first time of being on the undercover mission by himself- the serving in STARS gave him all needed experience. Still, Jill’s company could’ve been a pleasant addition.
Naturally, Chris couldn’t ask her for such a favor. This fast-paced war against bio terrorism required a lot of resources which the freshly-formed BSAA still lacked. Every agent was in high demand, especially as skilled as Jill Valentine, so, in the end, Redfield didn’t find the nerve to bother his partner with such unnecessary whim.
“-wish I could see the future, so that every time I might waste time and money on a useless trip, I could actually know what I’m getting myself into,” Chris muttered into his mobile phone, breathing out heavily. He had spent three days in Paris, snooping around like a shadow and trying to overhear even the tiniest of rumors, the whispers in the dark corners that might finally lead him to that mysterious smuggler. And yet, Redfield achieved nothing, an absolute zero. The depth of his disappointment was unmeasurable.
“Well, at least you checked. We’ve only recently joined this fight, so every lead, even as dubious as this one can actually help us save lives. Though, I understand your annoyance. This could’ve gone better,” Jill said sympathetically on the other side. “So, when are you going back?”
“In two days,” the brunet answered, casting a glance over at the occasional pedestrians crossing the Vendôme Place. He craved for some nicotine, but not knowing if it was even allowed to smoke here- as if the lack of trash cans wasn’t vocal enough to figure things out-, Chris decided to save it for later, when he is back to his hotel located in a less upscale area of the city.
“I can’t believe I’m stuck here, forced to sit back and watch how other people do an actual job while I’m slacking off!” Redfield lamented, leaning on the lamppost. His legs were sore from a full day of walking, but alas, there were no benches in his field of view to rest on.
His complaints were met with a chuckle. “Oh, just look at this martyr! The local man is forced to spend his weekend in Paris at someone else’s expense, and this fact makes him so desperate he’s ready to climb the walls!” Jill exclaimed sarcastically, speaking to someone off-screen, probably one of her teammates. An indiscernible murmur followed, someone even volunteered to take Chris' place, causing a wave of snickers. “Just so you know, guys are unimpressed with your whining. You’re trying too hard to look upset over such a tasty perspective.”
“I am upset,” Redfield protested, but Valentine didn’t allow him to finish this thought, clicking her tongue in annoyance.
“Chis, just relax. Go see some local attractions, visit cafés. You haven't been on a vacation for god knows how long, so take this whole situation as a sign from above.”
Redfield huffed out in annoyance, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “It’s not funny. You know what I mean-” the man objected, frowning. He knew Jill was only teasing him, but the very idea of someone perishing from yet another biological outbreak while he was enjoying himself, haunted Chris in dreams and awakeness. How could he even consider taking a break, when the world is overflown with bioweapons, and they're only been scratching the top of the iceberg?
Redfield brought up some more of those unnecessary complaints, Valentine retorting unenthusiastically to his speech, and then Chris’ attention suddenly shifted to a taxi approaching the hotel just across the tiny square he currently occupied. The windows of the car were tinted, making it hard to discern the passenger’s face. Despite it being a usual view, Redfield still couldn’t take his eyes off the car, a tiny voice in his head telling him something was about to happen. Chris has long been accustomed to trusting his instincts, so he remained vigilant, anticipating how the events would unfold.
When the cab finally stopped, a well-dressed porter hurried to open its door. The passenger happened to be a tall, lean man with wheat blond hair neatly slicked back. A disturbing feeling of recognition tightened Chris’ insides, and his eyes instantly widened.
“Hold on a second…” the young man murmured into his phone, interrupting Jill mid-sentence. Swallowing a lump of nervousness in his throat, Redfield rushed forward, driven by an inner impulse to reveal the stranger’s identity and confirm (or dispel) his suspicions. Could it be… Wesker?
Redfield’s vision narrowed, fully fixed on the back of that suspicious stranger; the realization there was someone in his way came only when Chris collided with a firm body, barely keeping himself upright.
