Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Deprived was one of the many things you were. Of work, a social life, a home, good company, affection, of love. Some days it felt alright, and on the rare occasion (just about once a week), you had a horrible spiral. It was like junior year again, you smoked copious amounts of weed and felt yourself physically hovering for the rest of the evening, up until you passed out from exhaustion, spinning aimlessly in the kitchen because why were the thoughts still happening? They were supposed to stop.

You stare at yourself in the mirror after work and do affirmations. “I’m a failure,” you say confidently. Late weekend evenings consisted of cheap booze, blues and masturbation. And again, you pass out in exhaustion when it's done, feeling more empty than fulfilled.

You like to call yourself a writer, although the charm of the hobby peeled itself off your skin when you took it up as a profession. It wasn’t the fun kind of writing, not creative nor personal, but highly formal reports in feature stories for businesses. A freelance journalist.

Since high school you knew what you wanted to do, or, had to. You were socially apt enough to hold lengthy conversations with people who had the nail dust equivalent conversational skills. You wrote, and pretty damn well at that. It became clear when your grandfather gave you the opportunity to write a weekly composition about the funeral parlor he owned alongside his business partner, what your calling was. No one read it, besides distant family feigning interest in a sad attempt to support your somehow already dead end career. Your grandfather tossed a bone, and you got paid thirty dollars a week, so, damn well for a low-maintenance teenager.

When your dear Grandpa Owen passed away, his snide business partner, Kenneth, passively told you to go suck it. “This parlor ain’t no place for grieving. Besides, dontcha think this little writer's endeavor of yours planted its feet in the real world? Go talk to some people, apply yourself and find the work, don’t expect to be found,” he said dismissively.

That was nine years ago, though it still pisses you off. You barely slumped through college, earning your Bachelor of Arts in Journalism after four, awful fucking years. You’re twenty-seven now, and despite how grueling those years were, you often sat in wonder at where they went. You take every job that you can find, because you have to find the work, not expect to be found. It in fact, did not pay the rent. Your landlord, a very sweet woman in her early sixties, had been kind enough to offer a rent forbearance indefinitely. So far six months passed, and the income was unlike time, not relative. Still, in no world did you ever find it possible to afford paying the rent, only able to manage groceries and amenities fairly comfortably.

On this Saturday evening, you finally decide that you are an adult, after childishly being pleased with yourself when shutting down the oh-so common desire of wanting to smoke a spliff. You toss yourself onto the couch in the living room and crack open your crusty laptop, sniffing in an almost compliant manner. For the first time in months you log into your OhMyJobs! account, filtering until there's only a dozen options on your screen, half of which are probably bots. Your eyes almost instinctively skip over a posting by the Raccoon Police Department. Police? That's like bad guys and working out and tasers and sobriety checkpoints, oh, and donuts! In other words, something your dinky degree is severely underqualified for. Your eyes do a hard stop at the **JOURNALIST POSITION AVAILABLE** in the title.

“Really, we’re looking for someone more low profile but crafty. Having a way with people, unassuming but forward. Not imposing but impactful. Hot and cold?” The interviewer, a woman seemingly younger than you, sat on the other end of her desk while she spoke.

Honestly, you felt stumped. Last you checked, you were not an illiterate dolt, and a lot of those things seemed contradictory. “So you want an alien with no social conventions who speaks archaic language but is somehow still charismatic enough to get people to tell you shit?”, is what you desperately want to say.

“Yeah, I’ve worked for a funeral home before. I’m well suited for telling people what they want to hear so that I can be told what I need to hear,” you say.

“Well, that is great to hear! Chief Irons has taken kindly to you from what I heard in my briefing with him, so you’re on the right track.” She stands and extends her arm to you. You take a firm grasp of her hand and shake it.

“Thank you for this opportunity,” you say with a perfunctory smile.

“Of course,” Whatshername says, “you’ll be hearing from us within the week, I can assure that.”

With that, you sling your jacket over your shoulder and turn to the door, about to exit when her voice freezes you in place. “And y/n?” You turn around to look at her.

“I used to do creative writing very passionately myself. I know this isn’t that, but you’ll have ample opportunity to record events around Raccoon City that are of interest to you. This isn’t a rigid policing-matters-only role,” she assures.

“Thank you,” you say, barely able to contain your glee. Her words essentially translate to, ”hey the job is basically already yours."

You leave the HR lady's office promptly, physically withholding yourself from giddily skipping to the guest parking lot. “Fuck yes,” you whisper.

On your arrival to the concrete paradise that is the RPD’s visitor lot, you withdraw your cell from your butt pocket, staring down at it stupidly upon the realization. You have nobody to text, no one to celebrate with, not a soul to congratulate you. How brash am I being right now? You mentally ask yourself. You don’t even have the job yet, settle your ass down.

“Ah fuck it, I deserve a drink,” you practically sing. And with that, you’re off to the Little Sister, a more upper class uptown bar, to spend the paycheck you have not yet earned.

It’s seven forty-five when you enter the Little Sister, dark circles dragging your eyes down. The meeting had taken place at twelve noon, and as a consequence of your alcoholic tendencies, you used how seemingly well the meeting went as an excuse to drink. You drove by your apartment and decided on a more comfortable outfit, preferably with pants that didn’t hike so far up your ass that you felt as though you were being split in two from the behind. So you changed.

On the way out, your eyes locked eyes with the couch, and you swore it beckoned you. “Ah, fine. Just fifteen minutes, my ass is sore,” you said to yourself. In your universe, fifteen minutes loosely translates to five-ish hours, supposedly.

Instinctually, you walk to the bar counter and plant yourself down comfortably on a stool near the edge of the area adjacent to the bartender's station. Not exactly a spot that screams “hey, I’m lonely and DTF!” Though nothing in your life changed yet, you feel as though things are moving along smoothly. The atmosphere in the RPD struck you as open, from the just about an hour you spent there. And, from the looks of it, the interviewer seemed to take a liking to you. Writers support writers, you guessed. Not to mention the Chief, from what you were told, at least.

The bartender approaches you. He looks young, in his late teens, you guess. “Hey there, how's it going?” he greets.

“I’m just dandy, yourself?” you say in a deadpan tone. “Well enough,” he replies. “Is there anything I can get started for you?”

For a moment you pause, as if in a deep thought. Of course, you already know what you want. It’s crisp, clean, refreshing, classy and verstalite, it's: “A vodka cranberry, please.”

The bartender nods in acknowledgement, walking off to fulfill your request. You smile to yourself, coolly awaiting your drink. A reward for doing what most ‘normal’ functioning adults don’t congratulate themselves for achieving (the potential acceptance into a job).

You sigh and look up, a risky thing to do when you go to a bar alone. There's a chance of locking eyes with a stranger, and then you have to play the infuriating game of eye contact conventions, something no one has really mastered the art of doing because miscommunication is almost guaranteed. On the off chance that it happens, you need to pretend you’re searching for the restroom and then get up from your seat and act like you’ve gotta piss. It's annoying, but necessary, or at least you think so.

You’re feeling daring, so you glance around in confidence, starting with the booths. The bar is fairly empty, but the atmosphere is calming. A few couples occupy a third of the cubbies, some of them are deeply engaged with one another, laughing cutely. The others are content with their food, happily snacking on nachos and tall beers.

Here comes the fun part, your eyes flick to the bar counter. You sit at the end of it on a turn, the view is commendable, really. From where you sit, you can adequately imagine the next thirty years being married to each individual who occupies every stool. That is the extent of good to which your choice of seating is.

On the very other end sit two women, quietly sharing a moment together. They aren’t particularly engaged with their drinks, nor one another, away from the present. Boring. Next! An old man with greying hair and a large bald spot, emphasis on the top of his head because it is all you can see while he is passed out on top of a newspaper. It can’t possibly get more dull. Finally, a man who looks to be in his early forties.

The first part of him that captures your interest is how perfectly he frames in your eyes. His drink of choice is a whiskey, common for most handsome, older men, you’ve noticed. His blonde hair is slicked back with what must be gel, one loose tuft, fitting, considering that it’s later into the evening now. He is wearing a dress shirt which you can best describe as dark, greyish navy blue. You can barely see his waist area from where you are sitting, but he is wearing what appears to be snugly fitting black, dress pants.

Cool, you have relished in this handsome man's appearance. Your eyes move back up to his face, expecting him to still be staring down intently at his neat whiskey. But rather, he is now staring right back at you.

Great, you have completely disregarded rule number one of people watching, DO NOT EXCHANGE FULLY BODY GLANCES! In an attempt to de-escalate a problem that you have completely organized in your own mind, you channel all will power you can possibly mentally exert to not smile. But, the edges of your lips begin creeping up out of customary politeness, your eyes still locked. Luckily, the bartender steps in the way, obstructing both yours and the stranger’s view.

“Your vodka cranberry, miss.” He smiles down at you and places the drink in front of your interlocked hands.

“Thanks,” you say. Although, you are not entirely sure whether you are giving him thanks for the drink, or saving you from the blonde man's sharp gaze. He nods at you and returns closer to his work station, wiping the already spotless counter.

Your heart drops when the man is no longer in his seat, already halfway in making his way to you. Unless he is somehow the only person on the planet who actually cares to touch the jukebox. He guides his whiskey smoothly along the bar counter with a hand until it is sitting closely with your drink.

“Evening,” he greets. Before you reply, he sits, which leaves a seat between you two, a gentleman's thing to do, you think.

“Hi,” you reply in an almost whisper. You take a moment to examine his face more closely when he takes a sip of his drink. His smile lines are practically absent, he must not experience joy often, you think to yourself jokingly. The man's resting face is somber, hinging on annoyance. It looks almost as if someone forced him to sit by you, despite it being entirely his decision.

You can barely enjoy the refreshing first sip of your drink while under the strangers scrutiny. “What's your name?” He inquires. His voice is deep and the words draw out of his mouth smoothly, naturally nasally.

A small burst of euphoria hits you when the smell of his cologne strikes your nose. It’s sharp, almost hard to take in, but intoxicating. He's a mature man, too much for you, a conclusion that came suddenly. You give him your name, not sure if you even did so after saying it.

He pauses at the sound of your name, as if he is frozen in time, taking in the full extent of the words that roll off your tongue. How can he seem so involved but indifferent at the same time? As though he could stand up now and pretend the moment never happened, not a care in the world. He wonders at your name, eyes moving down to his drink for a moment before meeting your steady gaze again. “That's a pretty name.” He concludes.

You give a small smile, allowing his praise to flatter you. The arch of your brow permits him to speak again. “It’s Albert.”

“Well,” you begin. “It’s nice to meet you, Albert.” Your lips curve upward again when you shake hands. It is not a professional shake, but loose and longing. His eyes watch carefully as your hand moves down to rest on your inner, left thigh. You notice the small smile forming on his mouth. Everything he does seems so calculated, but not in a way that comes off as forced, rather, assuring.

“Are you waiting for someone?” He questions. This makes you feel pleased with yourself. Of course, I come off as a woman who is usually in the company of someone, I’m too good to attend a bar alone on a Monday evening.

“Ah, no.” You take a larger sip of your drink. “I’m in nobody's company…” you trail off when his palm plants just above your knee. “…except yours,” you breathe out.

You find yourself being able to deduce a lot from the minimal touch. He is good at reading people. And if you couldn’t tell already, you know now for sure that he is assertive. He doesn’t like to waste time, or draw things out when they can be done at once. But most importantly, he wants you.

“What is it that you do?” He whisks his drink around, and you both seem intent on watching the contents of the glass slosh from side to side. It almost distracts you from the dreaded question.

“I write.” You almost stopped there before realizing how stupid that sounded. “An independent journalist–well, freelance.” It felt really hard not to stumble over your words as he watches you so intently.

“Is that so? Interesting,” his words sound so thoughtful they come out as almost careful.

“And you?” You tilt your head a little.

He seems to ignore your question by waving down the bartender to get you another drink, “The same,” he says almost forcefully. The bartender nods and scurries off to prepare another vodka cranberry.

You smile as a thank you, deciding not to prod by asking again. Raising an arm so your elbow rests on the counter, you rest your chin in your palm, staring dreamily into his eyes. You savor the moment, not knowing where the night with Albert will take you. Seeing no emotion in his returning gaze felt as a place of comfort for you, his hollow look lacks judgement, it gives you room to speak. “For work I do strictly investigative, press-related writing. But as a hobby I do creative writing.”

“Have you ever published a personal work?” To your surprise, Albert sounds quite interested in what you have to say. Unusual behaviour from strangers in bars, from your experience.

“In highschool, sure,” you reply.

A grin forms on his lips. “So not that long ago?”

At this, you laugh. It is stupid but flattering nonetheless. He looks pleased with your reaction.

“I won this writing competition thing.” You look up to recall the events, high school feels like ages ago at this very moment. “The reward was to have whatever you submitted be officially published. My submission was a short story about a river that consumes people.”

His brow arches upon hearing the contents of your short story, amused with the way you speak.

“I titled it ‘A Fine Line’.” You stop yourself from giving away anymore, not wanting to ruin the air of mystery which you assumed made him approach you in the first place. “Anyway, tell me more about yourself.”

His face changes, but it isn’t sudden. His look melts into that of deep craving. “Well, your lips.”

You have a feeling you know where this is going. “What about my lips?” You hold back a smile.

“I’d love to taste them,” he speaks in a low voice.

He bit at your lower lip greedily, as if it were a prize for the boring social conventions he had exerted earlier. The conversation had been entirely secondary, this is what he approached you for. You hold onto his back with his body pressed against yours, the heat between your thighs rising quickly.

“Albert,” you can’t help but sigh out when he moves down to planting kisses on your neck.

“Hm.” He sucks hastily at your neck, making sure his speed does not falter for even a second, as if you will slip away into the night if he lets go. Your hand instinctively moves down, palming his crotch through the fabric. He is quick to grab your wrist, stopping you. You look up at him, unable to read his expression besides how stern he looks. It was a test, he wanted to see how far you would go. Your eyes meet and time slows, he leans into your face slowly before he lands a kiss on your lips.

You feel his grip on your wrist loosen, allowing you to continue the motion with your hand. A soft grunt escapes him, the tension of a long day slipping away. His fingers hold your wrist securely again, and he begins to lead your hand to his belt. Just as you flick the prong of the buckle, the warmth of his body completely deserts yours.

Your gaze meets his, but he is looking elsewhere now. You watch his hand slip into his pocket and retrieve his cell. He answers a call and looks at you scornfully, as though you are the person who has called him to interrupt the moment.

“Yes?” He pinches the bridge of his nose at whatever idiocy the person on the other end of the line is presenting him with. “And I am needed for this why exactly?” He lets out a sigh to showcase his severe discontent.

You stand there awkwardly, your back still pressed against the wall of the single-occupancy restroom. Feeling the cool tiles as you press your fingers against them, you try to distance yourself from the moment.

“Fine,” he finally says. “Don’t bother doing anything else, I’ll be there soon.” He hangs up, slipping his cell back into his pocket. His eyes meet yours again, a small smile curving on his lips.

He leans back into you, pushing your chin up with his thumb as if admiring a glass with no smudges. Albert lands a gentle kiss on your forehead, it’s endearing, an apology. But for you, it’s far too late. You feel a great amount of disdain.

“Sorry to cut this short, sweet girl.” And with that, he unlocks the door and walks out on you. You are left standing there in silence, forced to face your disheveled appearance in the mirror.

By no means would you consider yourself a lightweight, but you allow yourself to feel vulnerable to the effects of alcohol this time. You had two beers after Albert riled you up and left you feeling emotionally drained. Stumbling into the parking lot of the bar, you practically fall against your car, hands pressing against the metal as you steady yourself.

“Ugh.” You hold a hand against your forehead and turn around, leaning against the car while you call a cab.

The air feels hard to breathe, and you feel your chest tighten at the realization that tears are welling in your eyes. It’s just the alcohol, no way I’m letting that prick into my head. This is what adults do, right? Have sex with absent strangers and forget about it the next day. The memories fading away with the hangover. Except, you’re only halfway an adult, the man didn’t even bother to rail you.

It does not take long for the cab to show up. You open the door and find yourself almost falling into a seat. With a slam of a door the car already begins to move, the driver confirming your address.

To you, people were just a symptom of life, you recovered from them quickly.

Chapter Text

The sunlight gleams down on your whole body from the window in your living room. You sleep with one hand draped over your eyes, resembling a woman in grief like straight out of a renaissance painting. You slept in an ocean of your own sweat, slowly rolling off of the couch to move away from the beam of sunlight pointing directly at the spot you had passed out on in the previous night.

For a moment the whole world spins with you and you are overcome with nausea. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you retrieve your cellphone to see just one missed call. Recognizing the last four digits, you are quick to dial back. “Hey, I’m sorry I missed your call!” You put on a chirpy voice, as if you had not just swallowed a small gulp of your own vomit.

“Ah, Y/n! I’m assuming you received my email. Congratulations on your new position here at the police department, we are so pleased that you are joining our team. As the email said, the chief isn’t in today, so I’m the one you’ll be briefing with this morning. See you soon!”

For a moment you forget how painfully hungover you are. “Right, the email. I saw it all right. Thank you and see you in a bit.” You hang up and stare down at your feet, still sitting on the couch. “I got the job,” you whisper, stating the truth to make sure it’s no dream.

Speaking of dreams, your thoughts shift to last night. It had happened, unfortunately. That Alfred…Albert bastard, whatever his name was. If only he could see how fine you were without him. That’s right, what he did to you had no effect on your mental well-being whatsoever. Suck on that, Albert.

Your hands grope underneath the couch until you feel a cool, metal surface brush against your fingertips. You pull your trusty laptop out from underneath the couch, starting it up to check your email. “Shit.” Forty minutes until you are expected at the department. At the thought of being late on your first day, you practically jump off the couch and head straight into the restroom to vomit in the toilet, hopefully that is the last evidence of the previous night.

The familiar concrete structures of Raccoon City tower over you as you stare blankly out the window in the back of a cab. Much to your dismay, your car had been towed at the bar the previous night. Fantastic, another $15 down the drain to commute to work, and another to reach home after work, and not to mention the cost of the towing. At this rate, your savings account would drain before you even had the chance to succumb to alcohol poisoning.

On a lighter note, today is one of the rare days where you didn’t struggle to pick what to wear on an important occasion. Though your usual choice of clothing is not out to please others, you felt obligated to give at least a good first impression before the loose baggy sweaters and pants kicked in. You chose a tightly fitting, deep maroon colored turtleneck with plain, slightly loose dress pants. Light tones of rose and jasmine would surely tickle the noses of those who stood in close vicinity to you.

You thank the cab driver upon arrival at the department.

You make it through the front entrance of the department exactly two minutes before expected time. To make the unkempt hair look like a choice, you pull it into a messy bun. Behind the receptionist desk sits an old man who is blowing on his coffee to cool it down. Upon the sight of you looking as if you are a zebra placed in a lion's enclosure, he greets you. “Y/n, right? Ronnie is expecting you in the filing room.” He points his thumb to the right. “It’s that way, don’t worry about signing in today, I can do it for you.”

Right, her name was Ronnie, you make a mental note so there is no chance of forgetting again. “Thank you, uh-” you pause.

“Boutros,” he is looking down at the sign in sheet now.

“Much appreciated, Boutros.” And with that, you are off to the filing room. The best way you can describe the interior of the department is a loose mix between art deco and Victorian, partly due to the plants, pillars and unique patterns on the marble and carpets. It is eccentric, to say the least.

Upon leaving the main hall, you enter an office area with few people glued to their papers. It is still early in the morning, so no one seems to notice you, all too busy working away at their respective desks. Regardless, you announce your presence. “Goodmorning,” you say, and it's not directed at any specific person. Only one of the female officers seems to look up and nod at you, a professional smile plastered on her lip. But it does a bad job at hiding the fact that she was definitely up until the AMs last night.

You walk by the officers and exit the room, navigating down the hallway outside until finding a door that is labeled ‘Filing Room’.

The room itself is very small, and you can barely see the walls with shelves and cabinets stacked up almost to the ceiling. Organized was not the first word that came to mind when you noticed so many loose papers sticking out from here and there, not to mention the dates and names on shelves not being in any particular order. One giant filing unit sits in the center of the small room, keeping you from seeing the other half of the filing office. At the sound of shuffling, you peak over it and see Ronnie on her knees in a corner, gathering papers.

“Morning, Ronnie,” you say gently, so as not to startle her. Your attempt is futile, as she whips her head back suddenly, clearly startled.

“You’re here, perfect!” She stands up, arranging the stack of paper in her hands. “Right, so, no chief today. That means I’m your go-to this morning. Now I am with HR, and I don’t work here under usual circumstances, so sadly we won’t be seeing each other around much.”

You force a frown to express your superficial sorrow. She continues speaking, “now Y/n, what exactly does an investigative journalist do?”

You aren’t sure why, but the situation makes you feel stupid. Regardless, you entertain the question, “investigate?”

“Correct! And for that very reason, I will not be giving you a tour of the department. From what I understood in your resume, this is completely wild territory for you.” Ronnie smiles.

“So, you want me to explore?” You tilt your head.

“That’s right. Go around, see the different roles people play, acclimate yourself! Be excited, the chief had other plans for your first day.” She holds up the stack of papers. “Tons of stuff he wants you to report on, he was kind enough to include some older documents by the previous journalist as a loose guideline.”

“Did he quit?” You ask.

“Well…not exactly.” Roonie looked away from you. “Anyway, I will show you to your desk and you can leave the worrying about these papers for tomorrow. But your job today is to get comfortable. Sounds good?”

You can get used to this, you think. The volume of papers in Ronnie’s hand are intimidating, but you’re sure the chief didn’t give you work he knew you couldn’t handle. The thought of exploring the department is daunting. From your experience, a lot of people didn’t take kindly to journalists. This is going to be a socially inept disaster, theoretically speaking. “Sounds good,” you smile politely.

You thought Ronnie had gotten lost when you two stopped in the conference room and never proceeded.

“Here we are! It’s nice, right?” She glances at you for a look of approval she is positive you will give.

“This is a conference room, no?” You hold onto your elbows as though you are suddenly aware of their existence.

“I get it, it’s not quite what you were expecting. But this is exactly where Eli, the old journalist, worked as well,” she says, as if that fact is going to soothe you somehow.

“No wonder he doesn’t work here anymore.” You catch yourself before saying anything else unprofessional. Though, Ronnie looks sympathetic, and puts a hand on your shoulder. For a moment you think she is trying to comfort you, but rather, it’s a means to get your attention. “Behind you, see that filing cabinet there?”

You look back and see what she is referring to. “Uh-huh.”

“You can keep your belongings there.” She hands you a small key. “This will unlock it.” A tiny tag is attached to the key with art of a skull that has lava dripping out of its eyes. You take the key and glance up at Ronnie questioningly.

“He had a thing for heavy metal, I guess.” She lets go of your shoulder, pacing around the conference room now. “Now, you’ll have to move out everytime they hold a meeting here, but usually meetings don’t tend to last more than forty minutes, you can manage I’m sure.”

“It’s definitely something, but–” You’re cut off as she raises her hand to stop you from speaking. Her phone is ringing. Of course, she answers the call. “Mhm, I am just about done here. I’ll be back in a bit!” She hangs up her cell and looks at you. “Well Y/n, it’s been a pleasure showing you around, my real job calls now, unfortunately. Stick to the task at hand today, and if you have any questions about those reports, I’m positive the chief won’t mind leading you in the right direction. Of course, you can also just refer to Eli’s older work. Ciao!” You only manage a wave before she exits the conference room.

You sigh and toss your laptop back on the floor, placing your hands on your hips as you take your new “desk” in. The options are endless, really, the same desk chairs you were forced to sit in during crammed university lectures present themselves in the conference room, a nice touch of PTSD. The chairs are scattered throughout the room and in the front of the room is a small wooden podium. There are a few shelves against the walls, but it's not anything interesting to you.

Turning your attention to the filing cabinet, you pick up your bag and walk over to it, shoving Eli’s old adorned key into the cabinet's keyhole. It’s dusty and has some bits of hair inside, Eli’s, you assume. You are under the impression that he did something stupid and got himself fired, though the look on Ronnie’s face you found a bit odd when you asked about him.

There is only one object inside the cabinet, something he must have forgotten to take with him. It’s an ID card for the Raccoon Press. It reads, ‘Eli Wilkes’ including his join date as well. His portrait photo is smudged, much to your annoyance. You squint at his photo and make out a young man, perhaps around your age, with golden brown hair and eyes. “Huh,” you say simply.

You decide to let the card be, placing it back where you found it and putting your laptop bag into the cabinet as well. If people are going to be coming into the conference room often, you don’t want to risk having your things being left around. You pick up the stack of papers Ronnie left on a nearby desk chair for you and carefully fit them next to your purse, they just barely manage to fit. Taking her advice, you don’t bother worrying about them for today. Locking the cabinet, you turn around to give the revolving conference room one last look before exiting out into the hallway.

It’s time to meet some people.

Back in Boutros’ company, you decide to ask him some questions. You didn’t mean to stumble your way back into the main hall, but it’s hard to get used to the space so early on. He doesn’t seem all that occupied, so you don’t feel too conscious of standing idly by. On hearing the news of your new work space, a hearty laugh escapes him, you find it to be an endearing sound.

“Please, save me the patronization. I feel ashamed enough as is at the thought of sitting in there some day and having a bunch of people walk in and kick me out so they can hold a meeting,” you laugh with him.

“Don’t feel discouraged, Eli had to go through the same thing,” he reminds you.

“Speaking of Eli…” you notice an instant shift in Boutros’ expression. “Did he get fired or something?”

He stares down at his half-empty coffee mug thoughtfully as though he is crafting the perfect lie. “I didn’t know him well, just signed the man in every morning, that’s it,” he says finally.

“Oh, okay.” You pretend to be enamoured with the hall's interior, feeling uncomfortable with the sudden silence.

“You should start down here and see who you find, there will mainly be officers lurking about. Maybe make yourself known to the people who work closely with the chief, that could help you in the long run. If you’re brave enough, take a peek at the S.T.A.R.S. office if they welcome you in.”

“S.T.A.R.S?” You tilt your head.

“It’s a special unit we have here, they take on the big jobs, trained professionals. Stands for Special Tactics and Rescue Service,” he states.

“If I’m brave enough, you say.” You wonder what could possibly be to fear at a police station, besides the conference room, of course.

“Yes, brave enough. The Captain is a real hard-ass. But the other members are real pleasant characters, I've had the chance to get drinks with them every now and then,” Boutros smiles, reminiscing. “You won’t be working often with them, I assume. So maybe get a chance to see what's going on up there when you can. I think the members will take a liking to you.”

A small smile forms on your lips, “even Captain hard-ass?”

Another hearty laugh escapes Boutros, echoing through the hall. You didn’t think what you said was funny enough to elicit such a response, but you were grateful to have him be one of the first people you meet anyway.

“Oh don’t kid yourself! Now scram, I have to pretend I’m working,” he waves farewell.

Most conversations you held that afternoon lasted about two minutes, you knew because you kept on glancing at the clock while most officers spoke. They didn’t have much to say except about their lives, things like spouses, kids, pets, hobbies, funny job stories. Still, it felt good to get along with most of them, it would make your job easier when you needed them for possible interviews.

The more people you spoke to, lighter felt the atmosphere in the department. It was easier walking around, knowing about the lives of people around you, what they loved, hated and feared. No one really bothered to ask about you, and that was just fine. You avoided talks on your personal life usually, not being too intent on having the world know that you were a raging alcoholic with anger issues that bled from your teenage years into adulthood which you still struggled to overcome.

Back in the conference room at 7:23PM, you review the stack of papers for tomorrow. You find yourself chuckling at Eli’s old notes that read like squabbles. Some statements from witnesses he circled in red pen and wrote ‘are you kidding me???!’

A knock interrupts your reading. You look up to see Boutros, wondering how long he had been spying on you through the glass window on the door. He steps into the room and lets out a low yawn. “You’re still here. I’ve just about signed the last person out.”

“Yeah, I guess I wanted a head start on this tomorrow.” You wave the papers at him. “I’ll sign myself out, I promise.”

“I believe you. How did you find it today?” He zips up his light jacket while speaking.

“Just fine, it was nice. Could really go for a beer right now though,” you say.

“Nice, hm? Even in the S.T.A.R.S office?”

“Oh shit.” You quickly rise from your seat before sitting back down slowly. “Well, they all probably left by now.”

Boutros shrugs. “Consider yourself lucky, Captain hard-ass, as you like to call him, stays cramped up in his office late most days like a damn badger.”

“He does?” You stand once again. “I think it will be a good way to end off the day.”

“You’re the first person on the planet to think ending the day with Captain Wesker is a good idea,” he says.

“Ah quit being dramatic. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You keep the stack of papers held up against your chest and bid Boutros farewell, leaving the conference room.

You didn’t get much of a chance to explore the second floor, but chose not to seize the opportunity to do so on your way to the S.T.A.R.S office, not wanting to miss this infamous Captain.

Stepping into the office, you are surprised by the size, expecting something a bit larger for such an important force. There must not be many members. The desks are messy, even though everyone has gone home. To your left is a closed door with a frosted glass window, you assume that’s where Captain Wesker resides, like a badger, as Boutros likes to joke.

You step up to the door, landing three gentle knocks before allowing yourself in at the sound of no response. Sighing at the sight of an empty desk chair, your attention turns to the bright blue above the desk. It's the S.T.A.R.S logo which you think is cute. “Special tactics and rescue service,” you say out loud.

Making sure no one is around, you peek out of the office before stepping behind Captain Wesker’s desk. There are a few photos, but the one of a group catches your attention the most. It’s the whole unit standing armed in front of a helicopter. The man in sunglasses particularly interests you with the odd familiarity his facial structure elicits. You pick up the frame and bring it closer to your face, squinting at it.

A sudden voice behind you makes you immediately place the photo down and look back to face the door. Your eyes widen and your cheeks flush in an instant. It’s him, the man who deserted you in the bar just last night, whose pants you were about to unbuckle after he felt you up. His name is Albert Wesker.