“Ah, shit! I’m sorry,” Chris exclaimed, throwing his hands up in an apologetic gesture.
He took a step back, letting the passer-by leave, and as his gaze wandered, the brunet noticed his phone laying on the ground, likely falling out of his hand during the incident. It’s good that they were using undestroyable Nokia as their work phones, or else a broken screen or frame would’ve joined the roster of annoying things happening to Chris lately.
While bending down to pick it up, Redfield heard the victim of his determination muttering a few swears, and although Redfield couldn’t speak French, a word resembling “americans”, spoken in a harsh way, was enough of a hint to say they guy was cursing him and all the population of United States altogether.
Being in no mood to argue back, Chris silently picked up his phone, wiped the droplets off the screen with the sleeve of his leather jacket, and then checked if the suspicious ‘likely-Wesker’ man was still outside.
And just on time; the blonde was just crossing the threshold of the hotel, busy talking on the phone. Redfield heard him saying ‘Do not call me before eight o’clock tomorrow’, and then the door closed, cutting off Chris’ ability to overhear the rest of the conversation.
Frighteningly so, the voice belonged to Wesker!
Or not..?
Confused with all the background noises, Redfield realized he couldn’t tell for sure.
Mad at himself, the man groaned in annoyance. There had to be a way to find out if that mysterious stranger was truly Wesker! He just needed to define a strategy.
Boldly rushing into the hotel and flashing his credentials into the administrator's face was definitely not an option; even if the manager might agree to let Redfield in, they would still have to call the occupant of the room and inform them that a federal agent wanted to see them. And with Wesker’s inhuman abilities, the man could easily jump out of the window and run, or take someone hostage to get away with arrest. Or even kill.
No, Chris could not allow any of that to happen.
So, classical espionage was his best option.
What did that man say, again, to not call him before eight? Was that because he was busy elsewhere, or just sleeping? The captain of STARS Redfield knew was always up with the birds, but that was a long time ago… And the time proved to him Wesker’s whole personality and lifestyle was fabricated anyway.
So it was worth it to wait and see what might happen, even if Chris would be forced to pace in circles around the plaza the whole morning.
***
The next day, Chris had found himself standing at the Vendôme Place again, equipped with an average camera hanging on a long strap around his neck. His strategy was to pretend to be a regular tourist taking shots of Paris, to justify his prolonged presence in this part of the city, and in front of the hotel specifically. It would be great if he could acquire Wesker’s hotel room number too, and maybe try identifying his windows, but that would be too much of a luck, and too much attention attracted to some creep taking photos of the hotel’s occupants.
Redfield took a shot of a peculiar arch over the plaza passage, and then looked down at his watch. 7.45. Just the right time to start paying attention to the windows.
It took him a full half of an hour, six more photos taken and a full fake talk on the phone performed to finally spot his target passing the hotel's main doors and heading somewhere past the plaza. In the bright light of the morning, Chris was finally able to see for himself that it was Albert-goddamn-Wesker indeed, looking as casual as possible in his beige trench coat and always-present sunglasses. Infuriating how a murderer and a bio-terrorist was able to just show up in public like he did nothing wrong! And nobody- not a single soul!- knew his identity. Except from Chris.
A burning rage filled the brunet’s chest; gripping the camera firmly, Redfield had to suppress a desire to leap forward and just beat the shit out Wesker then and there. Starting a fight in the middle of a crowded street filled with Parisians and tourists calmly enjoying their morning would be beyond fullish. Even if it served as a local entertainment for a short period of time.
And thus, Redfield took a deep breath, reigning in his rage, and silently followed the blonde to whatever place he was heading, keeping a mindful distance so as not to blow up his cover. No engagement, just observing and eavesdropping in hope to acquire some important information about Wesker’s plans.