His outfit is different, but it does not make him look any less handsome than the one you met him in. A navy blue dress shirt with the sleeves folded just above his elbows, a black equipment vest over it. Below he has on black pants and combat boots, the pants sag in all the right spots, and are tight against his skin where they need to be as well. It’s all put together with his sunglasses, and you marvel at the concept of how dorky wearing them indoors is.

For a brief moment he looks taken aback, but it’s not like you could tell while he has his glasses on. “You’re intruding,” he states simply. “Here to carry out revenge?”

“You’re wearing sunglasses indoors…” is all you can manage to say.

Wesker scoffs. “You have five seconds to humour me before I drag you out of here.”

You felt your heart tug for a moment. Sure, he was a stranger last night too, but his demeanor has completely changed. From what you can recall from your hazy, drunken memory, he was a lot more gentle then.

“I work here, you prick,” you say suddenly in a burst of anger.

He smiles, crossing his arms. “In my office?”

Now he knew that you were upset about the previous night, and he knew that you knew that he knew (ha). The idea can be used against you easily now that he is aware of how you feel. You are infuriated, especially now that you know he barely cares about what happened in that bar.

“I just started today, I was going around greeting everyone. I didn’t know you worked here,” you plead your case, mad at yourself for even doing so.

“I believe all but the last part.” The smile on his face disappears as fast as it appeared, he seems done with the banter already. Of course, he is a busy man who is so involved with his work that he leaves women hanging after leading them on.

“Well I quite frankly don’t care what you believe, Captain Wesker.” The use of the official title makes you feel control over the situation again. See? I can forget about it just as easily as you did, you think to yourself.

You step out from behind the desk, and he takes the opportunity to switch places with you, catching a glimpse of the papers you are holding when he passes by you, sitting down with a low grunt. “A journalist. I remember that. So you’ll be replacing Wilkes.”

You nod, crossing your arms defiantly.

“I like my coffee black, don’t you forget that. Wilkes could never get it right.” He isn’t even looking at you now, more interested with the work on his desk.

You think of a million insults you can throw at him, lunge at him from over the desk, shove your foot up his ass, anything to let out the rage that you are absolutely overcome with. For a moment you clench your fists, but then you take a deep breath in and exhale very audibly. You are an adult. You could barely stand the smell of very cologne that almost wiped you off your feet last night.

“It was nice to see you, Wesker. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” You turn around to leave, but his voice stops you.

“I trust no one will find out about our little encounter?” He is watching you intently now, but not in the same way he was last night.

You raise a brow. “What? So the whole office won’t know that you like leading women on and then abandoning said women?”

Wesker is unphased, interlocking his fingers while his hands rest on his desk. “I read your little story, Y/n. What was it called again, A Fine Line? It was cute. The protagonist behaves very similarly to you, did you do that on purpose?”

Your lips part, but you can’t manage any words. Had he really read that stupid story you mentioned at the bar? He looked it up, managed to find it and actually read it? You just could not wrap your head around the image of him sitting there and reading it, picking up on a common flaw of your early writing, where you unintentionally inserted yourself into everything you wrote.

He seems far too pleased at his attempt at flustering you working all too well. The sound of his low chuckle still manages to make you feel some sort of way, but you have enough self-respect to refrain from having those kinds of thoughts.

“As I said,” you finally manage. “Enjoy your evening.” You promptly turn away and exit the S.T.A.R.S office.

The door of the conference room closes from behind, you put your face in your hands and groan as soon as it does. “Ughhhh, fuck.” You wonder why nothing can just work out for you normally just once? The horrible circumstances life seems to conjure up for you don’t leave you feeling prepared for anything, and they only manage to get worse somehow. And you know what? It isn’t your fault this time. A handsome man at a bar is showing clear interest in you, who are you not to indulge? You just don’t know how you are going to carry on with this job knowing that asshole is sitting with a shit eating grin on his face just one floor above you.

You want nothing more than to be home, and even that can’t be done with peace. Time to call another cab to the local tow company compound and retrieve your car.

Pulling open the filing cabinet drawer, you grab the handles of your laptop bag and pull. It feels stuck, so you pull harder, the drawer can barely fit the width of the bag, causing it to have gotten stuck when you crammed it in this morning. “Come on.” You sigh, pulling until it suddenly releases from the drawer, causing you to fall on your ass. “Omph!”

You slip the filing key into your bag and stand to close the drawer, noticing something off before you can slam it shut. The bottom of the drawer looks shifted from its original space, and you notice a crack between the inner wall and floor.

“False bottom,” you whisper.

You manage to slip two fingers into the crack and lift the false bottom up, revealing a small leather notebook with the initials E.W. engraved on the cover. There is also a pistol and a wad of cash that consists of twenty dollar bills. Shoving only the notebook into your work bag, you check one of the two doors leading out of the conference room to make sure no one is around. You decide to take his ID which you discovered this morning as well. You promptly slam the drawer shut after restoring the original position of the false bottom. Slinging your jacket over your shoulder, you head for the main hall to exit.

Why would Eli have left behind that much cash, a gun and his notebook if that cabinet was the only place to store his belongings? And in a false bottom at that. A part of you hopes that it was a simple, forgetful mistake. But the rational side of you expects something far more sinister.

“Sly girl,” Wesker sighs. He retreats from behind the door opposite to the one you left through, going back into his office. He had been watching, and now there’s a mouse on the loose that he needs to catch.

Chapter Text

February 8, 1997

By no means would I consider myself a connoisseur of the ordinary, but something is off of its course here. Some things. Me and shithead blondie never got along, but the guy seems a bit off the rails lately, more than he usually is. Take his regular amount of pensiveness and amplify it by a hundred. I’ll go ahead and say that he might as well be on MDMA or some bat-shit psychedelic that I wouldn’t even know of, being little innocent me :).

Anyway, could someone enlighten me on why I’m interviewing old ladies on picnic benches about the state of the economy here? Chief pulled me off of my usual good stuff, and I know for a fact it isn’t on account of my writing being bad. Because it isn’t.

I get it, I complained about the workload one too many times, doesn’t mean I wanted to get pulled off reporting crime all together. If Irons keeps this up, Eli is gonna go looking for his own grub. I mean it, don’t make me go full conspiracy mode on you guys. I’m sure the citizens of Raccoon City would take great pleasure in finding out that the captain of S.T.A.R.S. is doped up on some wack ass shit.

It’s funny seeing him so pissed off. But in all honesty, I can’t help but feel bad for the guy. Like when last week he caught me snooping on a private meeting between Irons and these two freaky looking men in fancy suits, he almost lost his shit. I’m still bruised from when he shoved me against the wall and threatened me (prick). Relax pal, no need to be such a fucking square. I’m a journalist, you know I’ll snoop where I shouldn’t sometimes.

Although, that gets me thinking. If I could sneak a cassette recorder in there, I could catch onto what these unannounced meetings are about. Anyway, I should get back to writing about grannies and gratuity laws now. Gross.

As always, E.W.

The blaring sunlight just barely peaks over a distant building, it paints the apartment walls in a hazy orange. Occasionally, a cool breeze from the balcony cuts through the sticky summer air, it makes the windchimes sing. You relish in the short lived breeze and close your eyes to take in a deep breath.You are propped up on the left arm of the couch in the living room, your left hand hangs off the edge, a mostly smoked cigarette between your pointing and index finger.

Eli’s notebook rests on your lap as you thoughtfully tap a bright red pen against your knee.

For a moment you sat and marvelled at the ‘first’ page of Eli’s journal. From the tears in the paper, you can tell he removed quite a few earlier entries. It’s hard to tell whether the contents of his writing are what took you by surprise upon your first read, how this man reminds you of yourself, the far too entertaining mention of Wesker, or, how Eli was apparently physically assaulted by Wesker.

Yeah, you knew more about his adequacy as a kisser (let's be honest, you’re selling him short because you don’t like him), but using force did not strike you as something he would do. Enough to leave a bruise? Well acquainted with journalist lingo, your bets are on Eli perhaps…overplaying what really happened.

Your thoughts move to the mention of the “two freaky looking men in fancy suits” having a private meeting with Irons. It could be anything, really. But you skim over that section of the entry again and take the effort to underline it. The unnecessary read into Eli’s writing might have been a result of dread arising from the reports you skimmed on your first day. It sounded eerily similar to interviewing old people on picnic benches or whatever, aside from the one or two real interesting cases. You feel bored with your job already to say the least.

The analog clock by the dining room reads 7:20AM, it urges you to lazily slouch off the couch and toss a few necessities, which includes your laptop, into a bag. You put your cigarette out and for a moment hesitate to stop and stare down at Eli’s journal. “Incase I get bored,” you assure yourself. With that, you shove the journal into your work bag.

There are many papers sprawled across the floor of the filing room, you sit at the center of a few in criss-cross, clearly having made yourself at home. A sense of responsibility washes over you upon reading more into one of the leads given to you. Scribbling down the name Chester Adames in your notebook, your eyes dart back to the file.

Our surveillance group has observed Adames in recent weeks frequenting Club Owl. In attention to the VIP-only rooms, multiple reports suggest the presence of women being escorted to and from the premises late into the night.
At least two informants allege that Adames “manages” these women and receives compensation from clients who attend these private events. Surveillance footage confirms regular interactions between Adames and club security.

The owner, Denley appeared hesitant to give access to the club's security footage. Unable to proceed without more substantive evidence, Denley is the most reliable access point. Approach under a suitable guise, Denley has proven receptive to press exposure in the past and maintains a public image as a legitimate businessman.

Realistically, you know you are by no means qualified for the job, and wonder if lying on your resume had been a smart decision. Regardless, you feel intrigued by the ongoing case, and your role in it. The hard part is what guise to approach the owner under, and you find that with a few drinks in your system, nothing has ever seemed to stump you before. Perhaps taking a peek after work this evening could prove a good starting point, dipping your toes in the water.

You toss the file aside and pick up a different lead and get to work reading, scribbling notes down as you go.

Four hours or so have passed since you signed into the department, a bit saddened to not be greeted by Boutros at the front desk. You ended up moving from the filing room to your “desk” in the conference room, feeling a bit of back pain from being hunched over on the floor. Good progress was made, and now you feel your pace slow down a bit, you take longer pauses to think and chew on the end of your pen.

You quickly pull the pen out of your mouth at the sound of a knock on one of the two entrances of the room. The sight of Boutros pleases you, he looks the exact same as he did yesterday. “Oh hey, I was wondering where you were this morning,” you say.

He smiles and approaches you and peers over the work that occupies the small desk attached to the chair you’re seated on. “Glad to know I was missed! I saw you signed yourself in, good, I like that.” His coffee breath makes you hold your own to be spared from the smell. You stand to make distance.

“Ah don’t mention it. What’s up though, taking a stroll or something?” You feel stiff, still in focus mode. You untense your shoulders and let out a small sigh as you feel a headache forming.

“I came around here earlier and didn’t see you so I thought to try again now. But…” he trails off.

“Yeah?” You look eager now.

“I come bearing news, it's about your favorite captain.” He smiles.

“Oh hell no, Boutros. Keep it to yourself. I had the pleasure of seeing Wesker again yesterday, and I already know who I’ll be avoiding at all costs for the rest of my time here.”

“Again?” Boutros questions.

A blush forms on your face and you pretend to glance at the time to escape his eye contact. “Forget it. What did you want to tell me?”

He laughs and sits down on one of the desk chairs, his arms crossed. You are suddenly aware of his big belly and wonder if he has a wife and kids. “I saw him come in this morning, as I usually do. He always ignores me so I stopped bothering to greet him. This time though, he walks up to the front desk while I sign him in.”

You practically dangle off the edges of Boutros’ words, dying to know what he has to say. Yes, it feels stupid, and you curse yourself for even caring at all. Self control does not come to you as easily as it does for other mature adults. What happened to not caring about anything that has to do with Wesker? Or your self respect for that matter?

“I thought he was gonna say hi for once, but no, the sucker gets straight to the point and asks about you,” Boutros says.

“Me?” You feel your insides churn. “What did he say?”

“He asks me who the ‘new journalist’ is, and what I know about you. I told him your name and that’s about it. I also said if he’s that eager to know more, he can visit the conference room whenever he wants. He gave me a look and walked off after that. I’m sure, in any other situation, he would’ve pounced on me with that expression of his. I don’t even think being in a police department would stop him, it never did when he got physical with Eli that one time—” He stops himself from going any further.

So, Eli hadn’t been exaggerating in his journal entry, Wesker did use physical force against him. That makes you wonder what Irons’ meeting with the two strangers was about, for Wesker to be so defensive. Did he even know what the contents of the meeting was? Maybe he had just been upholding professionalism, as Eli was in the wrong for snooping on a private meeting. You shut your investigative brain up upon the sight of Boutros’ attempt to grab your attention by snapping his fingers at you.

“Are you ok? I don’t mean to worry you. The man likes to impose his tight ship on the people in his professional life, it isn’t anything to turn over your head,” Boutros tries to assure you.

“I’m fine,” you say.

Clearly not trusting your words, Boutros continues. “Lots of people don’t like journalists, Wesker is no exception. He didn’t like Eli, and he doesn’t like you, from what I understand. Take comfort in the fact that your work isn’t too involved with the S.T.A.R.S. department, you get me?” He heads for the door, waving.

“You’re leaving?” You watch Boutros carefully and search his face for answers. From the look of his eyes, you feel he told you everything he knows.

“Sorry junior, I don’t wanna be away from my desk for too long. You should go back to work as well, that intense look of focus suits you.” Boutros leaves the conference room.

The rest of the work day washes over you in a blur. Your thoughts have been folding over one another since you spoke with Boutros, and no more work gets done. As you pull your things out of the same filing cabinet where you found Eli’s journal, you remember wanting to visit Club Owl to do some investigation work. With a slam of the drawer, you lock it and pull on your light jacket on to head for the parking lot.

An absolutely dreadful sight greets you in the parking lot: your car is being towed, for the second damn time this week at that. You sprint towards the tow truck as it begins to pull away and flail your arms with the desperation of a wild animal. “Hey. Hey! HEY!” you shout, your voice cracks with frustration.

Much to your relief, the driver hits the breaks when you make it to his window. He peers down at you, looking all high and mighty. “Let me guess, your car?”

You struggle to catch your breath, athleticism is the furthest thing from you. “Yeah,” you gasp for air and slow your breathing, “mine.”

“Well it was parked near the fire escape.” He watches you with a blank expression. His eyes say and? without him even having to speak.

“Well,” you say, almost mocking him. “I’m here now.”

“No offense ma’am, but I drove two hours to tow this car. You had plenty of time to–”

“I work at the police department, for fucks sake.”

“Hey, no need to give me an attitude. Your job doesn’t exempt you from following the rules.” He takes a puff of his cigarette and rummages through his cup holder. The man hands you a card and you take it, staring down at the words stupidly. “Here, you would have gotten a call anyway but there’s the address where you can pick your vehicle up. Have a nice evening, ma’am.” You don’t get any more chances to protest as he drives off promptly.

Your fists tighten at your sides as you throw your head back, the sky swallowing your raw, aching scream: “FUCK!”

You whip your head back towards the department at the sound of a low laugh, you dare whoever it is to keep laughing. This, of course, does not stop Wesker from taking joy in your ill fortune. When he sees you take notice of him, a thin smile forms on his lips, you swear he can read all the insults you throw at him mentally.

Virtually marching to him, you put your hands on your hips. “You think this is fucking funny, huh?”

Wesker draws deeply on his cigarette, then blows the smoke out, steering it away from you. “I find it amusing, yes.”

You’re at a loss for words and close your mouth shut so you don’t look like a marvelling idiot. Being in the presence of him makes you feel conflicted, knowing how he was with Eli before. Although, you fail to feel at risk, not after your first encounter with him. In another circumstance, you knew you would still be all over him like a drunken moron.

“I’ve seen firsthand how convincingly charming you can be when you put on that smile,” he says. You blink at Wesker stupidly.

“Go on then.” He grins.

“Please,” you say finally, “spare me.” You aren’t stupid, and his words don’t make your lips twitch upward even in the slightest. He lowers his sunglasses just barely, seemingly to get a better look at you before he readjusts them. Wesker seems uninterested in you again, and the invisible gesture is familiar to you, it pulls at your feelings.

“Irons showed me the bird food he has you pecking away at,” he drops his cigarettes and crushes it beneath his heel. “It's better than what he made Wilkes do when he started.”

Wesker’s mention of Eli sends a shiver down your spine, as though his ghost is lingering behind you. “Really? I guess you heard about the so-called prostitution happening at Club Owl then?” You feel stiff again, forgetting how to interact naturally with Wesker’s gaze on you.

Wesker looks up thoughtfully before speaking, “briefly.”

“I was headed there.” You frown.

You look off to the side to appear engulfed in your own thoughts, but really you are trying to cope with the awkward silence. Wesker is indifferent and you envy his lack of attachment from, well, everything. Hate isn’t the right word, but the thought of him still leaves a strong distasteful feel on your tongue. His words are the first to pierce the silence.

“I can take you there,” he says while watching you intently.

Sunglasses are a peeve of yours, as you usually rely on searching in people’s eyes for their genuine sentiments. The situation is fragile, so you smile carefully, not wanting it to appear as one of gratitude or simple pleasure. “No, that’s okay.”

For a second he really does look disgusted, perhaps with the formal social conventions similar to that of politely declining tea while being seated in a friend’s living room, but in all honesty, you just don’t want to come off as a greedy, all-consuming monster who engulfs all which lies in your way. You’re beating a dead horse for a conclusion again.

“I can’t imagine there aren’t holes in your pockets,” his tone is patronizing. “Come.”

His words protrude in a way that makes all he says more of an obligation rather than a mere request.

It takes a second for you to break out of standing like a dazed idiot, and you jog after him to catch up. “I don’t like owing people,” you admit. You watch Wesker from the corner of your eyes as you approach his car, there is a half smile on his lips now.

You're not exactly surprised when he heads for the passenger door of a black Mercedes convertible. He opens it for you, and you slide in without hesitation. The seat hugs you like it knows you don't belong here. It's leather, real leather. The air inside the car smells like tobacco and bergamot with a trace of neroli, his cologne.

When you glance up, he's still standing there, staring, not at you, but at your work bag. You raise an eyebrow questioningly.

“I can put that in the back for you,” he offers.

You want to seethe at the gesture, but you can’t bring yourself to. He really is a gentleman, and it comes naturally, but you just can’t throw your self respect in the dumpster because of small, amiable actions.

“It’s fine,” your words come out more stern than you intend.

The whole ride you are entranced with the way he handles the steering wheel, admiring each brute, but graceful movement. You wonder what his hobbies are, what his home looks like, what time he goes to bed at night, what his blood type is. Is every aspect of him just as perfect (minus the attitude)? His existence is a comfort to you, and you wish that you could live through him, falter behind him as he moves through his typical days. It’s better than whatever shitshow you have going on right now.

You think he has reached into your mind and curled his fingers to pull out those pitiful thoughts when he looks back at you suddenly. To your relief, you just made it to the club.

“Thank you, Wesker,” you say rigidly.

He only nods. You step out of the car as if wading through a pool of fine china, but every movement only makes your lack of grace jut out. Wesker starts the car in one swift motion and pulls away without a second thought. His lack of presence is immediately noticeable, mainly because you feel like you can fucking breathe again.

Strangers of all kinds rub up against one another, they greedily take in large gasps of air in the humid environment. One second inside Club Owl and you already feel your hair is ruined. It's an open concept interior with the only upper floor having a view below with rickety wooden balusters.

You scan the upper floor and notice the only person leaning against the balusters, he watches the crowd like a hawk. But, how attentive can he really be? His posture is loose, something you find when he takes a large swing of the beer in his hand with an unnecessarily large motion. Clearly he is full of himself, looks far too self-accomplished to not be. Surely it's the owner. No wonder he drinks up the PR without having a team in front of him to handle his public image, he bathes in the attention.

A wild dancer shoves you aside, and you watch them be engulfed into the crowd before you can start a fight you would most certainly lose. The bar catches your eye, and it seems like the night's saving grace. You stumble your way there and catch yourself on the bar counter, waiting for the people next beside you to finish their order before smiling at the bartender. “I’ll do two shots of vodka, please.”

For the next fifteen minutes you stay by the bar and feel a buzz begin to trickle in. You have no clue how you can possibly approach Denley. As your drunkenness grows, so does your frustration.

Three more shots in you look upstairs again and no longer see Denley standing there, the upper floor is completely deserted now. A creeping existential dread starts to claw at you, that all-too-familiar heaviness that comes when you're deep in the haze. All you want is to go home. Just as you turn away from the bar, a young woman stumbles into your arms. You're startled and then immediately concerned. She's limp, barely holding herself up, and before you can ask if she's okay, your eyes meet. Hers are glossy, apologetic.

Then she pukes on your chest.

"Oh, what the fuck!” you yell, shoving her off and bolting for the women’s bathroom.

You kiss your teeth while aggressively scrubbing away at the stain on your chest with coarse tissue paper, what a cheap ass club. “Hell on Earth,” your words come out in a smooth, incoherent jumble.

Tossing the tissue in the trash, your eyes land on your work bag that sits at your feet in the confined stall. You decide to do what would have been infinitely more rational before coming to the club and reach out for your laptop with the intent of looking Denley up.

The golden initials engraved in Eli’s notebook catch your attention, urging you to sigh as you crack your hunk of a laptop open.

Eli Wilkes is what you type into the search bar. The stench of vomit pricks your nose as you glare at the sluggish loading bar.

The first result is enough to make your heart stop. It’s a large headline that links to an article.

Amber Wilkes’ Concern Grows as Older Brother, Eli Wilkes, Remains Missing for Two Weeks After Official Declaration.

“Missing.” You read out dryly, mostly out of dread.

You close the laptop and shove it back into your bag, kicking the stall door open. Every pair of eyes on the planet sticks to you, it feels like. The air isn’t humid with drunk breaths, but speculation, is this information a liability? Are you drunk? Did they take him because he knew something? Who the hell is they?

‘Two freaky looking men in fancy suits’ repeats over and over again in your mind, your hearing is muffled. It’s impossible, you are matching ties that don’t go together, it's just paranoia. Did Wesker confront Eli to protect him? Did the smallest chance of possibly hearing what was happening in that meeting put him at some sort of risk?

“Don’t be stupid,” you say, moreso to console your distraught mind.

As you step out of the women’s room, your gaze instinctively shoots up, and you freeze at the sight of Denley. The music and laughter fade into the background, leaving only him, elevated above all else. His focus is on the backdoor, and of course, you’re fluent in the unspoken language of eye contact. Maybe it’s the unwavering confidence in his sharp eyes, or the subtle yet unmistakable nod he gives toward the backdoor, but you get the distinct feel that Adames, the alleged ‘pimp,’ lurks back there.

You push past a few people and see an older man squeeze carefully through the ajar backdoor. It's a quick but calculated decision when you look towards Denley to see him no longer watching before throwing yourself towards the heavy door, you manage to stop it before it closes.

You stick your head outside and savor the cool night air as you scan the back alley of the club. The man heads out of the alleyway with a relaxed posture, his gaze fixed on the sky with hands casually tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket.

You step outside, hearing the door click shut behind you, and begin walking toward the man. You know what you're doing is incredibly stupid, but you're beyond wasted and desperate to feel some agency over your life.

"Hey!" you call out. "Adames, right?"

The way his silhouette moves in the darkness screams hesitancy and urgency when he turns around at the sound of your voice. You are awfully pleased with yourself as you slug towards him like a rabid animal in a drowsy haze, holding the brick as if it will topple over you at any second if you let go.

“This is a restricted area,” he warns.

“Yeah? Are only pimps and prostitutes allowed behind this joint?” Your rising anger is only something you become aware of when you’re close to killing the distance between yourself and Adames.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He glances off to the side, and you’re under the assumption that he is in search of a way out of the situation. Am I really that imposing? You wonder.

“Answer my question—” you begin, but before the words are fully out, he lunges forward. His hand grasps at the bottom of your top, jerking you toward him. You're already unsteady, too out of it to react. You stumble into him, and his fist connects with your face at close range, the impact sudden and jarring.

All you hear is ringing while you hold the area of impact with your hand, not feeling any immediate pain at first. The collision sends you falling back on your ass, indubitably enveloped in rage from Adames audacity to do something so ridiculous.

If you weren’t sober already, the sight of him quickly reaching towards the dumpster nearby to retrieve a metal rod does the trick. You stop yourself from scrambling to your feet at the sight of the makeshift weapon and plead with your eyes. Adames says something, but there's only a deafening ringing.

You instinctively throw your arms up to shield your face when he steps towards you, but instead of any sensation on your arms, a sharp burst of pain erupts in your ribs. A cry rips from your throat as the pole slams into your side, the force dropping you to the ground in an instant.

It’s not the end. He can’t kill me. Wesker knows I’m here, he’ll know. Breathe. In. Out. Don’t look up, he’ll hit you again. I’m unconscious, I'm alive.

There’s little sense to your thoughts, but they are all you can clutch for comfort. Eventually your hearing returns, and the silence brings you peace. You listen for Adames, but hear nothing.

You flinch as rough hands seize your shoulders, the grip is unrelenting. You're hauled to your feet in a single motion, waves of pain overcome you. A hoarse cry of defeat tears from your throat. "No!" you plead, your voice breaks, eyes wide with desperation.
The sight of Wesker has never comforted you more in your life, enough to make tears of relief well in your eyes. You swallow the blood in your mouth and cave in, sobbing into his shoulder. You feel some resistance, as he gently tries to tug you away so he can look at your face and assess the damage.

All the vodka in your system threatens to come out of the wrong end, and you jerk away from him suddenly, falling to your knees and puking on the ground. The feeling of a hand resting on your back is comforting. In the corner of your eyes you catch the sight of Adames' limp body crumpled beside the dumpster. A metal pole juts grotesquely from his thigh, the sight so horrific that you can’t help but retch again, this time out of pure revulsion.

The two of you sit on the cold pavement of the alleyway, backs pressed against the rough brick wall. He’s so close, but an unfamiliarity separates you. You can feel the weight of his longing, the way his body shifts slightly, as if he fights a daunting impulse. But you hold back, only allowing his arm to rest loosely around your shoulders. He’s still a stranger, you tell yourself, but it doesn’t stop the ache that beats in your chest.

In the distance, the wailing of sirens cuts through the heavy silence, finally. Adames needs far more urgent care than you, and the bitter satisfaction at the thought of his pain greatly pleases you, he deserves it. But you should worry about your own injuries, the sharp pain of fractured ribs gnawing at you, and you bring yourself to push the problem away into the quiet corner of your mind labeled not now.

You shift uncomfortably, eyes flickering toward Wesker. His gaze is fixed on the wall in front of him, intense, as if there’s some hidden truth etched in the bricks. His jaw tightens, lips pressed together in a way that only confirms the frustration he feels. He knows. He sees right through you. When his eyes catch yours, there’s a moment where everything else fades. You wish you could look into those same eyes that abandoned you that night and wonder if you'll ever be that close again.

You know what he’s thinking. He thinks you’re reckless, foolish. He thinks you’re an idiot, a big, brash idiot who charges into things without a second thought. And you want to scream at him that he’s wrong. It’s not you, but the alcoholism. It consumes you, literally. Unlike others, it isn’t like you can’t think straight, you just refuse to.

But the words in all the cases you want to plead are separated by universes filled with uncertainty, a feeling that’s too raw, too fragile to touch upon. Instead, you let the silence stretch, thick and heavy between you both, because it’s the only thing left that feels safe.

Suddenly, he says something, but his words dissolve into the background the moment you see your work bag resting in his lap.

Chapter Text

A wave of warmth and bliss washes over you, in a few seconds it happens again, then again and again and again. Your eyes flutter open delicately and you don’t fight the drowsiness, closing them as you let out a low exhale from your mouth. A dull ache beats in your chest whenever you breathe, but it's nowhere near close to the pain when you aren’t under morphine. Rather than feeling present, it is as though you are watching yourself laying on the hospital cot like an escaped soul.

No thoughts run through your mind, there is no world outside the hospital room, no people. The blankets of warmth and pleasure keep on coming, and sometimes they feel extra weighted. You remember faintly what happened, but just can’t bring yourself to care, overcome with such an addictive pleasure, that nothing feels important enough to hold any reality to you.

At the other end of the room, you hear a very faint shuffle of papers. You want to sit up and see who it is, even though you have a pretty good clue. Feeling restrained by the intense delectation that hits you down in waves, making it hard to even turn your head from side to side, you remain stationary on the cot. A small hum escapes your mouth, and the shuffling stops. Without knowing what will come of it, you try to speak again,

“Eli,” you rasp.

Your own words surprise you more than the soft footsteps now approaching where you lie. There is a slight tension in your neck and you desperately try to look to your right, but another wave hits you, and once again you’re subdued. Despite barely being able to keep your eyes open, you sense someone standing at your side.

Who else could it be but Wesker? If it isn’t obvious already, the smell of his cologne sends you into a spiral of pleasure. You pretend to be asleep, knowing well that there will be no filter if you manage to speak again.

Your eyes are still closed when feeling the light dim, he is looming over your face, close enough for you to feel the most soft kiss of his breath. The intensity of his presence vanishes in an instant, and you feel the footsteps practically shaking the room from how fragile the moment is as he retreats back to the visitor chair.

Upon your release from the hospital by the third day, the first thing you did when you entered your apartment was march to the kitchen. A sharp pain ripped through your ribs when you went on your tiptoes to blindly feel up the top of the fridge. Feeling a small, metal tin, you grab it and walk to a nearby trash can. You pop the tin lid open and dump the five pre-rolls inside into the garbage. Another sharp pain pricks you when you shoot your hand out suddenly to catch the final one from falling into the trash.

“Last one,” you whisper, retrieving a lighter from a drawer.

You flick the metal wheel with your thumb, feeling the rough ridges catch against your skin. A spark jumps, followed by a soft click.

When you blink, you're back in the alleyway, where Adames gave you a decent beating. Blink again, and you're met with the familiar sight of the kitchen. You gasp, taking a step back, your fingers loosening their grip on the lighter in your hand, you’re bewildered. The sound of it hitting the ground snaps you back to reality, and you realize you’re crying.

You toss the last pre-roll into the trash.

“Good job, you outed one pimp of the dozens in Raccoon City. Wanna get your head kicked in another twelve times to catch the rest?”

You sit across from Irons’ desk, your head hanging down in shame.

“You’ll be brain damaged by the time you’re through with all of them, won’t you?” He’s absolutely furious, you’re scared to move a muscle, and it’s not on account of your ribs being injured this time. “Fucking liability, all you journalists!” Irons slams his empty coffee cup down, causing all the loose items on his desk to shift slightly.

“Y/n,” he says with a gentle voice now.

You look up, surprised by the change in his tone.

“I don’t let just anyone into this police department, you know how bad this makes me look? On top of the mess you created, you managed to drag Captain Wesker into it too. I hope you’re aware I had to make myself look like a fucking idiot as I profusely apologized to him on your behalf. He plays a very important role in his department, and now he’s burdened by a pile of paperwork he must fill out.”

Your fists tighten in your lap, really truly understanding where the chief is coming from. The weight of your mindless actions did far more harm than they did good. Sure, Adames probably would not see the light of day again, but now the department is in a world of legal trouble with Club Owl, as the owner is of course wanting to press charges.

“I understand what I did was incredibly dangerous. I’m truly sorry, and I respect your decision moving forward if you think that termin–” you’re interrupted.

“Captain Wesker and I had a lengthy discussion about your employment. Actually, he was adamant on giving you a chance to redeem yourself,” Irons sounds weary, but certain.

“What?” Your mouth is practically hanging agape.

“Don’t ask me, I can barely ever read the bastard. But he is one of, if not the best in his department. The man is smart and work oriented. If I trust anyone’s judgement, it's his. He must admire your…bravery.” Having made his point, the chief turns his attention to the paperwork cluttering his desk, clearly done sparing another second on you. “I am ordering you to take the week off, organize a manageable share of work to bring along, get through what you can handle while you heal. Got it?”

“Thank you, Chief. Really,” you try to smile, but only manage a pout.

"Don’t thank me. If it were up to me, your ass would've been terminated the second I got that phone call. Injured or not, this job is no joke. Just be glad Wesker convinced me otherwise."

You're settled cozily in bed, surrounded by scattered papers that crinkle each time you shift. Your eyes are narrowed in focus on the paper you hold up into the air to read, only able to stare at the words, not take any of them in.

“I’m brave,” you say, realizing how stupid it sounds. “No, he thinks I’m brave.” Irons was far too upfront to make up what Wesker had said, and it only made you more frustrated. It just couldn’t be true, not after the way he stared at you that night. He was furious with you…right? You would be if you were in his shoes.

The disparity between his actions and behavior makes you want to tear your hair out. He drove you to the club, he pretended to leave for the sake of your dignity despite actually staying, he remained with you in the hospital, he saved your fucking life. And yet, when he speaks to you, he’s condescending, demeaning. He toys with you. He's just plain rude. None of it makes sense. You’re trying to cut him out of your life, but the harder you pull away, the more entangled you become with the maddeningly handsome, sociopathic enigma that is Albert Wesker.

With a groan you escape from your cocoon and pick up all the papers to create a neat stack that you place on the bedside table. Every little movement makes your ribs ache, the magic of the painkillers weakening with each intake. As much as you want to relieve yourself of your sexual frustrations by getting off to the thought of him, the one you refuse to name, you can’t. Not while Eli Wilkes is still missing. Not knowing what happened to him.

Carefully, you lift your work bag up off the floor and place it onto your bed. Reaching inside, your hand brushes past pens, papers, and cords, rummaging blindly until the familiar soft leather graces your fingertips. But the feeling never comes.

You pause, frown, then dig deeper, checking each pocket, the side sleeve, the inner zip, even that small compartment you never use. Still nothing. A faint flutter of anxiety rises in your chest. You pull everything out, one item at a time, laying them on the bed in growing disarray. You reach into the bag as if it will magically produce the notebook.

You check once more, then again, maybe one last time, then once again just to be sure. With a fight of the urge to have a complete mental breakdown you take a few steps back to examine the mess of items on your bed, making absolutely sure there is really no notebook.

Drawers fly open, desk, dresser, nightstand. Each one yanked out with increasing urgency, the contents rifled through and tossed aside without care for order or delicacy. Clothes are flipped, folders upended, old receipts, post-its, coins, and batteries scattered like leaving a trail of blood after fleeing a crime scene. You crouch to check beneath the bed, sweeping your arm across the dust-lined floor, your heart thudding faster with each second you do not find Eli’s journal.

You move to the bookshelf, pulling out paperbacks, and binders, shaking them, flipping pages with no regard for even your prized possessions of first editions, as if the notebook might be hiding within. The closet is next. You tug open the door and dive into the hanging mess, even searching in bags you haven’t touched in months. Your breath shortens, feeling a pain rip through your ribs as your pace slows, and still nothing.

You return to the bed, eyes scanning the chaos, mind racing through possibilities. You check your bag again. Always again. Because maybe, just maybe, you missed it.

A pathetic laugh tumbles out of you, brushing a hand over your face, completely stupefied. It is no fucking coincidence, and you refuse to convince yourself otherwise out of fear of losing the job you just barely were able to keep. Who are you kidding, trying to fool? You know exactly where that notebook is, exactly who has it.

You knew he was eyeing your workbag like it was some fucking prey or whatever, but why? How did he know what it was? Or that you had it? Why did he even want it? All you do know is that only him, no one else, could have possibly gone through your bag. Adames was knocked within seconds of attacking you, and you didn’t even feel him touching your bag while your eyes were closed.

Eyeing the bed again, you notice that the notebook is the only item in your bag that was taken. Everything else, including your laptop, is still there.

Your heart sinks into your stomach as you turn the keys to the ignition of your car, delivered to your home courtesy of the tow company, after they were threatened into doing so by the department. You know what you’re about to do is a stupid, but it's just another mistake to add to the pile of the thousands you’ve already made. What’s one more?

With a forceful push, you make your way inside through the front entrance of the RPD. For a fleeting moment, your eyes lock with Boutros', he is sitting at the front desk as usual.

“Hey, shouldn’t you be at home resting?” he asks before anything else.

Ignoring one of the few genuinely kind people you've met this past month tugs at your heart, but you can't bring yourself to slow down, consumed by an all-encompassing rage.

“Where are you going?!” Boutros calls after you when you slip into one of the rooms leading into the hallway, leaving him behind in the main hall. You rush up the stairs, still in your home clothes, heading for the S.T.A.R.S office.

You barge toward the office door, boot raised in impatience, and nearly kick it off its hinges, only to crash straight into someone standing just on the other side. The collision knocks the breath from your lungs. You’re the only one sent stumbling back, feeling a tight grip on your wrist keeping you from falling on your ass.

The woman in front of you looks young, her posture is relaxed, but her eyes tell a different story, sharp, unyielding, like she’s already sized you up and found no reason to be impressed. You’re just a disheveled, crumpled journalist who didn’t even bother fixing her hair before showing up to the department all high and mighty to supposedly confront the Captain of the S.T.A.R.S unit!

She has a bob which you find rather stylish, it frames her face nicely. Her hair is a deep brown, and it goes well with her blue eyes and neat, mud sky blue tank top.

You say nothing, staring at her with a shocked look, so she decides to.

“That’s one way to enter a room,” she says.

You clear your throat and laugh a little, “Sorry about that. You’re S.T.A.R.S?”

She places a hand on her hip, smiling at you, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sure am. And you’re Tornado Tom?” Now her smile seems genuine.

As for you, the awkward look deserts your face, leaving behind a dead-pan expression of heavy disappointment, a profound disappointment that weighs heavily in your eyes. “News got around that fast, huh?”

She doesn’t answer, but her shrug tells you all you need to know. “What’s with that look? I honestly thought I was gonna have to shoot you. I figured you were some enraged intruder or something.”

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and take a deep breath, just be fucking normal for once, please, you beg yourself. “I guess having the shit kicked out of you has that impact on your appearance.”

She notices how you smile as you speak, making her feel more comfortable to laugh at your words. “Seems a lot worse than how it was described to me now that I’ve seen you. Not bad for a journalist. Eli would have probably passed out just by reading the file of that case.”

You feel tremendously less judged by her now, almost in awe of her, mostly how much more put together she is compared to you. But you cut yourself some slack, as you didn’t bother getting ready. She knew Eli, of course she did. You keep yourself from prodding and asking her about him, not wanting to come off as a weirdo.

“I already took the poor guy's job, and now I’m being told I’m a hell of a lot braver than he is? I’ll take it,” you say.

She smiles and extends her arm out to shake your hand. “I’m Jill Valentine.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jill.” You’re no worker of magic, but there is an air of charm in the certain way you smile when you greet someone, noticing so yourself when you see how expressions shift pleasantly under your unassuming eyes whenever you do so. Jill is no different, clearly more than just content with you now.

“I’m here to see Captain Wesker,” you say simply and return your hand to your side after shaking with hers.

“Ouf, goodluck. I know you’re aware, but involving him in your shenanigans was really negligent of you. But…” she looks off to the side to think, “you’re also real lucky he was there.”

“I know,” you admit in defeat. Wesker’s decision to stay at the club is purely out of professional concern. However, now that you were about to kick his door down and demand to know the whereabouts of Eli’s journal, a part of you is sure that he stayed that night for a different purpose. But that just can’t make sense, he should not know you even had that journal in your possession. Maybe he checked your bag and then decided to take it?

“I’ll give you that it was brave. Completely reckless, borderline suicidal... but brave,” she is smiling again.

You rub the back of your neck with a sheepish laugh, unsure how to take the backhanded compliment. “Uh. Thanks, Jill. I—”

“You should come out for drinks sometime. Me and some friends from S.T.A.R.S.” She brushes past you on her way out, leaving you standing by the door frame alone.

You don’t get a chance to respond, and honestly, you’re a little relieved by the interaction coming to an end. An ache forms in your chest out of pure anxiety, your eyes on Wesker’s office door. Sure, you drove all the way here with no plan, hair still a mess from being in bed, but at least you came with an intent.

There’s no point in stalling, because you know it isn’t going to become any simpler the more you wait, nor will the words come any easier. You walk towards Wesker’s door and hold your breath, giving three firm knocks.

“Enter,” he sounds quiet through the door, but no less stern.

His voice is enough to make your knees cave inward, mainly due to you being absolutely terrified of confronting him. Regardless, you suck up your fears with one deep breath, clinging to the same rage that consumed you when you realized the journal was missing. You grasp the brass handle, allowing yourself inside.

Wesker says nothing when you close the door behind you and turn to face him. You bite back a comment about his sunglasses, baffled that he wears them even in private while working. He watches you intently, patience growing thin with the silence. You are the one who entered his office, after all.

“Hey,” you finally manage. Your words feel small, weightless.

Wesker says nothing, raising a brow at you.

What the hell are you doing, fucking say something! You adjust your posture, shifting from meekly holding your elbows to crossing your arms with more confidence. Clearing your throat, you begin, “I wanted to say sorry for the whole club incident.” Your eyes were on the ground, as if the answers were down there somewhere, then you met his gaze again. “I know what I did was stupid, and I owe you one for saving my ass.”

Finally, you feel like he is actually looking at you, considering you and not trying to continue the work on his desk mid-conversation. “You’re right,” Wesker begins, “It was really foolish. Look at you.”

Suddenly you’re aware of the faint bruise on your face that hasn’t fully healed, and the slight limp you stand with. Your stance now feels glaringly obvious, as if every step exposes a weakness. A wave of vulnerability washes over you, as though every insecurity has been strung out for him to pick at and judge. You want to cry, ask him to treat you like he did on the night the two of you met: just hungry, with touch to provide.

“I've already handled all the necessary paperwork, if that’s your purpose here. If not, you have no business being in the department until your injuries fully heal, especially your ribs,” he says with disdain behind each word.

“Actually,” you say, “what I really want to know is why you were still at the club that night. Why pretend you left?”

Wesker arches a brow, the edge of a smirk curling his mouth. “Why?” he echoes, voice just shy of mockery. He’s not asking, you can tell he’s known the answer far prior to this conversation taking place. “I didn’t trust you. And, as it turns out, I was right not to.”

You can’t help but scoff, more angry than ashamed now. There’s nothing, no witty response or insult to throw at him. Your silence only gives him the room to continue, when he speaks again, you almost flinch, because he only has harsh, bitter things to say.

“I stayed to clean up after the mess you made, before you could go and do something really catastrophic. Really, it was an admirable attempt at playing detective. Cute, even.”

You feel your fists tighten at your sides. Still, you don’t speak, because you know he isn’t done.

“Now you’re standing in my office, asking me foolish questions, wasting my time,” he says.

You’re practically red in the face out of rage, your eyes glossy with tears daring to spill over your cheeks at any second. Your gaze could burn holes through those dorky sunglasses, but you stop yourself. Taking a low, deep breath, all the anger dissipates as you exhale. The sudden composure comes with an understanding of something. Wesker is the one who told the chief to give you a second chance, to let you keep your job.

If there is anything you are certain about, it’s that he took that notebook from you. All this? The performance of annoyance? It is purely a way to deflect even the thought of him having taken it. He’s playing defense.

He notices the change in your expression and almost seems frustrated at coming so close to, but ultimately failing at breaking you down. “Are you here for answers, or someone to blame?” Wesker stands.

“You know why I’m here.” You glare up at him. “Where. Is. The. Notebook.”

Wesker’s face doesn’t change, and perhaps it is because he is masking his intentions. He makes his way to you with just a few steps, leaving only about a foot of distance between you two.

“The notebook,” he repeats. A slow, deliberate smile curls at the corners of his mouth. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His tone drips with a feigned ignorance.

Both of you know it, and it takes a whole world of self control to keep yourself from spiraling into a daze of fury. But fine, you’ll play his game.
“You’re the only person who laid their hands on my work bag that night, or ever, for that matter,” your tone is surprisingly calm.

“So this is about you thinking I stole your diary, is that it?” He crosses his arms, unimpressed.

You roll your eyes, refusing to take the bait. “I’m not stupid, if that's what you think. Denley is already knee-deep in legal trouble, he’ll hand over the security footage of that alleyway to me without much hassle, I’m sure. Then both of us can watch you rummaging through my belongings without my permission and stealing.”

“Oh, you're far from stupid, dear. But tampering with evidence in an active missing person's case? Tsk, tsk.” He is left looking callous with your obvious bluffing.

You’ve got him now, or so you think. “Oh, so you admit it then? You have the notebook.” You stick your hand out, doing a grabbing motion. “Give it back and we can pretend this never happened.”

Rather than bothered, Wesker is amused by your sizable order. “You’re very demanding for one little lady. Especially one who was crying into my shoulder just days ago, grateful I stopped her skull from being turned to pulp.”

You stammer, taken back by the audacity of his statement. “This is no quid pro quo, Captain Wesker. The department failed to find out what happened to Eli Wilkes, so I’m taking the investigation into my own hands. That notebook is rightfully mine, I found it under a false bottom in the filing cabinet he used to store his shit in. I already told you, I am beyond grateful you saved my ass, but it doesn't mean I’m throwing away my personal investigational work because you think that notebook shouldn’t be in my hands.”

He leans in, studying your face thoughtfully to read the truth from your eyes. On no planet can you understand the shift in his expression, but you do come to notice that he has realized something.

Instinctually you want to take a step back, uncomfortable with the closeness. His intimate breathing feels the same as it did when you laid on the hospital cot, and it keeps you from moving even an inch, not wanting to disrupt his examination.

“You’re serious about finding Wilkes, so am I,” he says finally, breaking the silent tension.

Maybe you’re stupid for falling into his display of sympathy, but you wouldn’t do it for just anyone, he sounds too real for you to believe any other narrative your mind has built surrounding him.

“I…” you can’t seem to find the fierce confidence that was backing your words just seconds ago. “I don’t know how much of that notebook you read, but the first page was enough to convince me this isn’t something I can go to the chief about. Or you, for that matter.” You smile uncomfortably.

“I can understand your course of action. Wilkes didn’t take too kindly to my disciplinary actions, I’m sure you read,” he’s smiling now, and something about it makes your chest ache with unexpected warmth. “If you failed to hear about it already, I was the one who convinced Chief Irons to give you a second chance. It’s because the kind of integrity you possess is rare, even in a police department.”

“We can find out what happened to Wilkes together, but this case stays between us, it can be our little secret,” Wesker offers. As much as you want to be angry at the fact that he took the notebook from you, and now is offering you help with the investigation, you just can’t find it in yourself to.

You realize he is waiting for you to speak. “Fine,” you say, but the attitude you intend to convey doesn’t translate into your speech. “We can do this together.”

Having had just about enough of your reckless shit, your ribs send a painful shock of warning through your body. You freeze, jaw clenched, breaths cut short as your arm instinctively wraps around your side. A hiss slips through your teeth before you can stop it, you hunch over slightly and hold the spot which emits each stabbing pulse. The pain medication wore off.

The sight urges Wesker to let out a sigh. He gently takes you by the waist, fingers snaking underneath your top to lift the fabric. He kisses his teeth when met with the gnarly bruise where you were attacked. Lowering the fabric to its original place, he guides you to the wall by his office door, allowing you to lean against it for support. Even while you lean on the wall, he still holds you steady.

You don’t look up, afraid to because you are well aware he is looking straight down at you. Speaking through a low rasp out of pain, you laugh a little, “you really did a number on Adames, huh? Metal rod straight through the thigh.”

“Of course I did,” he says, as if there had been no other option.

Chapter Text

Heavy clouds drape over Raccoon City, a severe thunderstorm imminent. Your confrontation with Wesker did not go exactly as planned, really fucking off its course, actually. Denial and petty retaliation from him were both outcomes you expected, but definitely not scrambling to put together an appropriate outfit to visit his home.

It’s happening, you can feel yourself becoming a real adult at the ripe age of twenty-seven. You ditched the weed, lost your appetite for alcohol after the club incident, and now you’re scrubbing the scent of tobacco off your skin with the promise of this being the last time you’ll ever have to.

The water is just barely at the point of being able to burn you, and the feeling of it running down your bruises holds a satisfying sting. You recall how Wesker accommodated you in his office, thinking back to all the spots his fingers gently glided over when he looked at your bruised ribs. Retracing the movements, you feel the same patches of skin he did, trying to mimic the prurient touch. It only pleases you for a couple of fleeting seconds, close enough to seem real.

You hug your knees and tilt your head back, allowing the scorching water to consume you. The steam picks up the smell of smoke from your skin and carries it away. He already knew you were a raging alcoholic, and that is where you want to draw the line. You ponder how much it would take for him to view you as something disgusting.

Most of your pride comes from how well you put yourself together whenever it’s time to face the world again. No one can look into your eyes and see all those nights you applauded yourself for being two or so weeks clean from nicotine. And later on in the same day be curled up on the bathroom floor, scratching at your arms like some rabid creature. Wesker couldn’t see that.

The phrase “just one more” has become a sort of quiet vice in your life. Just one more cigarette, one more drink, one more lazy day, one more chance in that toxic relationship. If only an ounce of that same patience and generosity could be directed into bettering yourself. The water turning freezing cold without warning is a sign that you’ve been dwelling in the shower for too long. You lunge towards the faucet and cut the water off. Pulling on a towel, you waddle to your room, shivering.

It looks like a tornado has run through the bedroom, a disarray of clothes having been flung everywhere, one t-shirt even managing to somehow be hanging over the bedside lamp. The only section spared from the disaster is the part of the bed where you laid out your outfit, which took twenty minutes to be decided on.

The ‘vibe’ is something you’re still turning over your head, even with an outfit picked out. Are we thinking sexy? Debauched but self-contained? Business casual? Dishevelled writer? You basically promised to fuck me with the way you were feeling me up and then abandoned me like a jerk?

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," you mutter under your breath, voice trembling from the cold.

Your more rational, earlier self, went with option two: debauched but self-contained. So essentially a fuck you to Wesker. Of course you hold a grudge, and feel zero culpability for doing so. It doesn’t matter if he saved your life or saved your job, winding someone up and letting them down is not an offense you can forgive, mainly out of self preservation. Although, the whole self preservation thing never seemed to stop you in the past from clinging to toxic relationships.

The outfit says, ‘Hey, this is what you could have had’, while still maintaining a sense of dignity and upholding. So, a total tease. It’s a deep maroon sweater dress that hugs your body snugly, a choice you find yourself more than pleased with. You carefully pick up your favorite perfume, a small vial of magnolia scent that you found out cost, much to your dismay, forty dollars. This was only after you graciously accepted the birthday gift from your landlord. Spritzing it in all the right places, you turn to face your reflection in the full body mirror sitting at the corner of your bedroom.

There’s a hint of doubt in your eyes at the facade that precedes you. Behind all the put togetherness, there’s a person who feels like a passenger of their own life. Someone who is rocked by all the wrong kinds of substances on nights where there’s no one to hold her as she bawls. You touch your face with a transfixed expression, as if you can’t perceive who stands in front of you.

You realize that Wesker is no less of a stranger to you than he was the night you met him, in fact, all your questions surrounding him make you understand him even less. After you recovered from the flare of pain in your ribs back at the department, he offered you come over to his house so you two could discuss the contents of Eli’s journal. You’re still annoyed, and a little suspicious. Wesker kept the notebook for himself without a word, and how come he never once asked how you even got it? You ended up telling him how you found it, unprompted. Was he too focused on whatever he found inside? Or did he know more than he let on?

It's nothing to dwell on now that you’re glancing up at the towering condominium complex ahead, slamming your car door shut. He said he lived on the fortieth floor, and you recall that he never gave you the number to his condo, frowning at the thought.

It hits you that he occupies the penthouse when you see the elevator buttons only go up to forty. No wonder he never gave you an exact unit number. You purse your lips together, looking back at the large mirror of the elevator to fix your hair. You have no clue what to think, really, besides the fact that you feel like a complete and total fake.

How does he even understand you? Probably as some classy, put-together woman who doesn’t take much shit from anyone and is serious about her work. And sure, you are serious about your work, but the rest? You aren’t out wine testing on Friday nights with an equally as snobby man around your arm, or whatever it is that polished people get up to. You’re splayed over the living room couch, stuffing munchies down your throat while listening to the radio.

So immersed in your own thoughts, the elevator ding makes you jump back to the present moment.

“What the fuck,” you whisper. The sight of a private foyer makes a knot of regret form in your stomach. Who the hell needs all of this? It’s extra, and unless Wesker has a wife and kids, no way he needs such a grand entryway. While it’s not overly extravagant (for a penthouse), the console tables and accent chairs are of high quality materials. The space sets a tone of understated sophistication. Gross.

You approach the door and knock. There’s a faint sound of footsteps arising from the other side. They grow clearer with each unhurried step. There’s a short pause, and then a slight rustle of movement as you hear a lock clicking. The door opens and Wesker greets you with a deliberately slow smile, as though you’ve walked right into a trap.

“You made it.” From the sound of his tone, it seems like he’s disappointed you didn’t die on your way to his house. He moves aside, beckoning for you to enter.

“I’ve gotta say, this is a really nice place. Bit above your pay grade though, no?” You step into the suite and glance back at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. He doesn't return the gesture. Instead, he closes the door and locks it, expression unintelligible.

The penthouse is modest only in size, not in presence. Every inch of it is a reflection of him, muted colors, and sterile atmosphere. The lighting is soft, at least. No chandeliers, no artwork, no personal clutter, just sleek surfaces. The furniture is just as minimal, a black leather sofa partnered by a glass coffee table. There is a single armchair angled perfectly toward a panoramic window that overlooks the city, almost like a throne.

There are no family photos, no personalized media, no signs that a human being occupies the space, maybe a robot though. You try not to let your eyes linger on the view of the city for too long, and as you watch outside, Wesker takes in the attire you’ve adorned yourself with. His observation begins with the way you have your hair styled, then the satisfying way the sweater dress fits your figure, especially your breasts and ass. Of course, he catches a glance of your legs too, as you’re wearing a sheer pair of tights. You turn away from the view finally, and his eyes have already moved back up to meet yours.

“Would you care for a drink?” He moves towards the open concept kitchen that has a bar-style countertop. “I’ve a fine selection of whiskey, but…” his voice trails off when he becomes preoccupied in a search through the drink cabinet, looking at you again when he retrieves an unopened bottle of vodka. “I know how much you like your vodka.”

It's a generic brand, and in a plastic bottle. When you realize he bought it with the sole intent of having something you would like, knowing you were coming over, a warm flush spreads across your face. And most surprisingly of all, he did not forget your poison of choice, only a fact he could have remembered from the night at the bar.

You approach the bar and stand on the opposite side from him. “You remembered,” you smile politely. “I’ll do a tonic. We’re here to work, after all.”

He gives a nod of acknowledgment, preparing your drink. “Of course I remember. You were clear about it when you’d had a few too many.”

You want to rebuke him for his bluntness, not appreciating how high and mighty he sounds every chance he gets to condescend you in any way. However, you laugh because it catches you off guard, and well, he isn’t wrong on the matter.

“Oh, you're laughing now. I take that as a sign that you've released any lingering negative feelings towards me…concerning our first encounter.” He looks at you with a snide smirk, handing you a vodka tonic.

You can’t tell if he is joking, and take the time to consider his observation anyway. His reason for ditching that night, no matter how humiliating for you, was valid. He’s a captain of the S.T.A.R.S. unit after all. As much as you don’t want to admit it, mainly out of self-respect, duty does call. Wesker’s failure to bring it up in the other conversations you’ve had with him initially irritated you. But now you realize he likely kept quiet to spare you the embarrassment. What happened at the bar that night wasn’t exactly something you liked to remember.

“Well,” you begin. “I ‘spose I don’t. I can’t really be upset with you for having to do your job, considering how important it is. But it’s more about you starting something we can no longer finish.” The weight of your words only hits after you speak, essentially having said that you’re upset with the fact that it will never be appropriate for you two to sleep together. Your eyes widen at the revelation, praying that he doesn’t catch what you said. But of course he does.

He pours himself a whiskey, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for the briefest moment before dropping back to the glass in his hand, almost as a silent way to say: “Oh yes, we could.”

Though the mere thought of alcohol made a wave of nausea overtake you just earlier, you have a large gulp of your drink, wanting as fast as possible to not feel thoughts anymore. You grimace at the feeling of the smooth liquid burning as it hits your throat.

“I’ll bring the notebook over now, you can flip through it all you want. I already made the effort to go over all of it myself.” He steps away from the bar and walks off into the hallway, disappearing after taking a turn.

You deeply regret not going through the whole thing in one sitting, feeling left behind on an investigation that would not be advancing if it weren’t for you. You toss back the rest of your drink, eyes drifting to the vodka bottle, then to the hallway. For a moment, you consider pouring another glass, this time without the tonic. Dangerous thoughts. You shut them down, flicking the rim of your empty glass just to keep your hands busy.

Wesker returns with Eli’s journal in hand, just looking at the brown leather notebook is enough to ease your worries. Your eyes then move to him as he returns to the bar. The first few buttons of his black dress shirt being undone makes your thoughts move to places you would not be caught dead thinking. When he is by the opposite end of the counter again, he places the notebook in front of you. It's a powerful urge to thank him, and you stop yourself. You would have no reason to even be here if he hadn’t taken the journal in the first place.

Wesker takes notice of your thoughtful expression. “You only managed the first page of the notebook, correct?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” You pick the notebook up and glide your fingers over the gold lettering before opening it to the second page.

February 24, 1997

Who invented cassette recorders again? No matter, I’d be kissing their feet if they were in front of me right now. Irons has no clue what hit him, or that he was hit at all, really. These guys in fancy uniforms who meet privately with him have been coming around the department more and more recently. They meet just about once a week, usually on Thursdays. Nothing last week, but I hid a recorder in the conference room again today and they showed up right on the dot at 11:00 AM. Of course, I get kicked out of my sad excuse of an office and the meeting commences.

Now that I’m not feeling up that conference room door, blondie won’t have any reason to bother me. I am not interested in their meeting, I’m just a sad little writer who is inconvenienced that his work is interrupted. But no worries, I’ll gladly move to the filing room while the grown ups talk!

Whether those men come around every Thursday to tell the chief his erectile dysfunction is only worsening, or that there's an underground drug operation within the department, I’ll catch it. I don’t really care what those suckers are singing about in that conference room, no one is keeping secrets around here, not while I’m hanging about. Am I doing this because I’m petty Irons is giving me the cheap booze equivalent of cases? Yes. Am I also concerned about the strange vibes around this place lately? Also yes.

Maybe I’ll have enough dirt to flip this whole department on its head. Then I can watch and laugh as blondie and Irons are escorted out of the department under the scrutiny of news reporters. And fine, I’ll admit it. I want to see Irons suffer because he's a shite chief. But as for Wesker? He just annoys the ever-living fuck out of me. So yeah, a bit more petty on my part there. I can’t wait to dig into that delicious cassette when I get home.

As always, E.W.

Although you finish reading the second entry, you let your eyes linger on the page for a moment longer. You can feel Wesker watching you intently, studying your expression to understand your thoughts. In all honesty, you don’t know what to think. What you really wish you didn’t have to accept is that Eli might not be the most reliable person, despite his journal being an integral piece of the clues you are trying to stitch together. He obviously hated Wesker, and you can’t entirely understand why. Furrowing your brows, you flip through the journal.

It doesn’t take long to notice that nearly every other page is missing, with jagged edges marking where sheets have been torn out. At most, entries continue for three consecutive pages before the pattern resumes, more pages ripped away, more gaps in the story. You look up at Wesker.

“Why do you think so many pages are missing?” You place the notebook down.

“It’s clear he tore them out himself. As for his motive, likely as flawed as the rest of his decisions.” He takes a slow sip of his whiskey.