Their mutual stroll ended abruptly; after crossing the street and turning around the corner, Wesker entered a tiny café, which must’ve been a bakery, judging from the contents of the storefronts seen through the big window. Slowing down as well, Chris looked around.
The street was quite tiny, to put it mildly; not nearly enough to hang around without raising suspicion. Redfield absolutely hated this hallmark of European cities: bad enough to chase a suspect without pushing people left and right, bad enough to spy on someone without looking like a weirdo. So what was he supposed to do now? Pretend to be fascinated by local jewelry? He did not look like a connoisseur at all. Besides, if he stayed outside, he would absolutely miss out on all the talking.
And so, with no other options left, Chris decided to try his luck. He was going to go inside and occupy a chair by the bar counter, that was near the entrance, and throw some glances Wesker’s way once in a while, hopefully staying unnoticed. If something went wrong, he could just wind out of the shop and easily blend with the crowd. That was the plan.
Stepping inside, Redfield immediately occupied the comfy stool by the bar and discreetly looked around, spotting the sought bastard behind one of the smaller tables reading a daily newspaper, legs crossed casually.
However, in a moment, a waitress showed up by his table, stealing Chris’ attention completely.
“Good morning, what would you like to order for a drink?” The woman asked him politely in that neat French accent of hers.
Losing some of his professionalism immediately, the brunet smiled at her sheepishly and feverishly picked up a menu, skimming through its contents. Mentally thanking God there was a translation of menu items in English, the man decided on a simple Americano as a starter. He wasn’t even sure if he would eat here at all; it all depended on how long Wesker was going to lounge his ass in one place.
“Good, mon chéri. We have excellent pastry here,” the waitress waved her hand at the row of storefronts stuffed with bakeries of all kinds. “Feel free to pick whatever you like. Your coffee will be ready in a minute.”
Redfield nodded, giving the woman another smile, and then lowered his gaze back at the menu. Although the opportunity to wander around the shop under a good reason was perfect for eavesdropping, Chris prudently stayed in place. Something was telling him should he move even an inch, Wesker would instantly uncover his location.
During his serving in STARS, Redfield had a feeling their Captain could read minds or see the future. For some unknown reason, the blonde always managed to learn about Chris’s shenanigans, oftentimes beforehand. Who knew what powers the bastard possessed right now; maybe this time, he could actually see through people. The very possibility of this happening sent a wave of goosebumps rushing over the surface of the brunet’s skin.
At some point, a deep, itching urge to raise his eyes seized him; while looking around with unease, pulse thumping in his temples wildly, Chris glanced back to Wesker. The blonde was looking right at him, thin eyebrow curved, and an unmistakable mocking smirk played on the man’s lips.
I just blew up my cover, Redfield thought in panic, his heart dropping in the pit of his stomach. His whole body began to vibrate, urging the man to flee the spot, but an almost animalistic terror has stolen control over his limbs. Possible future events flashed before his eyes: a bloody fight, casualties among civilians, Jill’s anger and disappointment and his shameful resignation from the position of a field agent. If he managed to survive the fight at all.
And in the meantime, Wesker lowered his newspaper, neatly folding it in half, to then place it on the table in front of him. His hand, covered in a black leather glove, raised in the air, and then Wesker beaconed Chris to his table with the flick of his index finger. Like calling a dog. If Redfield wasn’t so shell-shocked, he would reconsider fighting the terrorist again.
Suppressing an urge to bury his face in the menu and pretend he wasn’t there, Chris looked away abruptly. ‘Go, go, go!’ - the man's mind chanted, and the brunet looked around nervously, legs moving already to hop off the chair.
Wesker, on the other hand, noticing no initiative from his former point man, exhaled dramatically, and then rose from his seat- a newspaper in hand-, to move in Redfield’s direction. The brunet watched him approach, his mind slowing everything down to an almost frame-like state, body movements included.