“You’re right, flawed because it makes it a lot harder for us to find him. But he could have done it because the chief or those…freaky men, caught onto what he was doing?” You rest your chin on your hand, thinking it through.

“He would have rid of the entire notebook, if that were the case. Wilkes wasn’t that ignorant,” he speaks with a sureness that he could only have if he’d run though the whole thing in his mind already.

You sit up in the barstool, watching Wesker closely. He’s right, Wilkes had been stupid to tear the pages out, but why did he do it? Logically, it accomplished nothing. If anything, it only drew more attention to whatever had been written there. And even though you barely knew Eli, something about the act didn’t sit right. It didn’t feel like him, at least, not the version of him you’d been piecing together.

You rub your fingers along the rim of your glass, thinking. Maybe he panicked. Maybe someone was breathing down his neck, and he thought shredding the evidence was his only option. But then again, as Wesker just said, if he was being watched closely enough to force his hand, wouldn’t he have just destroyed the whole notebook? Not just a few pages? A sigh escapes you, it’s just a dead end of thought. The two of you can sit and speculate why Eli did what he did all night, but it’ll accomplish nothing.

“Well, you aren’t exactly a teddy bear, but he hated you enough to want you out of your job. Did something happen between you two, or were you really just that hard to tolerate?” You smile a little, suddenly uncomfortable with your own situation.

Wesker shakes his head, a way to say there is no relevance in the matter. Still, he entertains your question. “It’s not worth touching on.” He reaches across the bar and takes your glass, pouring you another drink, no tonic. “He’s far from the only person to have a problem with me.” His lips twitch in a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Oh of course,” you roll your eyes. You take the glass from Wesker, smiling as a thanks. “That cassette recorder. In the second entry he says he can’t wait to listen to it when he gets home. When the department searched his place, they probably found it, right? But if it had anything incriminating on it about the chief, he probably made sure it was disposed of.”

Wesker’s expression is unreadable. He thinks briefly, considering your words. "You assume a lot."

You frown, leaning in just a fraction. “I’m simply making connections, it’s all we can do. The chief wouldn't leave something that valuable to chance, especially not if it had anything that could blow his cover.”

He turns his glass upside down, unbothered. “It's possible he disposed of it, or maybe he hid it. People make mistakes, after all.”

A sudden thought hits you, and you decide to keep it to yourself. Either Eli hid the tape well enough for it to not have been discovered during the search through his home, or the chief found it and disposed of it or hid it. Both cases involving the chief are tricky, because there is no way for you to find the tape if he had really gotten to it. If you could get a look inside Eli’s home, perhaps you’d uncover something the investigators overlooked.

You pick the notebook up and flip through the fifteen or so entries remaining, combing through the paragraphs with a perceptive focus. It’s all more or less useless. Each page feels more pointless than the last with fragmented details, nothing that could offer any clarity. The entries are like a puzzle with too many missing pieces, and the further you go, the more it becomes clear that without the torn out pages, you are left with an incredibly cloudy perspective on the situation.

“You honestly have no idea who those men were, the ones meeting with the chief so often?” You swallow the vodka in one swift motion. The tipsiness starts to creep over you, loosening your grip on formality and making it harder to keep your composure.

He regards your question for a moment. His response calm, “I don't know. I have no interest in the chief's affairs, nor his mysterious associates. It isn’t the S.T.A.R.S. department's business either.” Wesker’s eyes fix on you, “you’re looking in the wrong direction if you think I have answers for you."

“You’re free to contribute, then. I’m doing what I can. As far as I’m aware, you took the notebook from me and haven’t done anything with it that I couldn’t have.” Your tone is insolent, and you don’t mind one bit. You extend your glass toward him, and he pours a small amount of vodka, the hesitation in his eyes betraying a glint of uncertainty.

Wesker raises a brow. “If you believe you can do better with it, feel free to prove so,” he replies. “I prefer to work with methods that yield results.” He pauses for a moment, “not waste time spewing one baseless theory after another until I’m left to reach a conclusion entirely of my own making.”

You laugh scornfully. “Your audacity is applause worthy, seriously.” You throw the drink back like it's nothing.

Wesker picks up your glass as you set it down, wordlessly placing it in the sink. “You're drunk,” he observes, his tone flat. He looks at you for a moment, clear that there’s no point in continuing any work while you’re in this state.

There’s a sense of disappointment in his eyes, and you know pretty well how he manages to control his expressions, so you assume he wants you to know how he feels. You groan and hop off the stool, losing your balance in an instant and catching yourself against the nearest wall.

“I met Jill, she was nice,” you say for conversation's sake.

“Was she?” He is far away from you, somewhere else. Still, he moves away from behind the bar and comes to stand nearby you.

“Yeah. She sorta just reminded me of my fuck-up, everyone knows about it apparently.” The sleek black leather couch catches your eye. And sure, it's not nearly as comfortable looking as the booze stained sofa you have back at home, but your drunkenness makes you gloss over that point.

Your voyage towards the couch goes wrong immediately. One foot crosses too far over the other, your balance goes sideways, and your hip bumps the edge of the nearby coffee table with a dull thud.

You wince, half-laughing out of nervousness as your hand flails out for something stable.
Before you can embarrass yourself further, Wesker moves with unsettling speed to your side. One arm goes over your shoulders, the other to your waist.

“Careful,” he warns, it's a comforting tone.

You choke back tears and shove your whole weight into him. “Just leave it alone, I’m fine…fucking…fine,” your words trail off into slurred, quiet curses.

Your physical protest does not make him budge an inch, still holding onto you. He doesn't argue. Not with you like this. You’re drunk, volatile, and burning through the last of your pride. With your final ounce of strength before you can burst into tears, you look up at him. “Please.”

He exhales through his nose, a resigned sigh, and releases you. You stumble the rest of the way to the couch. It welcomes you without question. You collapse onto it and curl in on yourself, small and quiet, while he stays very nearby like a shadow. He crouches down to your level on the couch, gently moving your hair out of your face.

“Did you eat anything today?” He asks.

You reply with a low gruff, clear what the answer is.

“If I’d known better I would not have offered you alcohol, then. I expected an avid drunk would know better than to drink on an empty stomach,” he says simply.

“I’m sorry,” you practically mumble, wishing he could just walk away and let you drown in your own misery for a while. “It wasn’t pointless, what we did here today. I hope you know that."

“It wasn’t,” he echos. “Is it a habit of yours to completely let yourself go when conducting investigational work?”

Your eyes flutter closed, but even in your haze, you can tell there's amusement in his voice, a subtle mocking undertone.

For a moment, there’s silence between you two. You can almost imagine him leaning in closer, the distance shrinking. Before anything else can be said, you brush your hand against his cheek. A certain touch. His breath is almost on yours.

It’s a split second where everything feels dangerously intimate. You’re absolutely terrified, but your heart knows exactly how you want this to play out.

He drapes his hand over yours, pulling back. His cold demeanor returns, the new distance making the heat of the moment feel like a curated memory.

You try to focus but your vision blurs. You mumble something, barely audible, before your body betrays you. “You stayed with me... in the hospital...”

His expression doesn’t change, but the briefest flicker of something passes over his face, perhaps regret, or maybe something else entirely.

But by then, you’re already slipping into the embrace of unconsciousness, leaving nothing but the fading echo of your words to linger in the air. His footsteps stir the silence, growing softer and softer, until they vanish into the stillness.

The soft hum of the room, the steady rhythm of your breath, they all start to blur together, pulling you toward the peaceful embrace of sleep. You think of Eli’s sister, Amber Wilkes. It's clear where tomorrow will take you.

Chapter Text

Wesker’s cold living room is a serene place to wake up at five in the morning. The entire world shifts as you sit up on the uncomfortable couch, holding a hand to your forehead just as you’ve done countless other mornings when you wake up hungover. Your sweater dress hiked all the way up to your waist as you slept, you quickly pull the fabric down to cover as much skin as possible.

Out of all the unique places you’ve woken up hungover, Wesker’s penthouse has felt the safest as of yet. Your jacket is on the floor next to the couch, he must have draped it over you while you slept so you wouldn’t get too cold. Glancing over at the bar counter, Eli’s notebook is not where you left it last night. You sigh.

“Ugh.” You need to vomit, and bad. Spilling off of the couch, you blunder towards the kitchen, tripping over your own feet only to catch yourself on the sink. Your stomach lurches. A dry, choking gag escapes before the vomit comes up.

You hold onto the sink for dear life, breathing heavily and turning the tap on. Understandably, it takes you a moment to compose yourself. Yes, practicing self love is something new you’ve been trying. But right now you feel like the stupidest fucking person on the planet, absolutely ashamed of yourself. You turn away from the sink, leaning against the counter to eye the bar. As you wipe your mouth with your sleeve, you eye Wesker’s fine selection of whiskey.

It isn’t exactly your beverage of choice, but you read somewhere that it’s less bad for your gut or something. You inch towards the bar like a child about to steal from the cookie jar, grabbing the bottle Wesker poured himself drinks from last night.
You twist off the cap and the sharp scent hits you, bitter. You hesitate. Your reflection in the chrome of the shaker set catches your eye: puffy cheeks, bloodshot eyes, a smear of puke on your sleeve.

What the fuck are you doing? Why are you like this?

You’re still swaying from the last disaster you poured down your throat. Your mouth tastes like blood. Your grip on the bottle is like you’re holding onto a gun to protect yourself, as if it's going to fix something.

You blink.

Then, with a slow breath, you set it down.

Finding it a bit easier to navigate without having the urge to vomit, you move back to the living room and pick your jacket off the ground. You pull it on and put your hair up into a bun. Some sunlight catches your eye through a slit in the blinds, you kiss your teeth. With the short, irritated tug of a string, the blinds clatter open, spilling light across the living room in streaks of dust. The sudden brightness makes your eyes sting. You wince, but don’t look away.

Although it probably isn’t a good idea to explore the penthouse, you ignore your gut and move toward the hallway leading up to a few rooms.
You stop outside a door, the one you figure Wesker must be sleeping behind. You glance at the handle, then step back, deciding it’s better not to disturb him. You don’t need to open that door right now, even though you know he definitely has the notebook in there with him. You turn away, feeling a little lighter for knowing where he is, even if you’re not quite ready to face him yet.

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, the world keeps turning. At first the thought of life continuing was an aspect about living you despised. It meant waking up the next day after having made the worst possible decisions during your lows. Although, as you grew older, those hard mornings became moments to kiss the ground, silently thanking God that you hadn’t somehow ODed after taking questionable substances the night before.

The world keeps turning, and you need to find Amber Wilkes.

“You think anyone can be forgiven for their actions?” Your fingers curl around the unattractive black cup of coffee on the table.

“I do.” Amber Wilkes' smile is one that you really want to find comfort in, but it only manages to creep you out.

“I don’t know. That seems a little arbitrary.” You shrug.

“Each to their own virtues, I suppose.” She is unbothered by your disagreement, having one of those looks that say ‘I know I’m right and you’re wrong, so I don’t really care’.

You sit across from Eli’s younger sister in a small cafe just a couple of blocks down from your home. Her contact information wasn’t difficult to find, it had been a matter of retrieving one of Eli’s missing posters and dialing the number accompanying a photo of him in beach trunks. And yes, you stared uncomfortably long at his shirtless body, not in a creepy way, just baffled at Amber’s choice of photo for a missing persons poster.

The conversation started off productive, and it didn’t take long for things to pivot into more existential themes. Amber is obviously shaken by the events regarding her brother, but it's still hard not to judge a person who is clearly losing grasp of reality. What bothers you the most is how sure she sounds about everything, like she has it all figured out. She reminds you of yourself when you’re drunk. Stubborn and haughty.

You didn’t mention the notebook, the chief, or Wesker. Mostly because you didn’t want to freak her out, and also because your unauthorized investigation is highly illegal in and of itself. Amber is more clueless about Eli’s endeavours than you are, surprisingly. He apparently never brought any conspiracies or work related matters up to her, due to highly sensitive content, you assume. All you need are the keys to his apartment, but right now, it looks like this fruit’s going to need a lot more squeezing to get any juice out of it.

“I’m really grateful they put you on Eli’s case, I thought they gave up on looking for him.” Amber is only twenty-four, but the years weigh on her face already, wrinkles betraying her tainted youth.

“It was a matter of funding, they just needed some time to get their books in order. But I’m grateful as well, we’re both eager to find Eli.”

“It’s all there, my statement on his file is the same as anything I have to say now. I wish I had updates, but I don’t.” Amber picks up a packet of stevia and sprinkles it into her tea.

“His file, right.” Your smile doesn’t give away the feeling of dread creeping up on you. Oh of course, the file I don’t have access to! Beyond the notebook, Eli’s file being unavailable to you is one of the main reasons you suspect that Irons is involved in the disappearance. However, it isn’t just Eli, there are a select few files that he has kept separated from the missing cases you can access. Were these people connected somehow?

“Is that alright?” Amber’s voice snaps you back to the present.

“Oh, uh-huh,” you murmur.

Her look of confusion makes you panic, looking down at your coffee and then back at her, you shake your head. “Yes, of course it's alright. I don’t expect you to have any news, that’s my job, of course.” Your nervous laughter doesn’t make subduing her sudden speculation any easier. “I just–, I’d like to hear you say whatever you had said to add to the file again. Hearing it coming from you in person might offer me a better perspective, if that’s okay with you?” Nice save.

Much to your relief, Amber’s usual expression returns. “That’s a thoughtful way to work. Of course I can tell you again.” She gracefully lifts her teacup to take a long sip before clearing her throat. “Ever since Eli left, I’ve been thinking about all the reasons he might have. What did he have going on that made him want to escape for a while? His job stressed him out a lot, but he didn’t really talk about it enough for me to know why. Sometimes our plans to get together with my mom and dad got delayed because he had a lot on his plate. So I think the workload was the main source of his stress.”

You nod, fully in tune with her words as you scribble down a mess of important details in barely legible handwriting.

Amber takes another sip of her tea, then continues. “His frequent cancellations on me and our parents didn’t help their already rocky relationship.”

“Right, I remember that from the file,” the lie comes to you easily. Your support of Amber’s story makes her nod.

“Yes, I mentioned it briefly. He had a thing with a woman who they did not approve of whatsoever. They essentially were the driving force of Eli breaking up with her. Even after, they were really enraged when her contact information was added onto some of the missing posters. I thought it was a good idea, at least. Anyway, they made me remove it on the more recent posters, and I had to explain to her why. It was embarrassing, but she understood the sentiment.”

Okay, ex-girlfriend who loved Eli enough to see past his controlling parents, good. She shouldn’t be hard to track down.

“And everyone keeps telling me not to blame myself,” her voice breaks, “but I keep asking myself, was it me? Did I do something? We didn’t agree on a lot of things. Like, a lot!” Amber brings a tissue up to her nose to blow into.

You were so focused that you didn’t notice Amber was fighting back tears through her whole explanation. Carefully, you bring your hand to rest on Amber’s that's on the table. The touch is gentle, even the small squeeze you give.

“Excuse me.” She pulls her hand away from your hold and stands, rushing to the restroom.

Your heart sinks, but you know this is your chance. Glancing around to make sure it's clear, you slowly reach for her purse. You hesitate, this feels so wrong. A knot tightens in your stomach, but you ignore the feeling. Anything for answers.

You unzip the purse and start digging carefully, trying not to move things around too much. Amidst crumpled receipts and stray lipstick caps, your fingers close around a small, battered notebook. You flip through it quickly, a few contacts scribbled in different handwritings, some crossed out, some with phone numbers.

Lifting up your own notebook, you copy down as many phone numbers as you can. You feel shitty for invading her privacy like this, but the need to know fights against the guilt. You carefully slip the notebook back into the purse, smoothing the flap as best you can. You zip it closed and push it gently back where you found it, heart pounding. Amber passes by you just seconds after, returning to her seat. Her face is still puffy, she had a good sob in the women's room.

You’re no saint for feeling guilty, you’ve done plenty of horrible things in the past. You don’t feel guilty because you regret what you did, but because you know that no matter how terrible your actions make you feel, they won’t stop you from continuing to be this way. That's why you feel guilty.

“I’m really sorry you’re going through this, Amber. We’ll find your brother, I promise.” Somewhere in your false reassurance, you realize that Eli is undoubtedly dead. “We don’t have to continue this meeting, I understand you’re very upset.”

Amber sniffs. “Oh I’m sorry, it’s just so hard.” She blows her nose on a napkin. “You’re the first person who actually looks hopeful that we’ll find him. I can see it in the others that they think Eli is dead, but I know he’s out there.” She stands, picking up her purse.

“Please, don’t apologize. There is no wrong way to grieve. You can forget about the others, Amber. I am serious about this case.” You pause. “Will you make it home alright?”

There is a small glint in Amber’s eyes. You could have missed it if you weren’t looking at her face so intently. Something about it says I know what you are. Amber smiles.

“Yes, yes I’ll be fine.” She leans in and the two of you hug briefly.

You step outside the cafe, the cool air hitting your skin like a sharp slap. Fingers trembling slightly, you pull out a cigarette and light it, the flame flickering in the morning breeze. You draw in the smoke slowly, the burn steadying your nerves as you lean against the brick wall. The city hums around you, distant chatter, the rumble of passing cars, but none of it reaches you. Your thoughts spiral restlessly.

It makes sense for Amber to have the number of Eli’s ex written down in her contact book. Of course, you don’t know the name of his ex, meaning you’ll have to go through all the female names and dial each of them. What will you say if they pick up? You don’t worry yourself too much with that for now.

You stare down at the cigarette held between your fingers, frowning. What happened to ditching the nicotine? It’s been a shitty day, I deserve it, you think to yourself. But the truth gnaws at you, it’s not just the nicotine. It’s every bad choice, every slip, you’re addicted to being like this.

You feel like the scum of the earth, and the feeling is so familiar that it sits inside of you comfortably now, like the memory of an old friend. The smoke pinches your lungs, but it doesn’t burn away the shame. It only lets the pain settle deeper, a bitter reminder that you’re the one who keeps coming back to this, over and over. It's all you’ve ever known, and how can feeling that way make it any easier to quit?

You crush the cigarette against the rough brick wall.

Then, your phone vibrates sharply in your pocket, snapping you back. You frown, fishing the device out from your bag and answer. “Hello?”

“Good morning. Didn’t care to stay for breakfast?” It’s Wesker.

Even though he isn’t there with you, you fix your posture. “Oh, hey. I had something to take care of, otherwise I’d have stayed to serve you breakfast in bed.” You smile. It feels awkward, but significantly less over the phone.

Wesker plays along, “How considerate of you. I’ll admit, I expected you to sleep through the day.”

You run a hand over your face, groaning. Why couldn’t people just move on from your destructive actions? You might find it a lot easier to forgive your own idiocy if everyone around you didn’t hang onto the shit you did. Of course, you’re being completely unreasonable for expecting him not to bring up last night. “I’m really sorry for yesterday, you didn’t sign up for that. I know I’m not easy company, trust me, I live with it.”

The silence on the other end of the line is anxiety inducing, you eagerly wait for a response, almost asking if he is still there.

“If I wanted easy company, I wouldn’t have allowed you to continue this investigation upon getting ahold of Wilkes’ journal,” he says finally.

You blink twice, annoyed. “Ha. Allowed you said? Well thank you for your graciousness.”

“You sound embarrassed, meaning you learned at least something. I expect you won’t make the same mistake again.” He sounds overly pleased with his deduction.

“Sure.” You don’t know exactly what you’re agreeing to, just speaking for the sake of it. “I just met with Amber Wilkes, by the way. Connected with her through the contact information on one of Eli’s missing posters. And I approached as an investigator assigned to the case by the department.”

“Only a partial lie. What did you get out of her?” His voice sharpens, the remnants of his morning rasp fading into cool constancy.

“Well, she kept alluding to his case file. That gets me thinking though, the chief has it kept all to himself, it's really suspicious. Anyway, his relationship with his parents wasn’t the greatest, but he was close with his ex-girlfriend. Amber said he didn’t say much about his job, but it was obvious his workload was getting to him. If I can track the ex down, I’d say she’s our best shot at getting anything useful. He had to have told her something. You really can’t access his file if you pester Irons about it?”

“I could,” he says, “but it wouldn’t be worth the noise it creates. Pushing a guilty man will only make him dig a deeper hole.” He pauses, considering his next piece of advice carefully. “Find the ex. If Eli had anything off record, it won’t be buried in any notebook scraps. It’ll be with her.”

You allow your thoughts to linger before speaking. “I can do that. But you don’t think his ex would have said anything after he went missing if Eli really did tell her something?”

“Perhaps there was not enough substance behind his claims for her to have made a public statement.”

“I want that to be true, because it means maybe Iron’s isn’t guilty. But we can’t know for sure,” you say with a sigh. The silence urges you to speak again, and you’re scared to ask, but do anyway, “why did you call?” You speak softly.

“I’m calling you now for the same reason I stayed at the hospital, I was worried,” his tone is indecipherable.

For some reason, the thought of Wesker actually being concerned about your well-being is not an easy to grasp notion. You have allowed yourself to completely be swooned by how handsome he is, but even your stupidity has limits. He’s a cold, unconcerned man. From the night you met him, you knew for certain there is nothing in this world he can’t brush off his shoulder like it's worthless, that includes you.

He didn’t stay at the club to protect you from getting hurt, but rather to avoid being held responsible for driving you there and letting you get into trouble. And just because he stayed at the hospital did not signify concern, he was just being a gentleman, you think. You want to say it, tell him in case he isn’t aware of his own contradictions, ‘I know you don’t care for me. Even if I died, as long as your record stays clean and you can do your job, you’d probably forget I ever existed by tomorrow.’

“You went quiet, did I surprise you?” Wesker asks.

“I– no, you didn’t. It’s just touching…I guess,” you say, the words barely convince yourself, doubting Wesker will fall for them. You should have stopped there, but continue, “it’s like stepping into adulthood means subconsciously accepting that you’ll never get adequate emotional support again, because you should be old enough to handle yourself.”

Wesker’s lack of pause makes you imagine he relates to you in some way. “I don’t know which intern overlooked your file, but you left the emergency contact section empty. No one to depend on, or have you stopped expecting anyone to show up?”

“I guess saying ‘it’s personal’ isn’t gonna cut it as an answer now that you’ve witnessed me as a drunk mess three times, huh?” You say with a faint, tired smile. “Didn’t exactly think I'd risk having my skull caved in on the second day of the job, so I left it blank. I’ve burdened my family enough times to span over three lifetimes. But–” you take a deep breath, “I’m glad I did. I’m glad it was you who showed up, Wesker.”

“I’ve already left a certain pretty woman hanging once. She chose to forgive me. Repeating that mistake would be foolish.”

You want to laugh, but it catches in your throat, choking back tears you weren’t ready to let fall. “When can I see you again?... To continue our work, I mean.” Fuck, get it together.

He considers the question. “Not anytime early. I can manage this evening. Give me a place near your home, I’ll be there.”

The cool morning shifted into a hot evening, just the right weather to take a walk in the park. Although, the two of you didn’t walk, sitting on a bench underneath the cool shade of a tall tree. Your posture is relaxed, head thrown back with your legs in a criss cross. On the other hand, Wesker sits as a statue, flawless posture and facing straight ahead. You can almost catch a glimpse of his eyes behind the sunglasses, but it will make it seem too obvious what you are trying to do. For once, they seemed situationally appropriate, though the polished lenses still made him feel slightly unreal, like a figure displaced from some colder, darker place. Wesker looks lost in thought, and you assume he is crafting the perfect thing to say that will push your buttons in all the right places.

You clear your throat. “So, I copied some of Amber’s contacts down when she wasn’t looking. It was only the cell numbers written under the female names, one of them has to be Eli’s ex.”

“How exactly did you manage that?” He finally looks over at you.

“Does it matter? She didn’t see, I swear.” You reach into your work bag and pull out a small notepad, handing it to Wesker. “It's inefficient, but I was thinking I go through the numbers one by one, dialing each until I get the right girl.”

He stares down at the name and numbers, giving you the time to pick up your cell phone. You peek over and scan the first number, beginning to dial the digits. So focused on punching in the numbers, you nearly jump when a sudden grip closes around your wrist. “What are you–”

“Your plan,” Wesker interrupted, his tone warning, “is to blind dial strangers and leave a trail with every person you contact?”

The grip wasn’t painful, but it carried a hefty weight to it.

“I mean… it’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing,” you muttered. You lower the phone slightly, allowing him to release your wrist. He sets the notepad down between you on the bench, his fingers lingering on the cover for just a moment.

“Desperation isn’t a strategy,” he says. “It’s a resort, a sign of weakness. You’re making room for mistakes by recklessness.”

You sigh in frustration. “So what? We just sit here and wait for something to fall in our lap?”

“No,” Wesker says, seemingly annoyed at the conclusion you arrived at through his warning. “We observe with the ample time we have. The name will come up eventually, you already have all the numbers there. When the time comes, you will dial.”

You want to snap back, to prove you’re capable. Instead, you fold your arms, feeling the sting of humility settle deep. The familiar prick of embarrassment never seems to become easier to manage, you feel like a pesky child who needs to be constantly steered in the right direction.

“It feels like I’m a petulant dog wearing a muzzle until you want me to bite at something,” you say, voice more hurt than you intended it to sound.

Wesker turns slowly to face you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It isn’t anything to feel ashamed over. I’m simply teaching you how to have patience.”

You grit your teeth. “Right.”

When he stands, you just watch. You can only stare at his back as he seems to take in the surrounding park. There aren’t many people around despite the pleasant weather. He is wearing the same pants that he did in the bar, but the dress shirt is a different top. As you’d taken notice of before, the fabric sags in all the right places, and the sculpt of his ass is truly something to marvel at. Your eyes widen at your own thoughts and you turn your attention to the notebook on the bench, frowning.

Wesker’s hand falls into your view. You look up at him and take it, he gently pulls you up, the assistance makes your ribs hurt slightly less. Upon releasing your hand, Wesker begins to move down the sidewalk. You scramble to pick up your cell phone and shove the notepad into your bag before following after him.

He glances at you for a moment as the two of you walk, then straight ahead again. “When we find her name, you should call her on your own time and arrange something.”

You’re surprised by his instructions. “What? You mean you don’t wanna be there when I call her?” He really expects you to be able to manage Eli’s ex on your own? Amber was one thing, but his ex could be a far more delicate person.

“You can handle it. I have responsibilities to stay on top of, and I’m sure you do too. Coordinating schedules just to make a joint call will only slow the investigation down,” he says simply.

All you do is nod, not wanting him to reconsider the trust he has in you. Then the thought irks you, why do you care so much if he thinks you can manage yourself or not? Every second around Wesker is just sending you into a deeper pit of seeking approval, and the only way to climb out is to understand your own capabilities and maybe spend time with company that is closer to humans than aliens.

Wesker stops by an ice cream parlor, making you to pause. You look at the small, outdoor booth closely. “It’s cute,” you say.

He doesn’t respond immediately, just observes the booth, then you, as if assessing the merit of your comment like it’s data in a report. You half-expect a snide remark.
Instead, he steps forward. “Wait here.”

You blink, surprised. He approaches the stand with the kind of presence that makes the teenage vendor stand a little straighter. You watch him exchange a few words before returning with two cones, one vanilla, one chocolate.

He holds both out to you. “You can choose,” his small smile is assuring.

Without hesitation, you pick the chocolate. “Thanks,” you chirp.

“How are your ribs?” He watches you intently, planning to read your face if you lie about the condition of your injury.

He holds the door of the housing complex open for you, allowing you to enter.

“It's been healing beautifully, actually. I feel good.” You begin up the small set of stairs in the lobby, and he follows behind you. At the top there is a short hallway with four doors, one of which is to your apartment. “Thank you for walking me here, really. You didn’t have to do all that, I know you’re busy. Oh, and the ice cream,” you smile.

He gives a small nod, “of course.” The way he looks at you teeters on the edge of intimacy, and it drives you crazy, not out of desire, but frustration. How can he look at you like that after so easily pushing you away last night?

Don’t fall for whatever this is, come on. Self-respect, remember? When you leaned in to kiss him that night, it was clear he did not want anything of the sorts, so why the hell is he watching you like a puzzle that’s impossible to solve? Your voice wants to stay caught in your throat to protect you from saying anything stupid, but you know how this will end if you don’t speak. Your hands will do something stupider if your mouth doesn’t manage to first.

“I don’t understand you,” your voice is soft.

He takes a step towards you, and you don’t move. To hell with everything else, all those stupid pep talks in the mirror about avoiding the very man in front of you at all costs. Or the constant mental scolding on how badly you’ve embarrassed yourself that you ruined your chance. Even him pulling away from you last night, clearly not wanting to fuck a drunk mess who was so clearly falling apart right beneath him.

You want this.

A distant voice completely shatters the moment.

“Is that you, sweetheart?” The familiar, happy twitter of your landlord echoes from the bottom of the stairwell.

You look at Wesker with an almost pout as an apology. “Yes, Ms. Hall,” you call back. The sound of your own voice echoing makes you cringe.

“Stay right there honey! Don’t lock yourself in your apartment just yet!” She calls back, the sound of her footsteps hurrying up the stairs. When she finally makes it up, she freezes at the sight of Wesker, her smile fades. “Oh my!”

“Good evening,” he says simply.

You smile, despite feeling absolutely miserable. “Ms. Hall, this is Albert. He’s–”

“Dear, why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone? You told me it's been years, I’m so happy for you!”

You’ve got to be joking. This could not possibly get any more humiliating. Ms. Hall is one of the sweetest old women you’ve ever met, but right now you want to tell her to fuck off and shove her nose up one of the other tenants’ asses for a change. “Oh, it’s not like that. We work together.”

Ms. Hall clearly doesn’t buy your words, you can tell by the way she smiles. “Well alright, dear. It should be like that, he is a sweet thing for walking you home.”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s real kind,” you sigh. For once you don’t feel Wesker’s scrutiny, he seems to be relishing in the moment. Even the sunglasses can’t hide that.

Before you can say more, Wesker steps forward. “Allow me,” he says smoothly, offering his arm to Ms. Hall. She hesitates for a moment, then accepts with a grateful smile.

As they walk down the stairs together, you watch. Wesker spares you a brief nod, reading ‘it's okay’. You turn away to face your door, the weight of everything unspoken presses down on your chest. It's true, you don’t understand him, why didn’t he respond to you? Running a hand over your face, you groan.

You wonder what would have happened if your landlord hadn’t interrupted.

Chapter Text

Halfway into the work week had been enough time for you to break under the pressure of lazing on the couch all day doing absolutely nothing. Monday passed in a complete daze at the current state of your life. You stared pensively at your cell phone, just waiting for Wesker to call you. At some moments you found yourself reaching out to dial his number, snapping out of it to save yourself the embarrassment (not like the thought of that had ever stopped you before). You caved and had a few beers, reliving the same moments over and over again in your head, eventually succumbing and touching yourself to the thought of him.

The shame was so twisted, and you loved every second of it. No matter the amount of self discipline, you were completely involved with the idea of melting from his touch and chucking all your past morals out the window the second he might give you even the slightest promise of affection.

On Tuesday your stomach ached from how severe the pain in your ribs was. The flare of agony came so suddenly that you fell off the couch and crawled towards the trash bin in the kitchen, shuffling through the rotten remains in search of the tin of pre-rolls you had tossed last week. You burst into tears at the harrowing realization that you had emptied the trash bin at least twice since then, astonished by your own lunacy.

When Wednesday rolled around after one of the seemingly longest stretches of nights in your life, you slid out of bed and called Irons.

“I’m coming in today,” you assert.

You try to imagine his expression when silence ensues on the other end of the line after your warning.

“No,” he says plainly, already sounding sick of your antics. “I extended your time off for a reason, and it was not to spite you. You are not ready to come back.”

You seat yourself at the edge of your bed, wincing. “I’m doing just fine, and I’ve been through all the cases I was assigned.”

“Already? Well that’s good, more time for you to rest,” he replies.

“I'm not calling to ask for permission. I’m coming in today,” you stand your ground.

A longer pause this time. You can almost hear him trying to balance the mess of papers on his desk while managing this ridiculous phone call at the same time. The same multitasking he always does when he's trying not to lose his patience. “Your bones aren’t made of titanium. This isn’t just about being productive, I expect quality work from you. That’s only gonna happen if I know you are in your best state.”

You glance at your clock, horrified for another long stretch of day ahead stuck with your own thoughts.

“I’m getting fucking bird flu from being caged in my apartment all day, Chief,” you plead.

His sigh crackles through the speaker. “You’re really pushing me,” he warns.

Feeling yourself beginning to overstep a boundary, you frown. “Can I at least come in to pick up something new?”

“Yes,” his voice softens. “But the department isn’t going to cover your ass if that hunk of trash you drive around gets towed again,” you can hear his smile.

You refuse to feel the comfort of reassurance in Irons’ words. “Thanks chief.” You hang up quickly, scared he is going to feel the sheer aura of your speculation bleeding through the phone.

Every second that has passed since you met with Amber comes with the growing fear that Eli’s ex-girlfriend is somehow slipping further away from you. Many times did you consider ignoring Wesker’s instruction and just dialing every number you have copied down. But, much to your annoyance, he was right. The situation is just far too delicate to blindly dial strangers.

Grabbing a pillow from the head of the bed, you bury your face into it and scream, “FUCK!” If you had not been a complete dumbass idiot moron, you would not have gotten shitfaced and actually read more than just one entry of Eli’s journal when you were at Wesker’s place. Now, you can’t even bring yourself to call and ask if he brought it with him to the department. You’re too afraid to.

Your focus shifts to the bedside table, and you scooch towards it to pick up Eli’s ID card. Although you haven’t moved it around much since sneaking it out of his old filing cabinet, it seems like his photo is growing more smudged by the day. Although, you suppose it doesn’t really matter, you know what he looks like from the missing posters.

For a moment you think about what Amber had said: “They were really enraged when her contact information was added onto some of the missing posters.” Then it hits you. If his ex’s contact info was on some of those early posters, before they were changed or taken down, then maybe there’s a copy still out there. A file buried in an email thread. A half torn version still taped to a damn lamppost.

If you can get your hands on one of those older versions, you might be able to find the ex’s number. A direct line to your golden ticket. Then it's just a matter of matching the number with one of the contacts in your notebook, you’ll have her name as well.

You move off of your bed and grab your laptop to shove it into your work bag along with Eli’s ID, as it just so happens to be in your hand already, you tuck it away into a small pocket compartment. Surely they’ll cut you some slack over at the department for looking a mess, it's been a rough week after all. Pulling your jacket off of the nearby coat hanger, you sling it over your shoulder and head for the door.

It's impossible to avoid Boutros, considering he is seated at the very entrance of the department nine times out of ten. His eyes move to the front doors upon the sound of them opening, engaged in a conversation with a visitor. They say their goodbyes and then he clears his throat, convincing you to stop averting your gaze. You make your way to the reception desk and smile, mostly out of shame.

“My god, what kinds of trouble have you been up to?”

“If it reached Jill all the way up at S.T.A.R.S., I’m sure you know already. I feel like shit.” You fix your hair, suddenly aware of how disheveled you look.

“You look it too,” he laughs. “I hope the healing process hasn’t been too rough.”

“It hasn’t,” you lie.

“Are you planning to tell me what you have going on with Captain hard-ass?” So invested in what you may have to say, he places his coffee mug down and stares at you intently.

You groan out loud, even though you don’t mean to. Boutros is still your elder, afterall, and you feel obligated to show him some higher degree of respect. You view him like a jolly uncle who you meet once a year at Christmas, someone who will embrace you with the same warmth as with their own kids. Wesker, on the other hand, despite being substantially older than you (though you can only take an educated guess on exactly how many years), you feel like you are constantly fighting with for respect, as if it's something that both of you can't hold for one another at the same time. Respect is more like a fickle thing that is carefully passed between the two of you like in a game of hot potato.

“I guess you have a right to know. Hows about I tell you over some coffee?” Charisma doesn’t find you as easily as it did before you started at the department, but Boutros’ expression says that you exerted just the right amount for it to still work.

“Toss in a poppy seed bagel and you got me,” he winks. Boutros pans his chair over to a different section of the front desk, eyes quickly skimming over a couple of sticky notes before clicking his tongue in satisfaction. “Irons left some things over at your desk. He told me to expect you, oh and…” he moves his chair back towards you, “to make sure you’re outta here as soon as you grab the work.”

“Of course he did.” Readjusting your work bag, you wince a little. “Well I’m in no mood to fight you. I’ll be in and out, I promise.”

He nods, resuming his work. “I’m expecting that coffee later, Tornado Tom.”

You try not to let the embarrassment wash over you from the fast spreading nickname, it doesn’t work.

It’s in and out of the conference room. You find a small neat stack of papers sitting on one of the many desks scattered throughout and retrieve it, putting it into your bag. For a moment you consider how to approach Wesker for the journal, despite being pretty certain he left it back home. Nothing involving him ever plays out the way you want it to in your head, so you start for the S.T.A.R.S office with no plan in mind. Slipping out of the conference room and into the quiet hallway, you head up to the second floor. The S.T.A.R.S. office door comes into view and you push it open.

The only person you recognize is Jill, busily scribbling something down at her desk. You’ve never seen the other two men before. One of them sits slouched at his own station, clearly battling the urge to nod off. He has short brown hair with matching eyes, wearing a distinctive red tactical vest over a dark shirt, the S.T.A.R.S. insignia stitched on the sleeve. His expression is serious but calm. Regardless of how he looks, a stranger is still a stranger and you can't help but feel a little intimidated.

The other man is hunched over the printer, gripping it like he’s ready to wrestle it into submission. His frame is imposingly built, decent muscles and wide shoulders. An impressive physique. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off forearms that look overqualified for office work. Over his shirt is a green, military-style vest. His hair is short and stiff, also brown. It's hard to see much else with him battling the outdated printer. “Damn this hunk of trash!”

Jill takes notice of you and stands almost immediately after pushing her chair away from the desk, looking for a reason to ditch the tedious work. She places her hands on her hips. “If it isn’t Tornado Tom.” Her words are enough to catch the attention of the two men, both stopping what they are doing to look over at you.

If that lazy nickname is thrown around one more time, you don’t know if you’ll be able to control your temper. “Hey, Jill.”

The man by the printer completely detaches himself from the junk of plastic. He doesn’t try to hide the way he scans your entire frame. Despite the two pairs of unfamiliar eyes glaring at you with conspicuous scrutiny, your posture holds the same assertion it always does when meeting strangers.

Finally, the man by the printer speaks up. “No way, that’s Tornado Tom?” He refers to you as if you aren’t even there, pointing rudely with his thumb. He is more interested in what Jill’s response will be. To your surprise, she only holds her eye contact with you, knowing well that you can answer for yourself.

You clear your throat, introducing yourself. The man sitting by his desk is slightly more awake now. “And you’re Printer Paul?” You cross your arms, raising a brow. For a moment there is silence, and you fear the joke completely missed all three of them. Much to your relief, Jill breaks out in laughter, a nice sound to fill the otherwise boring, quiet office.

“I told you she was a catch, Chris.” Jill swivels her chair to face him.

He raises both arms up in mock surrender. “Alright, my bad.” Chris walks over to you, practically striding. He extends his hand and you take it, met with a firm handshake. It's enough to make your ribs hurt. “But yeah, I’m Chris Redfield. This guy over here is Barry.”

Barry waves, “Don’t mind Chris,” his words urge you to smile.

“Chris and Barry, okay,” you say, with an unspoken promise to try and remember both names. “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet you two sooner. I tried seeing everyone on my first day but I made it up here a bit too late.” Normally, meeting new people doesn’t faze you, but this time you’re not so sure. You have no idea what Chris and Barry might’ve heard. Judging by the nickname that’s been making rounds, it’s clear plenty of people at the RPD have had their fun with the rumors surrounding you. Wesker isn't the type to gossip, so you don’t hold him suspect as the source. “So, what exactly has Jill told you?” You peak over Chris’ shoulder, only to see Jill smiling innocently.

“Oh, nothing much, Tornado,” Chris says. “Just that we’ve got a walking Category 5 hurricane replacing Eli.”

Jill doesn’t defend you. She just sips her coffee, watching how you’ll handle it. You wince slightly. Of course the club incident gets referenced again, why wouldn’t it.

“I wasn’t trying to make a scene, or get my ass kicked,” you reply, a little too defensive even for your own liking. “It sort of just happened.”

Chris moves by Barry to lean on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. “You meant to get blackout drunk and confront a dangerous criminal with no prior experience in combat?” He’s smiling, but you can tell it isn’t all entirely a joke.

You don’t flinch, though it’s an effort. “I wasn’t blackout. I remember it all just fine, regrettably.”

“Doing all that with somewhat of a clear mind? Even worse,” Chris retorts easily.

You glance over to Wesker’s office, the door ajar. While Jill scolds Chris, you head into the office. Although seeing the door open made it clear he wasn’t there, the sight of his empty desk chair makes your heart twinge with a feeling you will never admit to. Your bag feels heavier with the stack of papers inside, so you set it down carefully on one of the two visitor chairs facing the desk. When you return to the main area of the office, Chris and Jill have just finished their witty exchange. They both look at you again.

Chris is already opening his mouth, ready to throw another jab your way, but you cut him off mid breath. “You get one more judgment about my life disguised as a question. Any more than that and I’m gonna sock you right in the eye,” you say, your voice low, refusing to be tormented with his lazy digs any longer.

Anyone with the most basic sense of social cues would have apologized right there, but Chris gladly takes you up on your offer of one more question. “About you and our lovely captain,” he says, smiling almost childishly, “I know he’s the one who pulled you out after your investigative endeavour, but what’s been up after that? Boutros told me he caught you running up to the office the other day to supposedly bust his ass.”

Barry snorts into his coffee. “That’s one way to put it.”

Chris ignores him. “He really carried you out of that alley like a knight in shining armor. Then camped out at the hospital like your personal guard dog.”

You smile a little despite feeling absolutely humiliated, hopefully your face isn’t turning red, it's hard to tell. “Wow, you’re better at investigating than I am. You should have been the one to replace Eli.”

Chris tilts his head slightly. “Investigate? I didn’t have to. Half the station was quacking about it. I ate a breakfast bagel to the news.”

Jill’s shaking her head, grinning. “You’re worse than Boutros, Chris.”

“What? I just find it interesting,” Chris says, clearly enjoying himself now. “Most people Wesker saves don’t get private hospital visits.”

You look off to the side, finding it hard to keep eye contact with Chris now. “Not my fault I’m memorable.”

“Oh, you’re something,” Barry now says with a chuckle. “Rolling in, storming unprepared to the scene of a difficult case, breaking your ribs and being carried out by Captain Wesker, who somehow isn’t annoyed with you to hell and back. And still having the balls after all that to show up and see him in his office. That’s why you’re here, right?”

You sigh, not entertaining them any further. “I am. And where is he, anyway?”

“Stepped out to take care of some business. If he actually told us where he was going for once, the world must be ending,” Jill says with a smile.

“Okay,” it’s hard to not sound concerned, and you have no clue why it even bothers you. He could be taking a piss, or anything, really. Still, your chest tightens like some lovesick teenager, and you hate how ridiculous it feels.

“So, are you gonna take us up on the offer for some drinks?” Jill crosses her arms. All of her movements are so confident, it's an aspect you come to admire.

Before you can reply, Chris butts in with his two cents. “Man, I just want to see this Tornado Tom in action. Don’t you, Barry?”

Barry replies in a low huff, involved with the work on his desk now.

“I guess I can’t say no to an opportunity to show this asshole,” you jab a thumb in Chris’ direction, “that I’m not a lightweight.”

Chris laughs, “said every fresh college grad ever.”

It takes you a moment to process what he is trying to say, and even longer to register that he is referring to you. A fresh college graduate? You can’t discern if that’s a lazy attempt at flirting, or if you really look that young. Regardless, you speak before reaching a conclusion, “I’m twenty-seven,” you say, flatly. “Twenty-eight next week.”

Chris blinks, “seriously?” He does a horrible job at hiding his expression, and you can see every emotion run through his face as he tries to recover. “Well even better, we get to drink to you.”

“I hope you know the flattery isn’t gonna make me forget about Tornado Tom,” you say, narrowing your eyes at Chris playfully, and he seems relieved that you don’t seem to dwell on his words.

Jill adjusts in her chair. “So, where are we going to celebrate this grand twenty-eight birthday?”

Before anyone can answer, the office door clicks open. Jill and Chris both immediately focus their attention at the noise, watching Wesker step inside. He doesn’t say a word, just stops briefly, eyes locking with yours for an uncomfortable moment. You give him a small smile and wave. He seems to consider your greeting, but barely seems to register it, like you’d just handed him an invite to a sick children’s charity event, and he tore it up in front of you without a second thought. Nothing, he only gives Chris, Jill and Barry a nod. Without another sound, he turns and slips into his own private office, closing the door softly behind him.

The room falls into a sudden hush until Jill breaks the silence. “We’ll go somewhere loud, I’m sure Chris can figure out the details.” She looks down at her desk now, all sense of comfort deserting her face. It's as though Wesker’s presence snapped her back into a monotonous but productive cycle of working. Chris winks at you and returns to the printer, ready to have another round at it.

“Now's your chance,” Barry says quietly.

You nod, but your mind is completely elsewhere. The feeling left from his careless dismissal leaves a sharp burn in your chest. It's fine, he isn’t all sunshine and rainbows, but to act as though you were invisible? Like he’d just witnessed a ghost in the room and kept his composure so others wouldn’t notice his discovery?

Perhaps the worst part is that you can’t say anything to him. At the end of the day, he isn’t your boyfriend. You can hardly consider him a friend, more like a cold acquaintance. You want more than anything for it to be more than this. Even a one night stand will do it for you, anything to be involved with him. You know it’s probably hopeless, and it could completely destroy your life (what’s left of it, at least). But you can’t stop, you absolutely love the feeling of hopelessness and the high you get from chasing this. It’s more tempting than the conception of fixing yourself.

This is why I don’t stay sober too long, I’m actually fucking losing it. You run a hand through your hair and walk to his office door, taking a deep breath before allowing yourself inside.

He seems to have just settled into his chair, sorting through some files on his desk. As infuriatingly usual, he doesn’t look at you when you enter his office. With every new interaction, it feels like you’re back at square one, like none of the moments with him before exist.

Like he has just read your sour thoughts, Wesker meets your eyes finally. “Chief Irons extended your leave by another week, in case you missed it.”

Yes, you hear what he says, but you read it as: ‘You’re a cute puppy, but I don’t have the time to play fetch with you right now’.

“He let me come by to pick up some more work. I just needed some time outside of that apartment, really.” You move towards the guest chairs, sitting on the seat next to the one your work bag is placed on. “I wanted to say hi,” you admit.

Again, its hard to read his persicse expression with those stupid fucking sunglasses, but you can tell his look softens just a tiny bit. “How do you feel?”

“I don’t know,” the thought of becoming vulnerable in the moment horrifies you, keeping you from saying anything else on the matter of feelings. “Actually, I didn't come entirely empty handed.”

Wesker watches you with such a degree of focus that you find it hard to not be nervous about your findings.

“When I was with Amber a couple days back, she mentioned an earlier version of Eli’s missing posters. They included his ex’s phone number as one of the possible contacts if anyone had information, but his parents hate his ex so much that they made Amber remove the number from the newer versions of the poster. If I could just find one of the older posters, I can get her contact info.”

He considers your words with more thought than you assume you could ever put into them. You observe his features as if trying to decipher an alien language, desperately wanting to know what he thinks. But he remains maddeningly unreadable, and you hate how badly you want to understand what’s going on behind those damn sunglasses. Finally, he speaks. “Clever girl. As soon as you get a hold of her, arrange a meeting. If she is cautious, invite her here in my office. It should hold enough weight to make her take you seriously.”

At first you want to elaborate on your plans, but decide his praise is too precious in the moment to ruin it by speaking. “Really? You want me to bring her here? Don’t you think she’ll be curious as to why the S.T.A.R.S department has taken interest in her case?”

Wesker shakes his head. “If she is as desperate for Eli as we think, she’ll meet you anywhere. But if she insists on the department, that alone will be enough to soothe her doubts. Just enough to make her feel safe.” The level of assurance behind every word he says is so affirming, like he is stating the very laws of nature.

“Yeah, that makes sense. I just had one more thing to say– or rather, ask.” Keeping your hands below the desk, you twiddle your thumbs out of uncertainty.

Wesker raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

You realize working on your poker face wouldn’t be a horrible idea, as he picks up on your hesitance without skipping a beat. “Well, I’m guessing you don’t have it here with you now, but Eli’s journal. I want it back.”

His expression remains unreadable behind the dark sunglasses, but you catch the slight forward tilt of his head. “You want Eli’s journal back.” He taps a finger against his desk thoughtfully. You can’t see behind his desk very well, but he retrieves a key from somewhere and unlocks one of the drawer compartments. He reaches a single hand inside and pulls out Eli’s journal, placing it in front of you. “It's yours.”

It's hard to imagine why he brought it with him to the department, and you glance up at him from the notebook with a questioning look. “I’m surprised you brought it here.”

For once, he looks unconcerned. Gosh, he even knows when to not be cold and rigid. He places a single hand over the notebook and deliberately slides it toward you. “You’re too tense about this, and there’s no need to be. Irons is unaware what game we’re playing, you won’t mess this up.”

“But won’t I?” you reply with a small laugh. Your smile fades quickly when you see Wesker doesn’t find it funny. “I won’t mess this up,” you say obediently for the sake of making up for your stupid joke. Taking the notebook, you slip it into your bag and stand. “Thank you,” the use of formality with him hurts, wishing the two of you could be beyond these ridiculous social conventions. You glance at him, maybe for a little too long.

“Is that all?” His interest is beginning to be caught by his paperwork.

Please just say yes and walk away, this was good enough. Don’t do it. “I don’t know if you heard us talking, but next week Jill, Chris, Barry and I are gonna go out for drinks,” you pause, catching his unamused expression, and realize you should say more. “It's my birthday. You should come.”

The tension in your shoulders drops at the sight of the small smirk on his face now. “I know Chris won’t disappoint when it comes to picking a ridiculous bar for the occasion.” He leans forward slightly, voice dropping to a low, captivating tone. “How about I take you somewhere nice next week? It will only be the two of us.”

A sharp wave of pain radiates through your ribs, but you push it aside. “So a date?”

A cold silence passes between the two of you, the anticipation is so dreadful, and you need him to say yes. You can’t look like the idiot in this situation. Wesker simply looks down at his desk, beginning to lift his pen and write. “I suggest you check in with Irons before you leave,” he says evenly, eyes still on the page. “It will look suspicious to stop only by the S.T.A.R.S. office and not speak to him.”

Of course he ignored your question. For the sake of your own dignity, you pretend he didn’t hear it, even though you know better. Wesker misses nothing. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your work bag. You don’t trust your voice not to crack if you speak again. Without another word, you turn back and walk out of his office, doing your best not to let it show how much it stings.

Wesker’s right, it would be strange to leave without stopping by Irons’ office, especially since the files you came to pick up were assigned by him in the first place. Skipping his office will only raise questions, and the last thing you need is Irons sniffing around for an excuse to get suspicious.

Still, going from one morally gray man’s office to the next is socially exhausting. So instead of heading straight there, you detour to the conference room, your unofficial office, the only place in this building that even slightly feels like yours. You close the door behind you and take a quiet breath, letting the silence settle. Even here, you don’t feel entirely alone, almost like Eli’s lingering memory breaths a quiet presence into the conference room. It's as unsettling as it is comforting.

You should feel good. For once, you actually have plans on your birthday that don’t involve sitting in Ms. Hall’s apartment, blowing out candles on a grocery store cake, then going home to spend the rest of the night listening to blues, picking at leftover takeout, and smoking a joint alone in the dark. And yet, somehow, the thought of being around people feels almost as tiring.

The timing is bad, you just don’t feel ready. When you started this job you thought you were prepared to face the world again, but that's the last thing you want to do these days. Although, being stuck at home isn’t doing much for you either, only seeming to drive you more to the edge of madness. Realizing you’re thinking yourself off a cliff again, you reach into your bag and crack open Eli’s journal, flipping to the third entry.

March 5, 1997

The only thing I don’t get is why Irons wears those same, tacky trousers to work everyday if he’s getting paid in (correct me if I’m wrong) thousands every month by our mystery men? Now I know something is up, would an innocent person really use code words during a meeting in a police department? Well, probably not.

I caught snippets of their conversation through what dad’s shitty recorder did manage to pick up. They have a space as glorious as my gigantic office to meet, and they’re still whispering like scared children. You know, the kind of talk that screams “I belong in cuffs!” Umbrella was name dropped, and the company’s relationship with the department has always been fuzzy to me, but that might be a fish far too large for me to fry right now. Alls I know is that Irons is making sweet bank through this mystery business.

I want to know more about Irons. He is clearly involved in something far worse than his fashion sense. Hopefully I won’t be looking back at this entry with my whole life set ablaze behind me, but maybe it's time I ask Captain Smug Blonde Jackass some questions. This will either make or break my case. If he catches on, I’m fucked. He is going to do everything in his power to shove his foot further up my ass (and trust me, it's nice and snug in there already). But, on the off chance that he is as speculative as I am (I only assume this because he lingers around the conference room when the meetings take place sometimes), he might know something.

After I pick up sweet doll from that ridiculous print factory, I’ll drop her off at home. Then it will be just me, a stack of records on Irons and a big bottle of scotch. He better hope his record has no smudges, cause I’ll catch it, even a hawk would shit itself if it saw the precision of these eyes.

As always, E.W.

You hold your breath. Part of you wants to feel exhilarated by the connection you’ve just made, but instead, a wave of dread creeps in. The mention of possible bribery is course changing. Irons was being paid to do something? To not do something? To say something? To hide something? Closing the notebook, you put it back into your bag. You pace throughout the conference room with a hand placed over your mouth, lost in thought.

Eli supposedly heard more evidence pointing to Irons accepting a generous amount of money from these men, it's a small piece in figuring out what exactly his business with them entailed. The mention of Umbrella is something you can’t even fathom, so you tuck away that thought for now. Furthermore, the mention of a sweet doll is undeniably his girlfriend. So that means they were still together when Eli started digging into Irons. And the reference to a print factory? Likely her workplace. Maybe she’s even still employed there. That would be the cherry on top.

It’s all coming together maybe a little too beautifully. Although, one thought irks you. Eli considered approaching Wesker about the matters involving Irons. It's probably nothing, because Wesker never brought it up to you. Your best guess? Eli backed out. Maybe he realized how suspicious it would look, or maybe he didn’t trust Wesker enough to risk it.

“Oh, Eli…” you sigh, voice soft. “You should’ve just gone to Wesker about it.”

It’s not something to dwell on now, your ribs are aching again, and all you want is to wrap up your business in the department for the day and get some rest.

It's hard to see Irons as the same man you once did before you started growing suspicious of him. Regardless, you keep a polite expression while standing on the other side of his desk. “I’m sorry about the fuss over the phone, Chief.”

Irons seems to toss your apology in the trash. “It’s useless now. You’ve already tested my patience enough. A man my age can only handle so many spikes in blood pressure, you should know that.” His hands are placed on his desk, fingers interlaced. “Forget all that for now. The notes you made on what I could review from the previous files were impressive, but there are a few pieces from one specific case in this new stack I want you to focus on.”

“Oh, alright.” You quickly reach into your bag, pulling out the small stack of papers. Holding it over his desk, your eyes glide over the names of each file. “Which one is it–” something falls, hitting the desk with a soft clatter.

You lower the papers and look down, eyes widening. It's Eli’s ID. There is no point in scrambling to pick it up now, when you look at Irons, he’s already seen what it is. Your heart begins to race, feeling the familiar heat of anxiety creeping up. What the fuck are you supposed to say?

It makes no sense, you swore you put the ID into a small compartment of your bag, how did it get mixed up with the files? Did you place it between the papers like an idiot and somehow forget even doing so? No. That’s not right.

It’s fine, you can fix this. You pick up Eli’s ID carefully, mind racing. Before you can say anything, Irons reaches forward and snatches it from your shaky grip.

“Why do you have this?” His voice is more frantic than you expect it to be. “Where did you find it? Do you even know who this is?” Irons looks almost desperate to know.

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

Chapter Text

Whatever “anxiety” you may have thought you experienced in the past felt unreal, like the memory of a first kiss. Distant but so pleasing. Compared to now, it was nothing. Whatever narrative you constructed for Irons under his own panicked gaze, you can hardly even remember. Something about coming across Eli’s ID and deciding to keep it, tucking it away into your bag and forgetting about it. You doubt he fully bought it, because if you were being honest, there would be no reason for tears to be welling in your eyes as you explained.

Perhaps the most frustrating thing is keeping it all to yourself. And though it would be highly logical to tell Wesker, since your whole investigation hinges on transparency between the two of you, it was just too hard. A week has passed since then, and you’ve been building the courage to do it before your “date” with him, so it wouldn’t ruin the night you were somewhat looking forward to. But like most things, you allowed it to slip away so many times with the promise of tomorrow somehow birthing a more courageous version of you, that it never happened. Tonight you are meant to see him. Out of all the days this week, your mind feels at its worst. You couldn’t be less ready. The night you have to put on your best face, you feel terrible.

Ever since you stumbled upon Eli’s journal, today is the first time you don’t let the investigation bother you. Your birthday plans are stressful enough as is, meeting with your new friends at S.T.A.R.S and then Wesker. Ideally, you will make up some excuse to leave the bar early and sneak away to the restaurant he shared the location of. They (Chris), would absolutely tear you to shreds if they found out you and Wesker had dinner together!

But wait, there's more. Did you forget about the alcohol? For how long will you have to sit in front of the mirror this morning and repeat “I will have just two beers”, hoping it sticks? You never expected the very thought of something could make you nauseous, not until it came to admitting you have a problem with how poorly you…handle drinking. The word ‘alcoholic’ just sounds too harsh, you think ‘an enthusiast of finely fermented grains’, is far more classy.

Things need to be spread out evenly, you can’t let the S.T.A.R.S members see how much of a miserable bore you are when sober. But you especially can’t let Wesker catch on that you’re abstaining. One glance at you ignoring the drinks menu, or worse, eyeing the virgin cocktails with too much intent, and he’ll know you’re trying to fix something. And trying to fix something implies that there’s a problem. Namely, your spectacularly dysfunctional relationship with alcohol. Forget Tornado Tom, you’re more of a Cognac Chugging Charlie. It's an absurd thought, but you chuckle to yourself in bed anyway.

Glancing to the left, Eli’s journal rests on the bedside table. No, not today. More important matters call for your attention this morning. What will you wear tonight? What excuse are you going to conjure up at the bar to get away? Will you wear makeup? What if it gets too hot at the bar and you end the night with mascara streaking down your cheeks like a runaway bride? How are you already so damn old? Oh and, will the night end with Wesker having you bent over in an alleyway near the restaurant? So many questions and no answers. Well, except for that last one. Probably not. He seems far too much of a gentleman for an alleyway. But in his car? You don’t put it past him. Given, you aren’t blackout drunk by then.

“By then,” you mutter. What do you mean by ’by then’? It’s not happening, you won’t allow it to. That’s enough. It's your birthday, happy thoughts only!

However, before you start feigning a smile for the rest of the day, you think of checking your dreaded phone and email. Messages from distant family (they’re actually immediate, but it feels pretty fucking distant), forgotten friends and whatever other category the outliers of your life fall into. It’s okay, people always seem to actively suck the very life force out of you, what’s new?