Then, the blonde scientist took his seat in a disturbing proximity for the agent, and everything snapped in place in Chris’ head, colors, sounds and sensations.
“Well?” The blonde asked casually, leaning on the bar counter with his elbow.
“Well?” Redfield parroted, defensively. In the moment, no justification of his presence here, even the most ridiculous one, came to the man’s mind. Only silence.
“Are you done with playing James Bond, Christopher? I can pretend to not notice you for a little bit longer, if it somehow helps to soothe your ego,” Wesker scoffed in that painfully familiar condescending tone.
That was one hell of a way to start a conversation.
The humiliating comment made Redfield scowl, his jaw tightening. He would love to say something witty, appear cool-headed, but there was nothing he could say aside from endless, dirty insults. And Wesker was expecting exactly this to move his piece again.
Chris won’t give him the satisfaction.
So, instead of fulfilling said expectations, Chris inquired bluntly, whispering in a low, hissy voice, “What are you doing here?”
“Here?” The blonde clarified slowly, pretending to be caught off guard; he even looked around, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. That unnecessary performance earned an eye-roll from the younger man. “I suppose, I’m having breakfast. This place was recommended to me repeatedly, and so I decided to give it a try. To my own surprise, it is, indeed, a nice place,” the blonde finished, glancing at his interlocutor with the look of holy innocence.
Redfield nearly groaned in frustration; he should’ve expected as much. The desire to slam his former boss into the nearest wall only increased.
“Cut the bullshit, Wesker! You perfectly understood the question! What are you doing here, in Paris?” The brunet’s eyes dangerously narrowed.
“Ah, but you need to be more specific in what you’re asking about, my dear, so I could give you the answer you seek for,” the blonde sighed, his voice so sugary it could be used as a sweetener, albeit a dangerous one. “What am I doing in Paris? Why, I’m having a vacation. Surely you are familiar with the definition of this word.”
Chris couldn’t hold back a scornful snort. “Overworked while trying to bring humanity to its end?” He inquired sarcastically; this attempt at insulting was rewarded with another condescending smile flashing on the scientist’s lips. “What an interesting choice of place anyway. If you had told me you were going on a ‘vacation’, I could’ve recommended you a few places to stay. For example, French Maximum Security Prison. Very comfortable to spend your weekends at. Or the rest of your life, depends on how lucky you are.”
Wesker chuckled softly, a row of perfectly white teeth flashed when he grinned. “I’ve missed your exceptional approach to our conversations, Christopher,” the blonde purred. “Always so passionate and witty.”
The way the blonde said it, the sound of his voice awakened something bitter-sweet and sickening in the depth of Redfield's chest, and he immediately felt the bile rising in his throat. Apparently, not enough time passed to wipe that pathetic feeling of nostalgia out of his mind. And to think, there was a time when he respected this man…
Chris couldn’t decide what enraged him more: Wesker’s chilling nonchalance with which he approached this conversation, or the resurfacing memories of that miserable crush Redfield had on the man back in the days.
Either way, the brunet couldn’t hold back the next words escaping his mouth, his hands curling into fists, “An exceptional approach, you say?” Chris’ eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’ll show you my approach-”
Despite the obvious threat, however, Wesker gave him a glance of boredom. The blonde clicked his tongue in disappointment and waved his index finger in front of Chris’ face in an almost parental disapproval.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he uttered, “If I were you, I wouldn't be starting a fight in the middle of a crowded café. It’s going to ruin someone’s morning, and we don’t want this to happen, do we?” Wesker added calmly, and Redfield could feel the man’s meaningful gaze fixed on him. “Do we, Chris”? The terrorist repeated his question, and this time his eyes behind the heavily-tinted sunglasses flashed with a scarlet glow in an apparent threat.
Redfield clenched his teeth firmer. After a momentary delay, he huffed and said quietly, leaning away from the terrorist, “Whatever.”