You were expecting a knock on your apartment door before it even happened, but you still flinch at the sound. With a groan you ooze out of bed, pulling a loose band tee from the floor over your tank top. On the brightside, your ribs don’t hurt anymore. You feel like an eighty-year-old whose knees have magically started working again. Besides almost tripping over two separate random objects on the floor, you make it to the front door and open it before the person standing at the other end can knock a second time. It’s Ms. Hall, of course.

“Oh happy birthday, dear!” She exclaims, having way too much energy for the morning.

Although you only held the door slightly ajar, she pushed through it easily, swinging it open so fast that you were forced to jump back in surprise. You barely get to recover, already being forced into an embrace, a bony old lady embrace.

“With all that excitement, it should be your birthday, not mine!” You laugh softly, giving her back an awkward little pat. Even though you’re always whining about how touch starved you are, you can barely handle physical affection when you actually receive it.

When the embrace is over, her expression shifts from joyous to concerned, then a slight guilt pans over her face. “Did I wake you my love?”

“Oh, no…I just–” you’re cut off.

“I did, didn’t I? Oh dear I am so sorry. You deserve to sleep in on your special day,” she clicks her tongue in disapproval. “You’re always working so hard.” She places a sympathetic hand on your shoulder.

Working hard? In what world? Sleeping in? You could win an olympic gold medal for it. Still, you take Ms. Hall’s hand gently and lower it with a smile. “It’s alright, really. I actually slept through my alarm. So if anything, you saved the day.”

She studies your face for a moment, then nods slowly. “I believe you. But I won’t forgive myself unless you come down for breakfast. I made French toast!”

Bread doused in nothing but sugar? Fuck no! “You know I can’t resist your cooking, Ms. Hall,” you say sweetly.

She offers a frail hand, and you take it, letting her lead you down to her apartment. Truly, Ms. Hall treats you better than any man could ever.

You didn’t expect Ms. Hall’s old party dress to flatter your silhouette so well, but one look in the mirror earlier left you ecstatic to wear it out tonight. When you told her you finally had real plans for your birthday, she was delighted on your behalf, and more than happy to lend you something special. The black dress isn’t too out there, with long, sheer sleeves that add a touch of elegance. Still, it offers a wink at whoever may eye you tonight, the neckline dipping low enough to let a hint of cleavage show.

As much as you like the minidress, it feels horribly uncomfortable for an hour-long drive. The club Chris picked out is unfamiliar to you, shocking really, considering how far and wide you’ve travelled across Raccoon City in search for a good drink in the past. At the next red light, you take the opportunity to adjust your black pantyhose and kick off the black, three inch heels.

Yeesh, you only now realize that you’re adorned for a funeral. At least the outfit is sexy, you think. Who in their right mind would want to look hot while grieving? Anyway, you wish all black wasn’t always drawn back to funerals, it's a waste of a good color.

Despite the drive being a bit too long for your taste, it’s fairly close to the restaurant Wesker chose. Meaning you won’t have to leave the bar in a massive rush, but still, early enough to know Chris is going to call you a bore. Speaking of Chris, you recall how casually he brought Eli’s name up last week. Surely he knows Eli went missing. Of course he does, it made pretty big news. But why look so casual at the mention of his name?

Ronnie, the woman who interviewed you for your job, Boutros, and even Wesker, all seemed off put by his name being mentioned. Forget promising to not do any investigative work today, if Chris gets drunk enough, maybe you’ll slip a mention of Eli in there somewhere during a conversation. He seems like the type to pour his heart out after maybe five or so beers. Barry and Jill on the other hand, probably not.

You wonder if Wesker intentionally made a reservation for 8:30PM, knowing you already have plans with the other S.T.A.R.S members on the same day. Maybe not, it's most likely due to it being your birthday. Although, he offered to take you out right after you let him know you had plans.

You initially didn’t intend on letting him find out that you were already with others before showing up to the restaurant. But if you keep quiet, he’ll likely assume you bailed on them to be with him. And knowing Wesker, the smug ass would probably love that, the thought of you ditching everyone else just to be by his side.

Whatever, you don’t care. You actually prefer to be with the others over him. What will you even talk about over dinner? If it has anything to do with the investigation, you might actually end up falling asleep on top of your plate of pasta. Regardless of knowing about your plans, 8:30 seems pretty late to have dinner, especially for a man like him.

Maybe the restaurant is just that pompous and fancy, that it’s the only slot they had available for reservation. Something about overpriced cocktails doesn’t intrigue you. At least you can enjoy some cheap booze before heading to whatever grandiose establishment Wesker has selected.

The thought of cheap booze completely deserts you as you roll up to perhaps one of the most sophisticated, high-end bars you’ve ever seen. ’What the fuck,’ you silently mouth.Even worse, there’s like, three valet attendants standing near the entrance. They all wear tuxedos.

Suddenly you look down at your cup holder, which has become a makeshift ashtray over the years. You frown. No way in hell are you giving any of them the displeasure of parking your hunk of junk car, so you opt for the convenience store parking not too far down the road.

An attendant in a fancy suit holds open one heavy glass door, welcoming you in. The first thing you take notice of is the crowd. They are predominantly young, more polished looking folk. Even the music is live, an upbeat jazz band playing swing. There is not a single pause in the air with constant, lively conversations. You look up at the sparkling chandeliers, feeling a bit more comfortable with the softer lighting they emit. Even the bartenders look like objects of perfection, each moving with the confidence of a peacock.

Across the overall interior, there are booths and a few small standing tables scattered around. Toward the back is the small stage, with the very long bar to its right. You just stand near the entrance for a moment before hearing a familiar voice call out your name. It’s Jill, waving a raised arm at you. With her are Chris and Barry. “Hey! Join us!”

Making your way over to the table they are standing near, you smile. “I’m not late, am I?”

“Not at all,” Barry says. “We got here just now ourselves.” He eyes the drinks menu carefully.

Jill, looking as beautiful as ever in a blue, spaghetti strap satin dress, nods. “Yeah, just now. It would have been a lot sooner if someone had just valeted the car.” She shoots an accusatory glance in Chris’ direction.

Chris sets the menu in his hands down. “Nuh-uh, not happening. It’s a brand new Lexus. You have to think more like a criminal, Jill. The back lot of a luxury venue is a goldmine for those people,” he replies defensively.

Jill ignores him, meeting your eyes again. “He said brand new Lexus, in case you missed it. But don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll bring it up a dozen more times tonight.” Her words cause Barry to laugh.

You tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear, enjoying their company already. “You all came here together?”

While Chris and Jill speak to a server, ordering drinks, Barry answers. “Chris just couldn’t wait to show us his brand new car, so he picked up and drove us.” He hands you the menu. “Know what you want?”

God, these prices are absolutely disgusting. Regardless, you manage to settle. “I guess a lambic would be a good start.” Your sentence comes out more like a question.

“Huh,” Barry says simply. “I didn’t take you for a sour ale type woman. Good choice.” The same server approaches him and he orders for the two of you.

A lambic. Really? You genuinely have no idea what you’ve ordered. It’s a sour ale, apparently. What the hell even is that? You felt stupid with Barry just watching you, so you named the first thing your eyes landed on. Whatever, hopefully the alcohol content isn’t too high. You have dinner with Wesker soon, afterall. Jill speaks suddenly, cutting through your thoughts.

“You look nice, by the way,” she smiles.

Chris nods in agreement with Jill’s comment. “Do you like this place? I had a feeling you would.”

Maybe you’d like it more if you had a million bucks. Sadly, you’re dirt broke. Still, the atmosphere is comforting, even if the crowd makes you feel outclassed in every imaginable way. But with a fancy dress and confident posture, you manage to fit right in. “It’s really fancy. I thought we’d be going somewhere more…simple?”

Chris smiles, as if he had been waiting for you to say those exact words. “Well guess what, ‘simple’ places don’t provide their own chauffeur services.” He crosses his arms proudly, as if waiting for you to call him a genius.

That offers little comfort, knowing you'll be too drunk to drive home safely by the time your dinner with Wesker ends. The server returns with four drinks, Jill and Chris both went for craft beer, while Barry ordered the same as you.

“Real smart, Chris,” Jill retorts, taking her first sip. “Refuse the valet service and make the poor chauffeur suffer through the awkward walk with us to the car.”

“Hold on, how’s the chauffeur supposed to get back to the bar after dropping you all off in Chris’ car?" You tilt your head, brows raised.

Chris and Jill glance at one another, and she gives him a dirty look. “You really are a dunce, Chris,” she mutters.

Barry bursts into laughter, doubling over as he wipes a joyous tear from his eye.

“Well,” Chris sighs. “I guess my car will be spending the night here.”

Your first taste of the lambic comes with great hesitance, and rightfully so. The flavor hits you like a truck, especially since the last thing that graced your tongue was Ms. Hall’s French toast.

Barry shakes his head in disapproval. “Come on you two, we were meant to do a toast!”

“Oops,” you giggle.

Chris doesn’t seem to mind, raising his pint, so Jill does the same. You and Barry then follow. “Here’s to Tornado Tom’s twenty-eighth!” Chris exclaims.

“To your twenty-eighth,” Jill and Barry echo in unison, clinking their glasses with yours.

For once, your brain goes quiet. You bask in the innocence of the moment and savour the purity of every emotion experienced. No quiet, anxious voice, no feeling of dread to suddenly clutch your heart, it’s all okay just for this one still moment. You aren’t alone.

Two hours pass by easily, more so than you thought they would. The four of you have sailed through conversation with careless humor and ridiculous stories. Barry in particular, having his fair share of jaw dropping narratives. The table's surface is almost entirely covered with empty glasses, and a server finally comes by to clear up some space. Your side only has three glasses, surprisingly. Abstaining came easier than you'd anticipated. Slow, tiny sips and the constant conversation had a way of doing that.

Jill leans her head back, stretching her neck with a soft hum. “Excuse me, restroom.” She doesn’t wait for any response, walking away. You take notice of the slight drunk stagger in her step.

“Don’t get lost!” Chris calls out, maybe a bit too loud, judging by the heads that turn from nearby tables.

Barry places an empty glass down, making it his eighth drink of the night. “Same here.” He walks off after Jill.

Your eyes linger on the table, well aware that a drunk Chris is eyeing you, just waiting for you to look up. Though it’s hard to think while he’s watching you, this could be your chance to ask about Eli. He seems to catch on to the fact that you’re avoiding eye contact purposefully, making room to speak anyway.

“So, what else did this birthday have in store for you?” He asks, voice a lot slower and relaxed.

It’s a dreaded question, but Chris’ opinion of you doesn’t sit high on your own priority list anyway. “Well, nothing. I never really have plans for birthdays. Usually I try to avoid being sentimental and sail through the day just like any other.”

“Huh,” he replies. You can sense a hint of surprise in his response. “Don’t get around much, do you?”

“Not always, no,” you shrug. Chris stops there, despite being drunk, he seemingly understands your disinterest in the topic. It’s reasonable, you turn your life over your head enough times in private, it’s not exactly something you find joy in dissecting during casual conversation. “Say, can I ask you something?”

Chris takes a final gulp from the bottle in his hand, slamming it down onto the table. All the glasses jump for a split second, making you flinch slightly. “Shoot.”

“I guess it’s pretty random, but I came across Eli Wilke’s ID when I was settling into the conference room. I got curious and looked him up later that day, you know, to see what kind of shoes I’d be filling. Did he really just disappear?” Only having had three drinks, your senses are sharp enough to select your words carefully. Chris on the other hand, is wobbling all over like a tube man.

He tries to read your face as you feign a clueless and innocent expression. “What you read is as much as I can tell you. We never worked together, and it took me two days to even notice I hadn’t seen him around. He just sort of vanished, poof.”

Chris isn’t trying to scare you on purpose, but you feel a chill go down your spine at his words. A person just gone so suddenly without a trace, it’s eerie to say the least.

He continues, “Boutros was the first to notice, since he signs everyone in and all.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, teetering nervously now. “Okay I’ll admit, I even did some searching of my own. I’m surprised S.T.A.R.S wasn’t asked to be involved in the search for him at all, so I took some initiative. Though I never really cared for the guy, and his non-sequiturs always pissed me off, something just wasn’t right. And I don’t mean that because he went missing, of course that’s strange. You’re a smart woman, pretty sure I’m not the first person you’ve asked,” he smiles. “Haven’t you noticed an odd feeling wash over you when you talk to others about it?”

Your eyes widen a little, and you nod slowly. It takes you by some surprise, Chris has some of it worked out as well, and it’s a relief that you are not the only speculative one here. “You looked for Eli?”

Chris wipes his mouth. “Sure I did. Swung by his apartment with Jill, and when we didn’t find him there, I even went to the factory down at Robin Street where his ex worked, she was as clueless as me though. That dude has always been a weirdo, but he seemed noticeably on edge two weeks prior to going missing.”

The print factory is on Robin Street, you can hardly believe how easily you found the information. You try not to react too visibly, masking the rush of excitement with a casual nod, but you can barely contain yourself. Now that’s a clue. You keep your tone light as you lean forward just slightly. “What about those random meetings? The ones Wesker used to... linger around outside of?”

You test the waters, hoping Chris’ drunkenness will allow him to continue feeding you valuable info.

Only, Chris stiffens. You notice the shift in his demeanour within seconds, holding your breath. Shit, it may or may not have been an overstep.

“What meetings?” His voice lowers, suddenly clear and stern, the haze of alcohol that controlled his every reaction moments ago is gone. “Wesker was involved in what meetings?”

He straightens up, no longer swaying. His eyes scan you like he’s trying to figure out your intentions.

You begin to nervously play with your hair, and it’s far too noticeable. “Sorry, I’m drunk,” you blurt out. “I worded it oddly—I mean I heard that from someone! Wesker’s involvement, I mean. Not that he was involved. I don’t know anything about the matter—actually—,” you stammer, having no clue what to say to make the sudden suspicion behind Chris’ eyes die down.

He leans forward, his posture going from casual to alert. “Who told you that?” he asks, voice low.

“No one important,” you match his seriousness in an attempt to gain some control over the situation. “You said it yourself, I did ask around. It’s a simple rumor, something about meetings. I hardly remember.”

Chris doesn’t say anything. He’s sobered fast, and the weight of his stare is unbearable. If only you could shake off being drunk that quickly, sheesh. He almost jumps when Jill appears from behind, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m back! Miss me–” she notices the mood shift. Her eyes flick between you and Chris, taking in the tension etched across both your faces. “Yikes. What happened? Did you two see a ghost or something?”

You sigh softly, reaching for your purse and slipping the strap over your shoulder. “I’m sorry, I just remembered I actually had other plans tonight. I should get going.” You offer a small, apologetic smile. “Thank you both for everything. And please tell Barry I said bye.”

“Wait, what?” Chris says suddenly, snapped out of the daze of his own thoughts. Jill herself looks too taken aback to protest.

Their surprise buys you just enough time. You reach into your purse and quickly slip a fifty onto the table. It’s more than enough, but you don’t have time to sift through the cash in your purse. You walk away promptly, leaving the bar.

Great, you’ve completely fucked it. Only one good thing came out of it, your chances of finding Eli’s ex are a lot higher. When the glass doors close behind you, the cool night air hits your neck. It’s a nice feeling, but you’re still on the verge of a panic attack. You can only hope that Chris doesn’t tell Jill, but how else would he explain you leaving like that? You drag a trembling hand through your hair, trying to steady yourself.

Not wanting to stand in the way of the entrance, you move near the sidewalk, leaning against the nearest streetlamp. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to force your thoughts into order. Another drink would really help cool your nerves, but you can’t be a mess by the time you make it to Wesker. And you realize there is no other time except tonight to tell him about your two slip ups. If Chris tells Jill, Barry will find out as well. The look on Chris’ face when you mentioned Wesker is essentially a guarantee that he will approach him on the matter. You can already imagine the expression of rage on Wesker’s face when he confronts you.

You wipe a tear that’s running down your cheek, knowing your makeup is probably a disaster by now. When your blurry vision clears, you look up to see a man in a tux approaching you with a well-meaning smile. Great. He notices your red face, but doesn’t seem too concerned. He probably just sees it as another drunk mess, which is true.

“Hey there,” he says gently, stopping a few feet away. “Can we offer you a ride?”

You clear your throat, voice raw. Wiping your nose with a sleeve, you manage a shaky nod. “Yeah… yeah, that’d be great.” Looks like your car will be getting ticketed tonight.

When the chauffeur pulls up in front of a massive restaurant crowned with a glowing neon sign that reads “The Mint”, surprise doesn’t quite hit, just a sense of confirmation. Of course Wesker chose this place. Your eyes move to the dashboard, five minutes early. The sign is sort of pleasing to stare at, you like the neon green. The color washes over your face as the driver pulls up to the front parking lot.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say.

He puts the car into park and your eyes meet in the rearview mirror. “My pleasure. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

Once you step out of the car, your feet begin to hurt again. You can’t say you’re a fan of standing tables, wishing Chris had opted to sit at a booth rather than one of those pesky fancy things. It was a bar for rich people, why should they have to stand? Logically speaking, lower end bars should remove all the seats and force all the broke people to stand. You sigh at your own train of thought, half amused. The two massive front doors loom ahead, imposing. You approach them and enter.

You aren’t sure whether or not to call Wesker, all you have is a time and place, no plans on how to find him. As you approach the hostess, she greets you.

“Hi there, do you have a reservation?” She picks her clipboard up.

You don’t know why, but the atmosphere makes you feel nervous. You open your mouth, unsure what to say, “I do, it’s just that—”

A firm hand lands on your shoulder from behind.

Of course, a familiar voice follows. It’s as low and serious as every other time, why would it change? The same voice you can’t get enough of, that comforts you yet keeps you on your toes.

“The reservation is for 8:30. Under the name Wesker.”

The hostess nods, writing something down before placing the clipboard on the small station in front of her. “Of course, please follow me right this way.” She leads deeper into the restaurant.

When you glance back at Wesker, you try to smile, but nothing comes of it. You’ve barely recovered from the bar, hoping it isn’t too obvious from your face. He removes his hand from your shoulder, and smiles. Although the sight of him is pleasing, you’re astonished at the fact that he is wearing sunglasses. At this point, you’ve forgotten the color of his eyes. It’s like being a stranger only gives you the privilege to see his eyes, that’s why he wasn’t wearing them when you met. Regardless, it makes no sense.

“Happy birthday,” he grins. It’s enough to make a genuine smile curl on your lips. Together, you follow the hostess through the restaurant, letting her guide you to your table and seat you.

The restaurant's beauty is ravishing, it’s somehow more upscale than the bar. That place seemed a lot more showy, dependent on the giant chandeliers and fancy countertops. The Mint, however, portrays class effortlessly. Even the crowd looks more mature somehow. You realize you’re looking around like someone stepping into civilization after decades in solitary confinement. Meeting Wesker’s steady gaze, you give a small smile. He’s been watching you this entire time.

Wesker doesn't really let awkward silence linger, always having something perfect to say at any given moment. “You look lovely tonight.”

You struggle to hold eye contact now, eyes drifting downward to his hands, they are neatly folded, resting on the egg shell colored tablecloth. "Thank you." You almost confess that Ms. Hall lent you the dress and helped with your makeup, but catch yourself, deciding that it’s better to let him believe you look this good effortlessly. “This restaurant is really nice, thanks for bringing me here.” It’s real nice, and I can’t wait to ruin the night by telling you how I fucked up, you think.

“Tell me, were you with Chris and the others before this?” He asks.

“I was, and I still wish you’d have joined. The bar was pretty fancy, enough to suit your tastes, I’m sure,” you tease. It’s better to ease into conversation before you bring the serious stuff up, just to avoid him blowing up on you. You have a feeling that if you’re good, maybe he’ll go easier on you. You lift the drinks menu, trying not to look like you’re stalling, your eyes skimming past the usual fancy garbage. Then you freeze. “Popcorn Smirnoff?” you say with a laugh, angling the menu so he can see. “Are you seeing this? That sounds disgusting.”

He looks amused, more so with your behaviour. It’s that patronizing kind of look, like someone watching a puppy bark for the first time. “I can’t imagine what kind of character would find popcorn flavoured vodka a tasteful choice.”

You laugh again, glad that he agrees. When your waiter approaches, Wesker nods at you to order first.

The oysters arrive first, laid out beautifully on crushed ice with lemon wedges. Wesker lifts one with the precision of a man who’s made a habit out of eating those things, tilts it back, and sets the empty shell down. You can’t tell if he actually enjoys the food, or if it's just part of keeping up appearances.

You decide not to touch the oysters for now, they look far too intimidating.

“So,” you begin, cutting into your salmon carefully. “How come you’d rather this than be with the others? I can’t imagine the idea of dinner and small talk intrigues you.”

Even though he doesn’t bother to look at you half the time you speak, you really do feel heard by Wesker, no matter what you say. The weight of your words actually carry weight. In fact, maybe he considers everything you say maybe a little too much.

“Those three are always out drinking together. Even if what they chose tonight is a step above a local bar, wouldn’t you prefer something more reserved for your special day?” He lifts up another oyster.

You think for a moment, does he really care if your birthday feels reserved or not? Days like these probably seem pointless to a man like him, not unless it’s benefitting him in some way. Although, maybe you’re judging him too harshly. “Gosh, don’t call it my ‘special day’, it makes me feel like I’m five years old,” you giggle. “But sure, this is definitely more exclusive.” As you watch him down another oyster, you build the courage to ask once again. “Is this a date, Wesker?” Your voice comes out a lot smaller than you intend.

He is clearly taking joy in killing you with how he always pulls away, you can tell from the look on his face. “That’s the second time you’ve asked. My answer really matters to you, doesn’t it?” There’s some amusement there.

You don’t say anything. You asked a question first, and there’s no way he’s getting to dodge it now, not without giving you an answer. Your gaze sharpens, it’s a silent challenge, I won’t speak again until you do.

For a long moment, there’s silence between you two, the soft classical music and polite discussion fills the air. Finally, he speaks. “You don’t let these things go, do you? You can call it an opportunity for me to get to know you better.” Wesker sounds almost disappointed.

It’s hard to believe him entirely, but he also isn’t the type to hide his intentions out of fear of getting judged. “Get to know me better? I’m sorry but that’s laughable. It should be the other way around.”

Wesker leans forward, interlacing his fingers on the table. “Go ahead, then. Tell me why I’m here.”

You hold his gaze easily now, unbothered. You smirk, “I think you want to have sex with me. But that wouldn’t be a very gentleman-like thing to openly ask, would it?”

For a moment, Wesker’s expression doesn’t shift. Although, his calm look seems like more of a mask than anything now. Finally, he returns with a wry smile. “You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he says simply, “so I won’t spoil your fun by answering that.”

“God, you’re so fucking cryptic,” you can’t help but laugh now.

“You’re still here, does that mean you’re waiting for it to happen?” He pushes you one last time before taking a sip of his white wine.

You finish chewing before answering, “I have no clue what you’re on about.”

Wesker has an odd way of flirting, or maybe he has been dead serious the entire dinner and you were delusional enough to take everything he said with a hint of romance. It might be the alcohol, sure, but the entire conversation has felt like a game of veiled advances, each word balanced just on the edge of something else.

He’s already taken care of the bill, and you aren’t surprised how small your appetite has been tonight. You don’t really like white wine, but decided to share a bottle with him anyway, not wanting it to go to waste. You don’t really try to hide it, having complained about the taste at least twice now.

“Thanks for this, Wesker. It’s been really nice.” At first you stop, but decide to say more, knowing his distaste for small talk is as great as yours, “it wasn’t what I expected.” A sudden rush of anxiety washes over you, you’re in too deep. It’s hard to shake off, and you take the final bite of your salmon in an attempt to ignore it.

Wesker stands up, lifting his coat off the chair and pulling it on. “I would ask what exactly those expectations were, but I’m more interested in what your hopes are.”

You take a brief moment to admire him. Even the way he adjusts his collar is hot. Every movement is effortless, and fine, you guess the sunglasses work. So lost in thought, you feel painfully embarrassed to be caught looking so keenly. Wesker doesn’t comment on it, just looking down at you. “Shall we?”

“Yeah,” you stand.

As the restaurant doors close from behind, you close your eyes and take a deep breath, listening to the distant crickets chirping away. You liked the restaurant, but the night air is amazing after feeling so suffocated in there. It feels surprisingly serene standing out here with Wesker, one of the rare moments with him where his judgement doesn’t make it hard to breathe. When you open your eyes you see him scanning the parking lot, presumably in search of your car. It’s considerably less crowded now than when you arrived. Not able to find it, he finally looks over at you. “Let’s get you home.”

You nod, following Wesker to his car. It’s as sleek, black and shiny as you remember it, parked skillfully between two others. He walks to the passenger side first and holds open the door for you.

You don’t get inside immediately, looking at him as he still holds the door. “You know, this is kinda how I was hoping that night we first met would have ended.”

At first you expect him to grow annoyed with the wishy-washy emotional nonsense, but his expression softens, you can tell by the way his lips now settle on his face.

“I know,” he says, letting the door stay open and moving closer to you. “You aren’t the type to indulge in brief affairs with strangers.” He takes your right hand and brings it up to his lips, landing a gentle kiss on your knuckles. Is this his way of apologizing?

You can’t help but watch, falling into that familiar trance he always manages to drag you into by the way he moves. “I’m glad I didn’t have to say it myself.” Reaching your other hand up, you caress his cheek, maybe this is your way of forgiving him.

Wesker lowers your hand and holds his own up to cover the one you have placed on his cheek, bringing it down. You think he found the action to be too endearing, but then he leans closer to your face. For once, you’re glad you aren’t drunk, the moment is so precious and it’s not something you want to slip away like a melancholic dream.

You close your eyes, feeling his lips on yours shortly after. It feels so fulfilling, and you return his kiss with your own fierce enthusiasm, deepening it. The occasional cool, night breeze passing by keeps you from getting too hot. You feel his hand press on the back of your head, fingers entangling in your hair as he grips the strands. It’s a surprisingly aggressive motion, but you don’t mind it. There’s something possessive about it, making you fall even harder. The way your bodies are pressed together as you makeout makes you wish this wasn’t happening in a parking lot.

You don’t know how long the kiss lasts, but when he finally pulls back, you feel like it wasn’t long enough. His forehead rests against yours. He’s so involved in watching the way your breaths labor, and you can see how much he enjoys it. You take the chance to reach up once more, carefully taking his sunglasses off. Wesker huffs, taking them from you and placing them into his coat pocket. His eyes find yours in the dim light. You can finally look into them, admire them again. He looks so much more human now, yet no less intimidating.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, gentle now, a stark contrast to the way he held your hair moments ago. He trails it from your cheek to your lips. The tenderness makes your chest ache, and he slightly moves away at that moment. That’s as far as you can go out here. A light, airy sigh escapes you, mostly out of exhaustion. You step into the car.

When you’re comfortably seated, you glance up at him and smile, “not gonna ask for my bag this time?”

Wesker smirks, “funny girl.” He closes the door and heads to the driver's side.

The ride to your apartment is quiet. It’s peaceful, rather than an uncomfortable silence. The soft hum of the car engine and the occasional passing streetlight casting patterns on your face is enough to make you sleepy. The warmth from the earlier moment still clings to your skin, like the ghost of his kiss remains.

Wesker doesn’t speak, one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed in his lap. He looks so much better without those sunglasses, and you are pleased to see he hasn’t put them back on. His demeanor is softer than usual. He knows you’re watching him, and doesn’t seem to mind it.

The crisp air carried in through the crack of your window makes the scent of his cologne dance around your nose. You let your head rest back against the seat, watching familiar buildings pass by. In all honesty, it’s impossible to enjoy the moment, you know what you have to do. Your chest tightens every time you try and think of how you’re going to tell him, and it begins to hurt when you imagine how he might react.

Eventually your place rolls into view, and it feels way too soon. He turns the car to be closer to the curb, parking. The moment is straight out of a nightmare, a nightmare you had an entire week to prepare for. And like an idiot, you kept prolonging things until the very last moment. Wesker looks over at you, waiting for you to meet his gaze. You stare forward a couple seconds longer before undoing your seatbelt and finally turning to face him.

Now that you can really read his emotions, you can tell he knows something is up just from the look in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, knowing you will tell him by the way you stare.

“Tell me what's wrong,” he gently pushes you with his words.

You want to make him promise you that he won’t hate you after this, but everything just gets caught in your throat. And before you freeze to the point of no return, you have to get the confessions out.

You even consider not telling him, but then you think of Eli. It’s unlikely this case will continue if your mistakes come back to bite you in the ass later when Wesker finds out what you did through other means. And the thought of an innocent man’s case remaining unsolved because you were too much of a coward to speak is scary, you don’t know how you’ll live with yourself after that.

With a shaky voice, you begin, “remember last week? When I came by the department to pick up some new work?”

“I remember,” he says.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, preparing to let it all spill out. “You told me to see Irons before I left to avoid looking suspicious, and so I did. Well, I had Eli’s ID in my bag at the time, and I swear I kept it in a smaller pocket. When he asked to review some files with me, the ID fell out from between the papers as I was looking through them. And it landed right on his desk.”

Your vision is blurry from the tears forming in your eyes, when you wipe them away, you see Wesker clearly again. That softness in his demeanor has completely died. That usual, serious and stern self returning. Again, like always, whatever happened between you both before is gone. It might as well have never been real to begin with. It’s like the memory itself is dead to him.

“Did he see it?” Even through his controlled tone, you sense something darker lingering in there.

“Yes.” The word catches in your throat, breaking as a soft cry slips out with it. “He saw. He saw and he asked me about it, if I even knew what it was and where I got it. I just said I found it in the conference room somewhere and forgot about it after putting it in my bag,” you sniff. You keep looking into his eyes, and then away. Yet his gaze on you remains unmoving.

“Found it in the conference room somewhere?” Whatever cynicism was hiding behind his words creeps out further, becoming more and more apparent.

“I know, it was a stupid excuse. I just—I froze! I didn’t know what excuse to make. He took the ID after that and told me to leave while he had some time to think. About what exactly? I don’t know.”

You see Wesker thinking of how to respond to the considerable mess you might have just created with such a foolish mistake, and you decide to drop the entire bomb before he speaks again. “And—and earlier tonight, while I was with Chris and the others. Jill and Barry stepped away for a bit, and I thought maybe I’d ask Chris a few…harmless questions about Eli. He was really drunk and it seemed like I could get something out of him.”

God, if an expression could speak, Wesker’s would be saying:I can’t fucking belive you right now.

“I wasn’t a complete screw-up, Wesker. I can find Eli’s ex with what he told me, I know where she works. I know where the print factory is." Your voice hitches, almost pleading, as if you're desperate for him not to hate you. "It’s just… I might’ve mentioned the meetings. Framed them as, you know, 'those weird meetings Wesker used to lurk outside of.'"

The look he gives you is murderous. If you didn’t know him better, you’d swear he was about to grab you by the collar and slam your head into the dashboard.

“I’m really sorry. I know Jill and Barry weren’t there but I have a feeling Chris will tell them. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, it was a stupid mistake,” your voice breaks again, and this time it really just gives out. You can’t manage another word. But still, a small wave of relief washes over you. At least your part is over and done with. Now it’s just a matter of how Wesker deals with it, or rather, deals with you.

For a long moment, the only sound in the car is your ragged breathing and sniffles. Wesker looks away from you, just staring ahead. He leans back in the seat, exhaling sharply through his nose. The leather creaks under his slight shift.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he asks, it’s more of a verdict than a question. “If Chris tells Jill, when he tells, she’ll tear this open. And Barry’s no idiot. You may as well have screamed it right at Irons. Now they all have reasons to ask questions. About Eli. About the meetings. About me. Do you think Irons won’t notice? You have already given him several reasons to stay on high alert.”

Another silence consumes the moment. Then Wesker turns his head to look at you again. You’re incapable of saying anything. Your throat is tight and your chest won’t stop trembling.

Wesker knows you won’t say more, so he glances away again, toward the windshield. “You say you can find the ex.” He doesn’t look at you. It’s that awful, cold voice again. And it’s more distant and cruel than you recall. “You’d better. Because the only thing keeping you useful right now is what you still might be able to salvage.”

Did he say useful?

He reaches for his sunglasses, sliding them back on.

There’s no forgiveness in his voice, and definitely no trust.

“Before I go and clean your mess up, is there anything else? Any other disaster of yours I should be made aware of?”

You don’t answer and you definitely don’t wait. Opening the door, you step out of the car, trying not to burst into tears right then and there.

You close the car door, rather, slam it. It isn’t on purpose, it sorta just happens.

Halfway down the pathway to the housing complex, you hear the faint rumble of his engine starting, then fading into the night.

Chapter Text

You've lived with loneliness for so long that its sudden return no longer surprises you. But there's one truth you still can't come to terms with: it never gets easier. If anything, it only hurts more each time. And this time, you know it's your fault. It’s not just a falling out with college friends, or a petty argument that ends a relationship. This time, it really feels like you’ve burned a bridge for good.

It’s stupid, you didn’t mean for it to happen. But then again, you make stupid mistakes all the time. And the fact that they aren’t intentional doesn’t make them any easier to live with. You come to appreciate the smaller things, and any semblance of company is just fine by you, even if all you have left these days are Eli’s increasingly ridiculous spiels.

March 11, 1997

I’m no man to go back on my word, but there is no way I can leave Umbrella alone. Anyone who so much as breathes funny around that company ends up getting launched to the moon. That’s capitalism for you, no massive fortune ever came from playing nice. And hey, I get it. I pick my nose when no one’s looking too. But these “rough patches” in their history? They’re no harmless little boogers.

All I have are pieces, each preposterous in their own way. I don’t want them to go together, but they do. Greedy little Irons has a select few files he keeps all to himself, all missing folk. I’ve been nice so far, haven’t gone full robocop on his ass. But if I can find at least one grieving person who is convinced Umbrella had their loved one killed, and I can manage to tie it back to any of those special files Irons hides, I’m taking that fucker down! Given I can get access to the files, of course.

I did a deep dive into some archives and gathered a couple names. Solo investigators who were poking around Umbrella. Nothing big, but enough to raise eyebrows. Problem is, they’ve all vanished. Let’s be honest, they’re dead. Now, I’m not saying I’m gonna be underneath Wesker’s desk all day sucking his crooked cock off, BUT… Could I get on his good side (if such a thing exists), maybe I can leverage his authority to help me get to those files.

And if it works out, I might finally link those missing investigators to the files Irons is hiding. If I can pull that off, it’s goodnight Chief Fuckprick. I’ll have concrete evidence that Irons is being bribed by Umbrella. Maybe for cover-ups, is my best guess.

I, of all people, could make the first real dent in Umbrella’s bulletproof bullshit. If they don’t launch me to the moon with the others first, that is.

As always, E.W.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and lean back in the driver's seat. As horrified as you are of the last sentence in Eli’s fourth entry, your frustration wins over disturbance. It’s one thing to read someone writing about vanishing under mysterious circumstances, and another thing entirely when they actually have. The eeriness of it all makes your headache settle deeper.

What’s worse is that you can’t ask Wesker if Eli ever went to him. But you did already ask him if he noticed anything weird, to which he replied condescendingly (what’s new), saying that you were looking in the wrong direction. And even though it was you who made sure that Chris will never trust you again. You’re furious with Wesker. Genuinely, fuck him.

He thinks so highly of himself that the act of him opening up is somehow an extravagant luxury that only the most worthy of people are able to witness. And after making a mistake, regardless of size, you suddenly are no longer allowed that privilege. The ego of that man never fails to astound you. But fine, you’ll play the same game. No calls, no accidental run ins, no office visits, no nothing. The memory of his lashing out still stings like a fresh wound, and you never want to feel a pain like this again. If that means closing yourself away, even if he reaches out, you’ll do it.

Although Wesker has given you some courage to delve into this investigation in the first place, you can at least understand you have the high ground. He doesn’t know where the printing plant is, he doesn’t have the notebook, or even the list of contacts from Amber’s phone. If things go well enough, you could figure out the whole thing out on your own and present it to him on a neat platter, flaunt your feats.

Given you’re already thinking ahead, you wonder what you’ll do after all this blows over. What if you find something huge on Umbrella? You know from the deepest pit of your soul that Eli is dead, but still, how did it happen? How did he vanish? Once you figure it out, will things really just go back to normal? Or will you be lying dead in a ditch somewhere with all the tracks leading up to your own disappearance having been meticulously covered up?

Thirty minutes have already passed by with you sitting in the printing plant's parking lot, thinking yourself into a hole. You roll a window down and flick the stubby cigarette between your fingers out onto the asphalt, relieving yourself from a gnarly hotbox. It’s miserable, falling back into a habit you fought so hard to kill, but it smooths out the edges of every emotion. Numbs things just enough. At this rate, you’ll be back to your impressive eleven a day average in no time.

The whole going in, guns blazing act hasn’t done you much harm yet. Recklessness got you this far, you found the print factory, didn’t you? A few questions jump around in your head, but none of them work. No plan. Just nicotine fueled certainty and a strange sense of calm. You step out of your car, work bag slung over your shoulder, and slam the door shut. Then, with a quiet curse, you pop the door back open, grab the crumpled pack of Pall Malls from the cup holder, and stuff it into your pocket. Just in case.

Fully expecting a proper lobby area with a reception desk, you’re disappointed to be greeted by a large industrial room filled with hulking metal abominations. Some pipes twisting like veins, pumps chugging softly in the distance, and towering tanks that give off enough heat to make you feel suffocated within seconds of being inside.

Your foot slips slightly on something on the ground, it’s a sheet of paper. You glance down and realize the floor is littered with them. Flyers scattered like someone went through the place and hurled papers by the fistful.

Next to the largest tank in the room sits a man hunched over his newspaper on what looks like a recycled barstool. He’s exceptionally burly, your eyes lingering on his large, hairy arms. You wonder how he sits so unbothered next to what must be emitting the most heat in the room, assuming the poor guy has grown used to it by now. As the front door closes behind you, the jingle it creates alerts the stranger, causing him to look up from his paper.

He already looks exhausted, like you’ve shit in his pot of coffee. The man straightens the paper and then folds it in half, placing it on the stool once he stands. You already don’t like him, seeing as your very existence has seemed to have inconvenienced him.

He scratches his black pencil ‘stache and crosses his arms. “Afternoon. Can I help you?”

“Sure you can,” you say easily. And yes, it’s meant to sound smug. You stick a hand out and introduce yourself, the man shakes with you, his interest clearly piqued. “I’m an investigator for the Raccoon Police. Mister…?”

He straightens up a little, but you don’t take much pride in being domineering. “Gallo. Mattia Gallo. You’re investigating something here?” It looks like the heat is beginning to bother him now.

You ignore the question, starting with your own. “Do you own this place?”

Mattia smiles briefly, the look of a minimum wage worker fantasizing about owning a printing plant that brings in thousands. “Nah, just manage. I run this floor.” He scratches his moustache again.

“I’m looking for someone, maybe you can help me get in contact with her.” It should have been the first thing you did, but you retrieve your work ID from your bag, presenting it to him. You don’t expect him to take it from your hands and squint down at it so harshly, but he does just that. After a long moment, he hands it back without a word.

As uncertain as Mattia looks, he doesn’t seem to question your authority. You clear your throat and begin again, “I read The Beagle all the time, it’s a good paper.”

His expression doesn’t change, unimpressed.

You frown, dropping the attempt at small talk. “How many people would you say you have on the floor right now?”

He looks up thoughtfully, then meets your eyes again. “Maybe about thirty-five?”

You’re astonished how far an act of confidence has gotten you. Hell, you bet he’ll do a backflip for you if you ask. Sure, he looks guilty. The guy probably deals drugs behind the plant after hours to make some extra cash. Anyway, that’s not what you care about.

“Do you keep a schedule? If I could get a printed copy of whose on today, I’ll be on my way.”

Mattia nods, already turning toward the cluttered workstation in the corner. He shuffles through a stack of papers, and his terrible posture is truly concerning. A pen rolls off the edge of the desk, falling on the floor with a small click. He eventually pulls out a sheet and turns to the entrance, making his way back to you. “There it is. That’s everyone I had, have and will have on for today.”

You snatch the schedule from him quickly, like it’s an object from a dream, something that will slip through your fingers if you hold it too loosely. “I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Gallo.” You turn and leave the printing plant before he can suspect you’re an absolute phony, or at least, that your investigation is.

You practically dive into your car seat, fumbling with your work bag in an instant. Your fingers scramble through the clutter until your hand closes around the familiar spine of your personal notebook. You pull it out and flip to the page where you copied down all of the contacts in Amber’s cell that had female names assigned to them. Eyes flicking to the schedule, you run through each name and then back at the notebook. Within seconds, there’s a match.

Blaire Bréart. She was saved under ‘Blairy’ in Amber’s contacts. You found her.

“FUCK! YEAH!” you shout into the empty car, your fist slamming against the dashboard in a victorious punch. Her shift today was from 5 AM to 1 PM, so she’s already off. It’s hard not to call her immediately, but you need to get your story straight first.

You imagine she’ll be curious as to why this case is suddenly being opened up again. After what happened with Wesker, no conversation seems too hard for you to handle. Speaking of Wesker, you recall him proposing his office as a space to meet with Eli’s ex if she proves skeptical, wondering if the offer is still out there.

Of course, the only way to confirm is to call him. If Blaire is eager enough to meet anywhere, the call will be pointless. But if you assume that and she turns out more skeptical than ever, you’ll have to call Wesker at the last minute. And what will you do if he says no? It’s too delicate of a situation to reschedule with Blaire, how many people might she tell by the time you even rearrange another date to meet with her?

Ugh. You really don’t want to call him. Usually you lie to yourself with great ease, but it’s hard to not admit that the very thought of facing him makes you feel overcome with shame. If you hate the feeling of embarrassment this much, maybe it’s time to stop making such stupid mistakes.

Whatever, you’re beyond proud of yourself for finally figuring out Blaire’s number, and you won’t let that emotionless asshole ruin it for you. Maybe after treating yourself to a nice lunch you’ll be able to think more clearly. Then you’ll figure out what you want to do next. Things are laid out beautifully, it’s just a matter of putting them together properly.

You can’t help but stare at your cell as you hold it up while laying on the couch, pen in mouth. At first you considered calling Amber to tell her you intended on reaching out to Blaire, but you didn’t trust her to not have another breakdown. You shift the pen between your teeth and bite harder without thinking. Suddenly the plastic cracks under the pressure, the bitter taste of ink floods your mouth.

“Blegh!”

You sit up fast, coughing. There’s already a dark blot blooming on your burgundy blouse, just below the collarbone. You glance down in disbelief as the stain soaks in, groaning. As your cellphone begins to ring, you quickly undo the first few buttons of the blouse, picking up.

“Hello?” It comes out sounding pretty bitchy.

“Hey Tom-tom, where’ve you been?” Jill tweets from the other end.

How much does she know? She sounds too upbeat to seem suspicious, or maybe it’s an act? Lucky for you, Jill continues.

“Barry and I were worried. Chris said you had a bit too much to drink and didn’t wanna create an embarrassing scene,” she says, sounding occupied with something else.

“Yeah, well,” you run a hand through your hair and sigh, “he wasn’t lying. What are those noises?”

There’s some silence on the other end, then Jill speaks again. “Oh, you can hear that? I’m managing some work here. Dunno what’s been Wesker’s deal this week but he’s been pretty no-nonsense lately. It’s like someone pisses in his cornflakes every morning.”

“Has he?” You spit more ink out of your mouth into a tissue, grimacing. Something tells you Wesker’s bad mood is entirely of your doing. It’s nothing to be proud about, yet you can’t help but smile. Sure you feel a world of shame, but at least now you know he experiences human emotion.

“Mhm. So where have you been? I think your prince charming misses you,” she teases.

“Please never say that again, Jill,” you frown. “I might come around later today, promise I’ll say hi.”

“Good. I don’t wanna console you and say it’s okay to be stupid when you’re drunk sometimes,” you can hear her smile.

You laugh a little, feeling lighter. “Gee, thanks. Did Chris say anything else by the way?” You find yourself instinctively raising the pen to put in your mouth again. Aiming for a nearby box of junk, you toss the pen towards it, missing completely. Yeesh.

“Don’t worry so much. We didn’t spend the whole night talking about you, promise. I’m gonna go now before Wesker catches me slackin, seeya,” Jill hangs up.

Unless she’s an impeccable liar, you are certain Chris didn’t tell Jill or Barry a thing. It’s weird, but you aren’t complaining of course. Still, showing up to the S.T.A.R.S. office means having to face Chris. Great, that makes three people you’ll have to do damage control with. You’d much rather deal with it all in one day than let this tumor in your brain get any bigger. It’s just a matter of giving Irons a reason to calm down, showing Chris he has no reason to be suspicious and…proving to Wesker you aren’t an unreliable moron.

You glance at the coffee table and scan your open notebook for Blaire’s number, punching it in quickly. Even though the line rings for what seems like an eternity, when someone picks up, it feels too soon. You hold your breath.

“Hi, who’s this?” It’s a young woman.

“Hey, I’m calling for Blaire Bréart,” you say with the most professional tone you can manage.

“Um, speaking,” she says cautiously.

“I’m calling from the Raccoon City Police Department. I’m an investigative journalist working on a review of certain missing peoples case files.” You pause, choosing your next words carefully. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions about Eli Wilkes. I understand he was your partner until fairly recently?”

There’s silence on the line.

She laughs, and you can hear the tension rising behind her voice. “So now they care about Eli? And they put a journalist on his case?”

“I can understand why the circumstance comes off as…unusual, but I am trying to put together a timeline leading up to his–”

“His murder?” She says, completely deadpan.

You sit up straight, not saying anything.

“What’s your name? Why didn’t they send someone competent enough to put together a timeline the first time?”

You tell her your name, sighing. “I know there was some negligence involved in multiple missing person cases. I am trying to make things right for the loved ones of these people,” you say softly.

“Well,” she speaks slowly, “I don’t know what kind of timeline you’re trying to build, but I already gave everything I had to the cops. Twice. Nobody cared.”

You swallow the urge to apologize, it’s not your fault those fucks were probably paid to turn a blind eye. “I’ve seen the reports. But some details were either redacted or missing entirely, and your name was barely mentioned. I think someone wanted your connection to Eli buried.” It’s an extremely risky thing to say, but Blaire is no less dubious than you imagined her, and far more acute. If she takes this bait, you’ll have your claws in. She thinks he was murdered, and if you feed into her speculation, it could be a way of gaining her trust.

There’s a sharp inhale, like you struck a nerve. “Okay. I can tell you what happened. I hope you have a pen in hand.”

You speak suddenly, “actually, I think this would be better in person,” you say, steady and careful. “I’d like this to be as direct as possible, this timeline is integral to the case.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, and you’re afraid it was an overstep. The fact that Blaire didn’t question your statement about details in Eli’s case being ‘redacted or missing entirely’, means he must have told her about his own investigation to some extent. A regular person would have asked a million questions at the mention of something like that.
“I don’t know,” she says finally. That could mean a million things, but you’re sure it’s essentially a ’this is sketchy as fuck as I don’t trust you’.

“I really appreciate you talking to me, Blaire. I know it’s a touchy subject to open up after all this time, and I understand if you don’t want to proceed. I can arrange a ride to the department for you if you’re interested in continuing this discussion. Otherwise, I’m sorry for taking up your time,” you say with a small smile, knowing things are going to lean your way. Hopefully she doesn’t ask for that ride though, because you’ll have to call her a taxi and pretend it’s on behalf of the department.

“No,” she says, resolute. “I’ll do it. I can come now. And I’ll manage.”

You blink. For a second it doesn’t register. Nothing ever breaks this cleanly for you.

Stifling a small, giddy noise, you sit straighter. “That sounds good. I’ll be seeing you shortly, Miss Bréart.” You hang up.

You lay back down on the couch, kicking your feet in the air. “Yeah, that’s how I get it done,” you say to yourself, smiling like a smug idiot. It’s hard not to nod off as you close your eyes. You’ve spoken to three separate people today, and that’s just about your limit during a bad week.

A deep exhale escapes you, getting annoyed by the feeling of sticky ink against your chest. When the image of you and Wesker in that parking lot pops up in your head, you sit up immediately.

It would be smart to head to the department now.

The way you managed to tangle everyone you’ve met since starting at the department into your little mess is almost impressive. Irons is onto your ass, but Blaire needed that final push of you offering to meet at the department so you seemed less suspicious. But if Irons catches you with Blaire, you’re done for. And what about bringing her to the S.T.A.R.S department? Even if Wesker offered his office up for the meeting, Chris, Jill and Barry are going to be really confused. Though, Chris and Jill know what Blaire looks like. And Chris knows you are curious about Eli’s case. Seeing you with Blaire will only arouse more suspicion.

“Fuuuck.” You place both hands over your face and groan. All you want right now is to take a nap in your car.

Hearing a knock on the driver’s side window, you glance over to see Boutros grinning at you. You quickly roll the window down, hoping he didn’t see you whining in silence.

The smile on his face says it all. “Did I catch you crying?”

You scoff, smiling back at him, “you wish.”

“Didn’t you come by just yesterday to pick up some files? Don’t tell me you burnt through them already.”

You reach for your Pall Malls, placing a cigarette between your lips, handing one to Boutros aswell. He takes it while keeping it close to you so you can light it for him. Once you do, you light your own and take a long drag before exhaling through your mouth. “I’m here to meet someone from one of the cases I’m doing.”

Boutros raises a brow. “Are you playing detective, rookie?”

“Just making up for the incompetency around here,” you shrug. It’s not exactly a lie.

He points at your chest. “Got a little excited there, did you?”

“Oh grow up, Boutros,” you can’t help but laugh. “I was running late, didn’t get the chance to clean it.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “You know, Jill told me you bailed suddenly during birthday drinks. Happy belated, by the way. Everything alright with you?”

Although suspicion isn’t something you need any more of in your life, you appreciate two people having asked already. “If I tell you what was up, can you do me a favour?”

Knowing the man has a palate for drama, you aren’t surprised to see him nod almost instantly. “Do tell.”

You lean toward him, your elbows resting above the lowered window. “I left because I had a date with Wesker right after.” You smile the most disingenuous smile you’ve ever smiled before.

Boutros bursts out in laughter, but it tapers quickly as he studies your face. “Wait, you’re being serious?”

You nod. “What do you think?”

He looks at you like you’ve completely betrayed him. And in a way, it’s true. You know how much he enjoyed crapping on Wesker behind the man's back.

“You surprise me, rookie. I don’t know what to think.”

You tilt your head a little, trying to read his expression. “Well, take however long you need to process. Ready for my favour?”

“I don’t think I’m ready for anything after you dropped that bomb on me, but go ahead.” He flicks the cigarette toward the ground and crushes it under his shoe.

“Like I said, I’m here to meet someone. It’s a bit above my authority to arrange something like that, I’m sure you’re aware. The conference room is too open for privacy, so I plan on doing it upstairs. I just need to keep it away from Irons, so…” you pause there.

“I’ll open the backdoor for you. That's what you want, right?” He crosses his arms.

“You’re a peach, thanks,” you smile.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says, looking off to the side unsteadily.

“It’s a harmless meeting, Boutros.” You put your cigarette out, wishing there wasn’t a new feeling of unfamiliarity between the two of you now.

He meets your eyes, frowning. “I mean with Captain hard-ass.”

Blaire’s lack of questioning when you asked her to come to the back of the department was surprising, but you happily accepted her absence of curiosity. You’ve paced back and forth by the back door at least a dozen times now while waiting for her arrival. Just as soon as you begin to think Blaire may have flaked on you, a woman turns the corner. She freezes at the sight of you, but when your eyes meet, she begins to approach.

You wave at her, and she returns the gesture with a look of scrutiny.

“You’re the one looking into Eli’s case?” She crosses her arms.

Blaire is just about the same height as you. Unlike Amber, the recent hard times have given her eyes this sort of fierce certainty. Her light auburn hair looks as though it’s been chopped short just so it won’t get in the way anymore. She looks exhausted, but holds her demeanor up as well as she can. Of course, knowing better than anyone what it’s like to hide behind a put together projection of yourself, you see right through it. You’d be just as drained if you were stuck working in that sweltering printing plant. It feels weird to see her in person, like you’re standing in front of a large essence of Eli’s life. This is the woman he was in love with.

“I am. Nice to see you, Blaire.” You shake her hand, then knock twice on the back door. “Thanks for meeting me back here, I know it’s a bit unconventional.”

She shakes her head. “I won’t ask.”

A few seconds pass before the door creaks open. Boutros appears, nodding at you with reassurance, only until his eyes land on Blaire. His expression shifts instantly. He flicks his gaze back to you, eyes wide with a ’what the hell are you trying to pull’, expression.

Blaire greets Boutros. “I remember you. Boutros, right?”

He offers her a warm smile. “Good to see you again, Blaire.”

Of course, he’d probably checked her in every time she visited. No wonder her face stuck. He steps aside to let you both in. You’ve already made peace with the fact that Wesker wasn’t going to backpedal on letting you use his office, not once you told him Blaire was already here, waiting.

Boutros speaks up as he closes the door behind you. “Can I get you ladies anything to drink?”

Blaire shakes her head without hesitation. “I’d really just like to get this timeline straight.”

You take a breath, grounding yourself. What a mess this all is.

“I just need a minute to prep the office,” you say. “Mind waiting in the conference room? It’s—”

“It was Eli’s old office. I know where it is.” Blaire doesn’t wait for a response as she heads off without a second thought.

You barely have time to untense your shoulders before Boutros turns on you, his face full of questions he hasn’t decided how to ask. He locks the door firmly behind him. He looks more confused than angry, but there’s a stiffness in his expression you don’t really enjoy. You like Boutros. It’s not easy seeing a man like him shaken.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You raise both hands up defensively. “Nothing bad, I can assure you that much.”

He looks completely unconvinced, and you can’t blame him. Crossing his arms, Boutros waits for you to explain.

“Listen, I promise I’ll explain tomorrow. I owe you a bagel, don’t I?”

“You’re worrying me, rookie.” He gestures towards the hallway. “Don’t stress out that poor girl anymore, go on.”

You nod and scurry off.

It's a welcome relief when you don’t find Chris or Barry in the S.T.A.R.S. office, one more obstacle out of your way. But maybe the nicest part of the day is seeing Jill quietly working at her desk, head down.

She perks up when she sees you and gives a quick wave.

“There you are,” she says, leaning back in her chair with a stretch.

You walk over and rest your hand on the edge of her desk, eyes drifting to Wesker’s office door. You can’t help wondering.

“No Chris or Barry today?” you ask.

She smirks. “Not today. Those two couldn’t take the captain’s heat.” You look back at Jill, and she catches a glance at your chest. “What happened there?”

“Ugh, ignore it. A stupid pen spilled on me.”

“You remind me of Eli sometimes,” Jill says with a small laugh.

Any mention of Eli sends a sharp tearing anxiety through your chest, especially today. You chalk it up to the fact that you’ve already taken one too many risks this evening. “Speaking of Eli, I have something to tell you.”

That gets her attention. The humor fades from her face, replaced by curiosity. She leans forward slightly, lowering her voice. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure how familiar you are with Blaire Bréart, his ex-girlfriend, but I have her waiting in the conference room. Long story short, I’m putting together a timeline. I want to solve this case,” you say. You stick to the same version you plan on giving Boutros tomorrow. It’s the only cover that makes sense right now.

Jill looks caught off guard, to say the least. “Irons approved that?”

“Well, no. What I’m really hoping is that you can keep this between us. It’s delicate, as for Chris and Barry,” you pause, considering how to phrase it. “I’d appreciate it if it stayed quiet. I came across the case, and something about it just felt off. So I reached out to Blaire.”

Jill crosses her arms, only meeting your explanation halfway. “Off how?”

“I’ll blame the department’s lack of funding in the missing persons sector,” you reply. “All I see is a sister who wants to know what happened to her brother. And I want to do something that actually matters.”

Jill buys your heartfelt bullshit, you can tell because she’s smiling in a way you’ve never seen her before.

You wish you believed it yourself. You wish this was just about justice, about doing something good. Really you just want to uncover some heinous shit. If only you could be as blissfully unaware as Boutros or Jill. Because knowing the truth feels like a slow, quiet death.

“I’ll cover for you,” Jill says at last. “Are you working on this all alone?”

“Well, sort of.” You clasp your elbows, trying to steady your nerves. “Wesker dedicated his office to the cause so Blaire has a place to speak with me comfortably.”

Jill is clearly more surprised by this than anything else you’ve told her so far. “He did, did he? Of all people you aren’t someone I would ever expect Wesker to take a liking to.”

You roll your eyes, moving away from her desk. “It’s not about him taking a ‘liking’, I think he just wants to contribute to a good cause.”

Jill smirks. “Right. A good cause that you are interested in,” she retorts.

“Whatever, Jill. I think you’ve been hanging with Chris too much, you’re starting to sound like him.” You turn toward Wesker’s office, casting one last look over your shoulder at Jill. Hopefully you’ll survive this encounter.

“I take a lot of insult to that,” Jill says with a half-laugh. “Well, I won't keep you. Good on you for picking up Irons’ slack. And good luck in there, he’s feeling real pissy today.”

You don’t respond, knocking twice and stepping inside without waiting for an answer.

You close the door behind you and cringe at the sound as it interrupts the silence. In all honesty, you had no clue what to expect from him, maybe yelling, or even the refusal to see you? The stillness in the room is somehow worse than any of that. The only thing certain about the moment is that you know you will not apologize. You’ve made good progress without him and his instruction, and you’re not about to shrink just because he’s sitting behind a desk, pretending to be the center of your universe.

“Will you continue to stand there, or do you have something to say to me?” He says, placing his pen down with more precision than necessary. Even with those sunglasses on, you can tell his eyes move unapologetically, straight to your chest before traveling slowly to your face. You can’t blame him, you’ve undone a few more buttons than what should be deemed appropriate for an office setting, and there’s a pretty big stain there.

“I have an update,” you cross your arms, embarrassed of your chest.

He leans back slightly, not looking too intrigued yet. “It better be good,” he murmurs. “Otherwise, you’re just wasting my time, and your own by coming here.”

You force yourself to ignore the jab, though your tongue itches for a comeback. Maybe you’re the unreasonable one, at least partly. He does have a right to be angry. After all, you gave him reason to never trust you with anything important again.

“I found the ex, Blaire Bréart. She’s more skeptical than I expected, so it took some convincing to get her to agree to a meeting. That said, she’s downstairs now, waiting. So…is your offer to use this office still on the table? I’d rather not risk the chief noticing her.”

Wesker doesn’t respond immediately, and you worry he might say no.

Boutros, Jill, and Chris all had some level of closeness with Eli's Ex, you knew that much at least. Boutros was already familiar with her, and Jill didn’t bat an eye when her name came up. Chris even knew where she worked. Knowing how much Eli disliked Wesker, it wasn’t surprising that Wesker needed you to track down Blaire.

Still, as much as asking any of them outright for Blaire’s information would have raised suspicion, you can’t help but wish you had just done that instead of going through all this trouble. Now, all three have reasons to be suspicious of you, and somehow, in trying to avoid suspicion, you’ve only managed to cause more damage.

Finally, he taps the desk twice with a single finger. “Use it,” he says. “I have no doubt you came across Jill out there, what exactly did you tell her?”

You nod, relief mixing with a new feeling of unease and some annoyance. Is this how things are going to be now? Just his constant lack of trust for you to do anything adequately on your own? “Nothing risky, and she went along with it. You don’t have to worry about Jill.”

There it is, that ridiculous smug look he always does. You hate that part of you still finds something satisfying about it. “It’s not Jill I’m worried about,” he says as he rises from his chair. “You’ve made acceptable progress on your own,” Wesker continues, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “It wouldn’t be advisable to slip up now.”

You straighten your posture, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looming over you. “I don’t just decide that I’m gonna make mistakes, in case you didn’t know. I plan on my meeting with Blaire going well.”