Wesker looked smug, like a gorged cat bathing in the sun. “A wise decision. Now, how about we choose what to order, hmm? I’m intending to have a hearty breakfast, and considering that you are going to sit here and watch me eat- which is rude, by the way-, I would recommend you to pick something. I’m paying anyway, so don’t be shy.”
Chris gawked at him in a mix of surprise and offence, before blurting out, “Now, why did you decide I’m staying-”, but the same waitress from before suddenly appeared by the bar, holding a tray with two cups and an additional menu, and prompted him to fall silent.
“Ah, vous êtes là ! (Ah, here you are!) ”, she exclaimed, flashing Wesker a smile. “Voici votre café . (Here’s your coffee.) ” The waitress took both cups one by one and carefully placed them in front of the men. “Vous avez choisi ? (Are you ready to order?)”
“Une seconde, s'il vous plaît, (One second, please)”, the blonde replied with a barely-noticeable accent, abruptly plucking the menu out of Redfield’s hands, to the man’s rightful resentment. Briefly looking through the assortment of meals, he began to dictate his order.
In a minute, done with his part, Wesker turned to look at the agent by his side. “Did you decide what you are going to eat?” The blonde inquired, smirking at the way Chris frowned and pouted at him in anger. What an amusing child he was...
“Oh, now you actually recalled I am sitting right here? How could I possibly choose anything, when you have stolen my menu?” Redfield pointed out, furious. Every detail of this bizarre meeting was getting on the man’s nerves, but he was so wrapped in Wesker’s web, he couldn’t just leave anymore.
“You had your chance. Instead of salivating all over me, you could look through the menu and make up your mind. Now, I’m going to be the one ordering,” the blonde responded without missing the beat, and before Chis was able to object, Wesker addressed the waitress again, “Benedict eggs with croissants will do, it's a very delicious and nutritious breakfast.”
“Well, I don’t want eggs, ok?” Redfield muttered the moment the chance appeared. It wasn’t about his preferences even, but rather the ability to choose for himself. The scientist was delusional for thinking he could boss around someone like Chris.
Equally as stubborn, Wesker rolled his eyes and uttered strictly, “Now, why don’t you stop acting childish, Christopher? Do you have to disagree with everything you hear?”
The look of displeasure on the man’s face was the exact thing Redfield intended to achieve; he would burst out laughing if it wouldn’t endanger his life and the lives of the people around him.
“Not everything; just the things coming out of your mouth,” Chris parried, finally being able to smirk himself. Oh, now with no ‘subordinate and superior’ bullshit tying Redfield’s hands, Wesker is doomed to be given a ride of his life.
Chris intended to add another snarky remark, but a sudden chuckle coming from the waitress’ direction caused him to snap his mouth shut. Suddenly becoming aware they’ve been arguing in public this whole time, Redfield felt the tips of his ears starting to burn in shame.
“You are very funny,” the woman said, still giggling. “Are you two a couple marié (married couple)? We have discounts for les amoureux (lovers) this week,” she added, pointing at the whiteboard with a fresh handwritten inscription “Love Fever Week! 20% discount for couples”.
Wesker’s brows rose above his glasses, and the look of annoyance on his face shifted to a sly, mischievous smirk. “Well-well-well, Christopher. Isn’t that convenient? Just the deal we need. And as far as I remember, you loved to buy things on sale, even the most useless ones. I think it’s a win.”
“You-!” Redfield squeezed out, his eyes oozing pure hatred. He moved away, intending to stand up and leave, but Wesker’s hand laying on his shoulder, feeling as heavy as a lead ingot, stopped him from doing so.
“Sit,” the blonde said sharply, the previous smirk completely washed off his face. Giving the military man a heavy look, Wesker shifted his gaze to the waitress, and addressed her in a tone he used to apply while giving commands to his former STARS squad. “This young man will have Benedict eggs with croissants. Ce sera tout, merci (That’s all, thank you).”
The sudden shift in the attitude caused the waitress to freeze in confusion. However, noticing Wesker’s brow arching in anticipation of her leaving them alone, the woman nodded and hurried to vanish.
“I would rather have you here, struggling to build a civil conversation, than letting you creep on me from the corners for the whole day. Although I barely can call myself a hectic person, I despise being watched. Especially during my vacation,” Wesker explained, reading a question in Redfield’s eyes. His hand still laid on the brunette’s shoulder.
And, although Chris would rather be seeing himself out of this situation, he obediently stayed in place. Furious or not, he needed to act in favor of his mission without letting his emotions overtake him.
And, currently, this goal was to spy on Wesker.
Chris was no fool, he knew well enough that a chance like this might never occur again. Still, he couldn’t help but mutter in his cup of coffee, sounding rather hurt, “Just for the record, I was chasing sales because I couldn’t afford anything other than paying my bills and sending Clare money. You made me look like a beggar. Not that you care anyway.”
Redfield expected a sarcastic comment, some insult or mockery, but what followed after his revelation was only silence. Side-eyeing the scientist by his side, Chris noticed the man sipping his own drink calmly, appearing wrapped in thoughts.
Finally, Wesker uttered, eyes fixed on some invisible dot in the distance, “It wasn’t in my jurisdiction to raise your salary without Irons’ approval, and I could not allow myself to show bias or plunge my hands into matters not delegated to me directly by…my former employer. I had a task I needed to perform. An inadequate or too personal approach could jeopardize that task,” the blonde added, finally rewarding Chris with a direct eye contact. He did not show any malice, but there was something in the lines of his face, the way he spoke that prompted Redfield to believe there was something else behind all that stoicism.
“If you need my personal opinion, you deserved a raise,” Wesker continued, looking away once again. “You were a very reliable employee, your marksman skills were impressive, along with your other talents. Of course, I would never give you any salary bonuses. Someone must pay for all the…pranks you pulled during your office days,” the bland finished, and his monotone voice warmed up just a little bit, along with a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips.
The shift of the atmosphere left a sour taste in Redfield’s mouth; on one hand, he felt enraged by how casually the terrorist called his betrayal, his lies ‘a task’. Just a task to send your men to death! Just a task to manipulate them into thinking you’re their friend-! Just a task to drag young, hopeful people through horrors at such a young age, and then sit here and pretend it’s all business.
And yet, the praise, the joke…
Oh, Chris was so happy to jump through hoops back in the days, hoping to earn a good word from their stoic boss, feel that pat on the shoulder, see those lips curving in a smile of approval. How pathetic, naive, young he was…
It hurt like hell to think such an important part of his life was nothing but a lie. What horrific things Wesker must’ve thought about him, laughing at his puppy loyalty when nobody was watching. And Chris thought he had a chance if he just tried a little bit harder.
Unable to form the right answer, the brunet chose to remain silent. With a frown on his face, he returned to sipping his coffee, staring at the wooden pattern of the counter with unseeing eyes. He felt like a tightly-pulled wire ready to snap at any moment; there was nothing he could occupy his mind with: no food to eat, no tv to stare at.
At one point, the silence between them became so heavy, Redfield spoke up just for the sake of the act alone, “How did you spot me, anyway? I thought I was cautious enough to not attract your attention.”
Wesker huffed softly. He seemed to be in a state of reverie as well, but the brunet’s question snapped him back into reality. “I knew it was you from the very beginning. I saw you yesterday, when you bumped into that poor man, and heard your voice. Knowing your desperate need to stick your nose in my business, I assumed I should expect to see you the next day, trying to get to me, or spy on me.”
“Imagine my delight, when I spotted someone remarkably similar to you walking in circles in front of my hotel. The idea of staying in my room for the whole day, watching you and making bets on how long you will last pretending to be a photographer was tremendously tempting,” the blonde chuckled, noticing how Chris’ lips curled in frustration. “However, I have my plans for today. And, although it’s always nice to play with you, I can’t actually ruin my schedule.”
“And what are those plans exactly?” Redfield almost asked, but the realization that Wesker would likely lie or dodge that question altogether persuaded him to hold back his tongue for now.
When their food finally arrived and was placed before them, it became easier to ignore Wesker’s company instead of kicking a dead horse and trying to start a meaningless conversation.
However, Wesker had other plans on that account.
Lazily spreading softened butter along the surface of one of the toasts, the man took a peek at Chris’ photo camera still hanging from the strap, and asked, “Did you actually take pictures?”
Redfield raised his eyes from the plate, slightly confused by the question. In all honesty, he did not expect Wesker to ask something so…ordinary, or speak to him at all. Lowering his head down to stare at the camera, the brunet answered, albeit a bit defensively, “Well, yes. Weren’t you the one teaching me that our cover should be as convincing as possible?”
Wesker hummed in response. Then, he stretched his hand towards the camera. “Can I have a look?”
“No,” Redfield blurted out without a second thought.
The blonde’s brows arched in response to such a strong reaction, even though his hand remained in place, and Chris had no repeat his response, covering the camera with his hand protectively, as if Wesker was going to rip it off with a strap, “No, you can’t.”
“I couldn’t possibly imagine you being so stingy, Christopher,” the scientist shook his head in disappointment. “One could think you were taking pictures of something inappropriate, judging by your reaction to such a simple request.”
Usually, Redfield wasn’t the one easily rage baited- at least at the present time-, but something in Wesker’s tone made him feel like a little child chastised by their parents, and despite his initial intentions, the man detached the camera from the strap and almost shoved it the blonde’s hands, covering his embarrassment with excessive hostility.
Wesker smirked at this little victory, but refrained from commenting further, kindly sparing Chris’ already shattered pride.
At first, the brunet did not intend to hover over the older man while he scrolled through the photo gallery, but Wesker’s face, deprived of any emotions, and his occasional hums were rather unnerving. Instantly losing his appetite, Redfield found himself torn between looking at the blonde’s face and the camera screen, or rather, the reflection of photos in the man’s sunglasses.
What one could possibly examine with such diligence in simple pictures of the environment?
“These are quite nice,” Wesker said at last, and Chris had to question himself if he started hearing things. No way his arch nemesis just complimented his mediocre photography skills.
“For real?” The brunette clarified, taken aback.
“For real,” Wesker repeated him with a shadow of a smile, although such phrasing felt alien compared to his usual manner of speech. “You are a man of many talents, indeed. Where did you learn how to do it?”
The raised topic was, however, one Chris wasn’t so eager to discuss. At least not with his enemy. However, the scientist’s openness and lack of usual venom prompted the man, albeit reluctantly, to respond, “My father used to like this. He often took me and Clare with him on the ride, and showed me how to take pictures. He had an old Polaroid. I had a bunch of those slides pinned all over my bedroom, with silly little remarks scribbled on them. I didn’t have a chance to take the camera with me before-” the words stuck in Redfield’s throat, a wave of suffocating feelings and a dull sense of loss filling his chest once again, “-you know. Before everything went to shit.”
Once hoping that the bad memories might faint, the grief might subside, now Chris knew better: the overwhelming feeling of loss would only accumulate, wrapping around his heart like onion layers. He was doomed to see the faces of his fallen friends and random victims he couldn't save at death's door, taking that feeling of guilt into his grave.
The desire to answer any following questions evaporated the moment Redfield recalled who he was talking to actually.
Right, Wesker wasn’t just a misunderstood friend from the past; he was a dangerous murderer, liar and betrayer. Just like all those freaks selling death for money.
Surprisingly, the scientist did not initiate the conversation again. He looked just as thoughtful, perhaps even slightly affected by this short conversation.
If he was still able to feel at all.
If he could ever.