He steps closer, just enough to force you to hold your ground. “Planning and executing are two very different things,” he says with a calm tone, but you can sense the tension behind it. “I suggest you start narrowing the gap.”

You exhale through your nose loud enough for it to be clear he’s upset you. “I only made mistakes because I chose to take a risk. And what about you? You won’t even tell me if Eli approached you for help, as if I’m the one you need to be cautious around. Meanwhile I have to eat all the shit whenever you want me to bite at something, taking no real threats of your own.”

If anything, Wesker’s gaze seems more fixed on your cleavage showing just above the buttons of your blouse. And he appears to purposefully make it look obvious that he’s doing just that. Maybe that’s for the best, you think. At least he won’t see the tears welling in your eyes, that stupid, involuntary reaction you get every time you’re angry.

You blink fast, willing away the tears. Anger, you remind yourself. I feel anger. Not sadness, just rage displayed in a delicate way.

“Well?” you snap, not able to bear him staring at your chest for a moment longer.

“I see no point in addressing an emotional outburst,” he says finally. “When you’re finished projecting your guilt onto me, I can tell you what you’re interested in hearing.”

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood. His flawless dismissal never fails to kill you a little.

You take a long breath. “I’m not projecting anything,” you say, far more relaxed. “I’ve taken on more of this than you ever would’ve risked. So if I’m angry, I’ve earned the right. Did you work with Eli or not?”

He studies you for a moment, and you wish you could see what was going on behind those dark lenses. A faint trace of a smirk forms at the corner of his lips.

“Eli came to me,” Wesker admits. He pauses, then leans forward slightly, voice lowering. “Don’t make Blaire wait any longer. We will discuss what you get out of her tomorrow evening. I’ll pick you up.” His gaze flickers again toward your blouse, but this time it feels less deliberate.

“It’s an ink stain,” you blurt out, feeling ridiculous immediately after. It feels silly, yet you can’t help but smile. A small feeling of relief washes over you. “You’ll tell me what happened between you and Eli tomorrow?” You tilt your head slightly.

Wesker only nods, and that’s enough to satisfy you.

“Go on then, bring her here. I won’t be around when you return.” Wesker moves towards the office door, holding it open for you.

You give him a soft smile, but he doesn’t return it. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” it comes out more tired than you intend. Right as you step out of the office, he promptly closes the door behind you.

Jill glances up from her desk and gives you a small nod, then returns to her work without a word.

As you head down the hall, your thoughts drift uneasily to Wesker’s penthouse. That night on your birthday you explicitly remember him saying ‘Before I go and clean your mess up’. Did he really mean that? Or was it just something he said to make you feel even worse? The fact that he didn’t tear into you in his office suggests one of two things: either your self-defense was good enough to satisfy him, or he really did take care of the fallout himself, and now has no reason to stay angry

Then again, Jill mentioned he’s been especially somber this week. Maybe “fixing” your mistakes was merely him expressing his annoyance. But why didn’t he snap at you again, or even acknowledge that night? Usually he doesn’t hold back at making you feel like an idiot, and you somehow feel worse that he didn’t make a comment on it.

You groan and begin heading down the stairs for the conference room to grab Blaire. She should be your mental priority right now, not Wesker. Your thoughts about tomorrow evening can wait until you’re actually getting ready for it.

Speaking of which, maybe you’ll wear something that shows off your cleavage, considering how hard it’s been for him to keep his eyes off it.

Chapter Text

To sit in Wesker’s desk chair means to own it, yet you feel the same as you did in his convertible, utterly out of place. You thought sitting in the big boss chair would give you some kind of upper hand over Blaire, but it’s done the opposite. She’s combed through your words with such a profound degree of attention, and you guess you didn’t expect any less. Any woman who could withstand a man as seemingly messy as Eli must be blessed by an extraordinary level of patience. Of course, that’s no slight against Eli, you’re hardly one to talk.

The interview has been erratic, to say the least. Blaire struck you as the quick and clean cut type, straight to the point. Despite your assumption, the conversation devolved into a fleshed out discussion of alcoholism upon Eli’s histamine intolerance somehow being brought up. Speaking to his ex-girlfriend on such a personal basis hit you with the harrowing, if you want to call it that, realization of how similar you and Eli are in some ways.

He was often in his own head, coasting through life with a sputtering engine, trying to maintain a few too many things at once. You could resonate with that. There are some more delicate flowers in your garden, and then some vegetables too. Wesker is more like an orchid, so beautiful, you could admire it for hours. Yet incredibly delicate, and impossible for a disaster like you to maintain. Maybe your family can be the spuds. Harder to appreciate, and their unconditional love is impossible to perceive. But even when you’re beyond frustrated, they’ll always be there to grow.

The ridiculous garden analogy slips away from you when Blaire clears her throat. You glance down at your notebook and cringe at the small doodle of a bird. When she checks her wristwatch, you feel embarrassingly aware of the fifteen or so minutes that have slipped away.

She’s a capricious one, but no match for Wesker’s shifts in mood. You’ll forever be haunted by that night on your birthday. That look he’d given you, petrifying. For someone who has only known Blaire for an hour or so, you’ve picked up on her enamoring quirks rather quickly. You can always tell when she’s about to speak, like she has thought through a risky move in chess and finally decides to move her bishop. Everything about her is deliberate, and a part of you envies how she manages to make you see only the parts of herself she is willing to give away, which are primarily disingenuous. At least you think so. If only you could keep up your appearances as well as her, but now there’s been two times Wesker has witnessed what a drunk mess you’re capable of becoming.

Blaire carefully lifts the tea she begrudgingly accepted from Boutros while waiting in the conference room earlier, taking a dainty sip. The cup creates a small ‘clink’ as she places it back down on the saucer, the sound breaks you out of the trance of her movements.

Blaire narrows her eyes at you, ready to examine even the slightest shift of your features with the words she’s about to lay on you. “It was his work that kept distracting him, not the drinking. He grew distant with his family to spend late hours just working. They blamed me, of course.”

“Uh-huh.” You don’t waste any time, finally beginning to jot down some real notes.

“Whose office is this?” She lifts the teacup again, and the tension her question creates in the room is enough for her to spill a bit of tea as she places the cup down after taking another sip. At least you’re not the only one that feels it. You frown slightly as you watch the amber liquid bead on the dark walnut desk. That’ll need to be scrubbed off, hopefully it won’t damage the finish.

“The Captain of the S.T.A.R.S unit, Wesker,” you say. Normally you wouldn’t think twice about the question. However, Blaire’s face shifts in an odd way. You only caught it after you mentioned Wesker. Exasperatingly enough, Blaire catches on that you have taken notice of her reaction. And from the look on her face, you realize she’ll play the safe game when it comes to giving you any more information. No wonder you suck at chess. You barely have the patience for these ridiculous, delicate social games.

Regardless of how she intends to recover from her obvious reaction at the mention of Wesker’s name, you decide to push her. “Are you familiar with him?”

Much to your surprise, Blaire nods. “Yes, but hardly. I know Eli worked with him for some time, not too long before he went missing,” she shrugs the casual detail off like it’s nothing. But to you, this is indispensable information.

It’s hard not to lean forward in Wesker’s seat at the info, you’re completely intrigued. So Wesker wasn’t really hiding his involvement with Eli. He’s a careful man, if he really wanted it to be kept a secret, Blaire wouldn’t know of it. The more recent entries in Eli’s journal have been growing more suspicious of Umbrella, does that mean Wesker was on the same page? Did he suspect Umbrella of bribing Irons as well?

You quickly note Blaire’s mention of Wesker down in shorthand. Though maybe the information isn’t that useful as you initially thought. After all, Wesker will tell you everything involving him and Eli tomorrow, won’t he?

Once you've finished taking notes, you set your notebook down and look up. “I understand that Eli was heavily involved with his work, noticeably more before the time of his disappearance. Did he ever discuss his cases with you? Was there a specific deadline for a certain case he may have been feeling stressed over reaching?”

Unlike most people, Blaire doesn’t look elsewhere to gather her thoughts, keeping her sharp gaze fixed on you. “This is your own private investigation, isn’t it?” she says, the accusation slipping out effortlessly.

Poker face, poker face, you think. Amber was clueless, meaning Blaire didn’t tell her anything. You weigh the risk of leaning into Blaire’s suspicion, just to see how closely your pages align. For now you won’t respond, see if you can get her to say anything else. You keep a straight face, tilting your head ever so slightly.

Blaire fixes her posture, sitting up. “What you said over the phone about someone possibly tampering with Eli’s details. That was enough for me to know you aren’t getting paid for this.” She suddenly looks back at the door, as if expecting to find someone snooping in on the conversation. When she turns back around, she meets your eyes. “So, why do you want to find Eli?”

“You said it yourself, he was murdered. I think an innocent man was killed because he was digging where he shouldn’t have been,” you’ve never sounded more grim. It’s almost refreshing, letting go of the careful grip you’d kept on the conversation. Your gut usually tells you that drinking on a Monday night is a good idea, but for once, you feel like you can actually trust it. Blaire can be trusted.

Something unrecognizable flickers in her eyes, and for a moment, it’s like a different person is sitting across from you. Then, just as quickly, she returns to that same, measured look. Blaire’s lips part, and then she closes her mouth. When she’s had a moment to think, she continues, “he didn’t talk much about what he was up to, but it had changed him in those final weeks.”

“Changed him,” you repeat. “Changed how?”

From her expression, you can tell it hurts Blaire to say it out loud. “Constantly looking over his shoulder. He would keep telling me he had ‘caught’ something big when I told him he never had time for the people in his life anymore, like that’s some valid excuse for neglecting your girlfriend,” she scoffs. For a moment, she pauses, weighing whether to share something valuable with you. “I did some of my own snooping since he said telling me would put me at risk because I’d become ‘involved’. That was sort of enough for me to realize it wasn’t really a job related project. He used to complain about Chief Irons a lot, calling him a ‘crooked creepo’, so I naturally assumed he was doing something involving the chief.”

Crooked creepo, that is exactly something Eli would say, you try not to smile at the silly thought. You take a few quick notes before looking at Blaire. “What do you mean by your own snooping?”

Blaire shrugs, as if forgiving herself for a morally incorrect act. “Eli always carried his stupid little journal around, constantly scribbling into it. I ended up reading it, just to understand what had my boyfriend so wrapped up that he couldn’t spare even a fraction of his time for me or his family.”

You lean in slightly, curiosity piqued. “And? What did you think?”

Blaire seems surprised with your reaction. Of course, you should be more interested what she found in the journal, not what her thoughts on it are. Her look saddens, as if something fragile inside her has cracked open. Maybe it’s the weight of feeling alone in all this, like she’s carrying a burden no one else can see. You see a different woman in front of you, one who has let down all her defenses. “How much do you know?” she asks quietly.

If this is a test to see if she feels comfortable to proceed or not, you’ve got the cheat code. Although you’d planned to avoid bringing up the notebook, you realize you can leverage her trust to get the full picture. The fact that Blaire even mentioned the notebook means you can trust her.

“Well,” you begin, reaching down to grab your work bag. As you lift it up, you use your other hand to fish out Eli’s notebook. The shade of walnut brown is immediately recognizable to Blaire, you can tell from the sudden flash of familiarity in her eyes, mixed with shock. It’s unmistakable. “I know as much as I was able to find in here.” You place the notebook on the table, just as Wesker had done with you not long ago.

Blaire doesn’t hesitate. She snatches the journal and immediately begins flipping through the pages. You watch her closely, studying every shift in her expression, trying to discern her thoughts. Some pages she spends more time on, skimming through the words with great focus.

It feels like an eternity of just watching her, waiting. Finally, Blaire manages one word.

“Missing.” She sets the notebook down.

“Missing? What do you mean?” You shift forward, alert now.

“The pages.” Blaire’s tone sharpens; she’s clearly irritated. “A lot of them are gone. Torn out. Why?”

You blink, caught off guard. “I was hoping you could tell me as to why,” you say, straightening up. “I thought you might know.”

Her eyes narrow. “You mean you didn’t tear them out?”

The question lands like a slap. You're left momentarily speechless.

“Me?” you repeat, incredulous. “No. No, of course not. At first, I figured he was trying to cover his tracks. Now I’m starting to think there’s more to it than that.”

Blaire shakes her head. “No. This wasn’t meant to be read by anyone, not even me. It’s his personal journal, and he kept it hidden for good reason.” She runs a thumb along the edge of the cover, then flips it open again. “I notice a lot of new entries were added, but even many of those have been ripped out. As for the older ones I read before he went missing,” her brow furrows, “some of those are gone as well.” She looks up from the journal to watch your face, then looks down again, and then up once more to finally meet your attentive stare. “Where did you find this?”

You stammer, barely recovering from your own speculatory thoughts before she hits you with another question. “Well you won’t believe this, but I found it under a false bottom in the filing cabinet he used to store his belongings in. It was stashed there alongside a wad of twenties and a pistol. Of course it seems like an emergency only type of compartment, meaning he was ready to be hit. But now you’re telling me he likely didn’t tear the pages out, because the journal was meant for his eyes only.”

Blaire looks visibly shaken, her previous front begins to fizzle out with every passing second. “Someone must have gotten to the cabinet before you and tore those pages out,” she meets your eyes, waiting for your approval of the theory.

“No,” you reply without a slight of hesitation. “They would have taken the entire thing, especially if they were trying to cover for Umbrella. Some entries still mention the company and his suspicion of it, as well as of the Chief.”

“Then I can’t believe you if you tell me you didn’t tear those pages out yourself. Unless…” There it is again, her accusatory tone that you despise. “You shared it with someone.”

Well, share isn’t quite the word I would use. More like stolen from me while I was unable to care for my belongings on account of being a drunk disaster with broken ribs, you think. You can’t tell her the notebook fell into the hands of Wesker, not if you want to keep her trust. Blaire will just assume that you carelessly involved the captain of the S.T.A.R.S unit without a second thought, even though the reality isn’t that simple. You don’t know what to think, but one thing you are sure of is that you can’t allow your mind to think Wesker was behind tearing the pages out.

Like an idiot, you only read one page of Eli’s journal the day after you had found it. As if it were a novella that you were savouring. Then, the whole club incident happened, and the notebook fell into Wesker’s hands. The thought horrifies you, but what if all those precious pages were still intact before he stole it from your bag?

No matter how much the situation leads up to it, it’s impossible to grapple with the thought. Logically, it only makes sense that Wesker is behind the torn pages. Yet emotionally, you don’t think that’s a fact you can accept yet.

“It’s been with me since I’ve found it. No one else,” you manage to say, struggling to part with your anxiety inducing thoughts. This isn’t a detail Blaire can find out about.

Blaire nods, “okay, then I must be right. Someone found the false bottom before you and tampered with the pages.”

“Sure,” you accept, tone slightly defeated. Right now all you want is for this meeting to be over so you can get shitfaced and forget about this mind piercing case for a couple hours.

As if she has read your thoughts, Blaire suddenly stands. “I know Umbrella is hiding something, and I know Eli was so close. As smart as he was, the second someone caught air of his investigation, he became a dead man walking. That stash in the false bottom confirms it: A man on the run and someone caught up,” her voice darkens.

“I need to know what you read on those pages before,” you say, and it comes out a bit too forcefully. “As much as I can find out about what was torn out, I need to know. And about Captain Wesker,” you lower your volume, “I’d like to know about the relationship he had with Eli.”

Much to your surprise, Blaire nods in compliance. “I just need some time to myself to think over these things. I remember very well what I read.”

You and me both.

For once, her expression softens, and you like it much better that way. “If I come off as stuck up, it’s because I’m scared,” she admits. Blaire’s sudden transparency should have been the most shocking thing that happened today, but unfortunately, your new findings on the torn pages have taken the cake.

“I know, Blaire. But the more we see each other and speak, the easier it will become for me to open this up.” You stand as well, extending your hand. It felt more natural to hug Amber, but a handshake will do just fine with Blaire. She takes your hand and shakes it. “I’ll find out what got to Eli,” even if it’s hard, you smile.

“Who,” Blaire eerily corrects. She picks up Eli’s notebook, tracing her fingers along the gold lettering just as you had once done not long ago. “Take good care of this, I’d like it back when we figure this out,” she smiles a little, then sets it down. Blaire watches you for a moment, and something unspoken passes between the two of you. You don’t understand it now, but have a feeling it will click later. When you are more relaxed, and alone with your thoughts perhaps. When the moment passes, she turns for the office door and leaves.

The empty teacup falls into your view, urging a tired sigh. You sift through all the junk in your work bag and manage to come up with an old, crumpled tissue. Although it’s sure to stain the wood just slightly, you doubt Wesker will be attentive enough to catch on. You rise from his chair to stretch, a yawn escaping you. Leaning over the table, you lift the saucer up and clean the small spill Blaire left behind.

With a tired grunt, you gather your things and take the teacup as well. You glance back at the desk to make sure to not have left anything behind. That’s when your eyes catch it again, the same group photo you'd noticed the first time you stepped into Wesker’s office. You set the teacup down and move behind the desk once more, picking up the frame just as you had done in the past. Of course, your eyes find him instantly. It's impossible not to, standing tall in uniform, he draws your gaze like a magnet. You squint, as though that will reveal all that you so desperately want to know.

You want so badly to know this man, but the catch is drifting away from you before you’ve even attempted to reel it in. You sigh and place the photo down, heading for the door.

An odd, isolated feeling settles over you when you realize Jill is no longer at her desk. The quiet hum of her focused presence is gone, replaced by a stillness that feels too hollow. Without your noticing, the day has slipped away. It’s left behind a deafening silence.

When you crash on your couch you don’t think twice, snatching the bag of stale potato chips you left on the coffee table about a week ago. Your satisfied hum lingers in the air as you go to town on the chips, deciding this will be your dinner for tonight.

You’d like it to be just as it would any other evening, put some primetime television on and let it hypnotize you for the remainder of day. But your mind won’t settle. It ricochets from one thought to another. Who ripped those pages? Giving Eli credit, hiding the journal in plain sight like that was the smart move. But tearing those pages out, it makes no sense. If he really was behind it, he made a huge mistake.

Of course, the culprit is likely Wesker. But your racing thoughts keep stopping there, like an invisible blockade is keeping you from reaching the conclusion the action of him tearing the pages out suggests: What was his goal in doing that?

You wipe your salty fingers on an old tissue, tossing the empty chip bag aside. Instinctively, your hand slowly reaches up to your lips. You think, and hard. Say Wesker did mess with the journal, it could only mean his intention was to hide the contents of those torn pages from you. Buy why? What could they have contained?

If you give him the benefit of the doubt, meaning he tore the pages out because he deemed them extra valuable, it suggests that he’s stupid. Because not bringing those torn pages up to you means he forgot to tell you. But Wesker isn’t a moron, of course he didn’t tear them and then it slipped his mind to bring it up.

And say someone really did get to that false bottom before you. If they tore the pages out to hide something, why not take the entire damn journal along with the cash and gun? All three objects that scream “Hey, I’m on the run!”

Okay, and so what? Maybe Eli was completely in his head and in reality, there had been nothing to run from. He looked too deep into Umbrella and got his facts mixed up.

No, most definitely not. Blaire confirmed Eli worked with Wesker, so there had to have been something worthwhile in his investigation.

You’ve ruled everything out, and it can only lead back to Wesker. Perhaps you’ve given him a little too much credit, and he tore the pages out under the wrong motivation. Maybe the man is capable of making mistakes. Now, not to keep score, but this is the second thing you’ve caught him hiding from you. First being his unwillingness to admit he and Eli worked together on the Umbrella case.

With one deep breath, panic fizzles out before it even gets the chance to settle its claws in you. Wesker will be straight with you tomorrow, and if not, you’ll work your charismatic magic and make him.

Your mind starts to drift, maybe a walk would do you some good. Ever since the injury, you’ve used rest as an excuse to avoid any kind of physical activity. Technically, you're fully healed now, but a bit more downtime couldn't hurt... right?

Your thoughts grow increasingly disjointed as you sink deeper into the couch. It’s hard to remember the last time you actually fell asleep in your own bed.

Everything feels hot, especially your face. You squint and lift a hand to shield your eyes from the sun, the light searing through your eyelids even before they open. With a low groan, you push yourself upright, your skin sticking slightly to your work clothes. The heat presses in from all sides, inescapable.

You sit there for a moment, blinking against the brightness, then sigh and lower yourself back down, this time turning your back to the sun. Eyes closed, you try to find comfort in the warmth, though it borders on oppressive now.

In the distance, a lawnmower engine coughs and then roars to life. A reminder that the world keeps moving. The mechanical hum grows steadier..

You breathe in slowly, cursing whoever thinks this early in the morning is an acceptable time to mow their lawn. It’s no use, you’ll just have to get up. Your eyes move to the clock hanging in your living room, eyes widening at the time. Well, 2:04 PM is definitely a reasonable time to mow the lawn.

The taste of stale potato chips still lingers in your mouth as you swallow your spit. There’s a dull throb behind your eyes, and the feeling intensifies as your cell phone falls into view.

Boutros.

You lift your cell up and see there are two miscalls from his number around eight this morning. Your fingers scramble, messily dialing to call him back. Bringing the cell phone up to your ears, you close your eyes and listen, each ring feels like a slap on the face. Although, when you finally hear his voice, maybe being left on voicemail might have been better.

“So you’re keeping secrets and ditching plans. Go ahead, lay the excuse out for me. Spend the night at our favorite captain's place?” He says. There is quiet laughter of what seems like two playing children in the background.

“What?” you say, just about sick of everyone's accusations lately. “Don’t be ridiculous. I called to apologize.”

“Go ahead and apologize then, rookie. I am interested in hearing your excuse though, what had you so caught up that you’re calling me five hours after I was expecting an answer from you?”

“I came home last night and crashed on the couch, it’s as simple as that. Missed an alarm…or two,” your voice trails off. The relentless heat gnaws at you, so you pull your shirt off, bringing the phone to your ear again afterwards.

“That’s a messy excuse,” Boutros says plainly, almost disappointed.

“I’m sorry, Boutros. Truly I am. Would it be too much to ask to grab a coffee now?” It sounds more like a plea than an offer.

There’s a pause on the other end. You wait, expecting a yes, hoping that life is still willing to hand you a second chance, even if you don’t deserve it.

“No, not today I can’t. I’m with the kids now,” he says. Even if the answer upsets you, the agitation in his voice makes you think maybe he was looking forward to having a little breakfast with you. The idea of rescheduling doesn’t seem out of reach.

“Another day, then?” you ask.

“Okay, okay,” he sighs, then chuckles. “Just quit sounding so sad. It’s like talking to a damn hungry puppy.”

A laugh escapes him, and something in your chest loosens.

“I’ve gotta watch them now. Ciao, rook.” He hangs up.

You let out a slow breath of relief. You hadn’t realized just how distraught you must’ve sounded over the phone. You should probably be embarrassed. But you’re not. The whole regretful, wounded-sounding sadness clearly worked on Boutros, even if it wasn’t something you were doing on purpose.

Tossing the cell aside on the couch, you run a hand through your hair. It’s time to get back into detective mode, Wesker should be laying some hefty information on you today. Ever since meeting with Blaire yesterday, the thought of Wesker tugs at some unfamiliar corner in your head. You know it’s anxiety, but can you accept that?

He wants to clear the suspicion between you two, and even invited you over just to tell you his history with Eli. There’s no reason to feel anxious, just relax.

Trust. It all hinges on trust.

You finally get off the couch, like stepping off a ship that’s just docked after a month long voyage through the uncertainties of life.

You have no idea when Wesker will show up, but by four o’clock, you’re already moving around your apartment with a nervous sense of purpose. You close the bedroom door behind you and your eyes land on the dress Ms. Hall lent you for your birthday, hanging from a command hook.

Shoot. You really should return that soon.

Like a thousand times before, you drag yourself toward the full-body mirror with much reluctance, dread weighing down each step.

You look at your reflection and reach up, fingertips grazing your cheek, your jaw, like touching your face might somehow change it. You’re mesmerized, frozen in front of the wreck staring back at you.

You squint a little, tilt your head. Try to see what someone else might see, what Wesker will. Now how does a man like that, understand the world?

You’re meeting for work, but that doesn’t mean you don’t intend on looking nice. Still, it can’t be obvious you tried. It should be an effortless sort of provocativeness.

Hair messy in the right way, neckline low but not too low. Something that says, I’m not thinking about you, even if he’s the only thing you’re thinking about.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, but you care so fucking much.

You’ve tried three different hairstyles, trying to not rip your hair off in frustration when nothing seems to work. You throw the brush down and glare at your reflection.

Giving up, you decide to leave it down. Natural. Careless. As if you didn’t just spend twenty minutes trying to trick your hair into being one of those monstrosities people used to balance on their heads in the Elizabethan era.

You step back from the mirror and fold your arms. That’ll do.

After going through your closet, you settled on a sleeveless, cream-colored sweater and a black pencil skirt, paired with sheer black pantyhose.

Just as you're adjusting things, smoothing invisible wrinkles and whatnot, there’s a knock at the door. Three sharp, precise taps. He’s here, five thirty on the dot.

Your stomach flips, even though you felt fine just seconds ago. You glance at yourself one last time in the mirror, and at the very last second, you twist your hair up into a bun. It just feels right.

Trying not to trip over the clothes littered on the bedroom floor, you make it to the living room. You take a steadying breath, fingers brushing your bun one last time before you move toward the door. Unlocking it, you reach for the handle and pull it open.

There he stands, looking as intense as the first night you’d met him. Though more intimidated than ever, you can’t help but smile.

He’s wearing simple black dress pants that fit him perfectly, sharp lines tracing his long legs down to polished black shoes. Your eyes trace up, admiring how his sleek black turtleneck hugs his frame. The sleeves are rolled up, maybe in an attempt to look more casual. At first, it’s his watch that catches your eye, glinting subtly in the light. Then it’s the veins running along his forearms. God, get a hold of yourself.

His head tilts slightly as he looks at you, unreadable behind the sunglasses. You must have been caught staring. A slight smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he catches on.

“Hey,” you finally manage, wishing you’d practiced talking in the mirror. The greeting comes out shakier than you'd like.

He pushes the bridge of his sunglasses up with one thumb, because God forbid you see the most human thing about him. “Evening. Not going to invite me in?”

You take a moment to look back and scan the state of your living room. The potato chip bag from last night has fallen onto the floor by the couch, surrounded by the cushions you kicked off in your sleep. There’s an overflowing ashtray on the coffee table, flakes of grey dust bleeding onto the edge of your work files. That’s all you need to see before turning to face him again.

Reasonably taller than you, Wesker’s gaze flicks across the mess in one calculated sweep. He doesn’t comment. Not even a raised brow, there's no judgment. Somehow that makes it worse. Like he expected this. No surprise coming from you, right?

“It’s a mess, Wesker,” you say flatly.

“Then I won’t come in,” he settles. “Let’s not waste time.”

You nod, reaching behind the door to grab your work bag. After you sling the bag over your shoulder, Wesker moves away to give you room. You step out and close the door, locking it. Once you turn to him, he begins his way down the short flight of stairs.

As you approach his parked car in front of the housing complex, your thoughts drift to the ripped pages. You still haven’t decided how to bring them up. Maybe if you apply pressure the right way, he’ll offer something up himself. But Wesker doesn’t seem like the type to yield under influence.

Like always, he reaches the car first and opens the passenger door for you without a word. You slide in, and only once you’re settled does he move around to the driver’s side. A ridiculous feeling of jealousy touches you, imagining him doing the same action for any woman in the past. What if you’re just another woman kept in his back pocket? And what will it take for what’s between you two to feel bona fide? Better yet, when will it be enough for you?

Are you selfish for being more desperate to know about the kiss than the ripped pages? You can hardly appreciate his foyer this time, too involved in your own thoughts. Wesker unlocks the front door and holds it open. You step inside, nodding a quiet thanks that barely masks your distraction.

Your eyes are drawn once again to the stunning view of Raccoon City beyond the windows. You can already sense him moving quietly behind you, heading toward the bar. You have to stay sober, at least moderately.

If Wesker recovered from the night of your birthday, you have to find it in yourself to do the same. It’s your fault, you tore away the privilege of his affinity by making idiotic mistakes. What are you even doing here? How much of this is really about finding Eli? Are you still chasing what you thought he owed you from the night you met?

The feeling of his hand on your shoulder almost makes your skin crawl.

“Sit down,” he says.

“Yeah, sorry,” you mumble. You opt for the bar again. The sight of his couch scares you, like your ghost from the night you drunkenly passed out on it still remains there.

He returns to the other end of the bar, pouring two drinks in glasses already sitting prepared. He slides one in front of you. It’s a deep amber color, could be whiskey or rum. You take it without asking. It could be poisoned for all you care, anything to take the edge off. The liquid burns as you take a small sip, definitely whiskey.

“What did you get out of Blaire Bréart?” He asks, not touching his drink.

You were supposed to be the one asking questions, not him. But whatever, the whole night stretches ahead of you both. His involvement with Eli and the torn pages can wait.

Throwing the rest of the whiskey back easily, you clear your throat. “For starters, she knows a lot more than what the department has led her on to believe. From how she told it, it seems that Eli’s detachment from family and friends was enough for her to investigate what had him so involved with work. Not much searching later, she finds his journal.”

“Blaire is aware of Umbrella’s involvement in Eli’s case,” he offers the idea.

You nod. “Sure. It’s safe to say that she is aware of Eli’s distaste for Irons, and how Umbrella may be related to him and the meetings. It’s all there, detailed in his journal. Not once did she seem skeptical about his work, Wesker. Not even a flash of doubt in her eyes. Umbrella’s involvement is highly plausible. People catch on and vanish, Eli became the victim of what he was investigating.” You catch yourself from going any further, watching him to gauge his reaction.

“So,” he lifts his glass, but doesn't drink. “Blaire is a liability.”

Your eyes widen a little, not expecting that to be his take away from all you said. “What? I mean– I don’t think so. She’s known all this and hasn’t reached out to anyone, as far as I’m aware. She found she could trust me, rightfully so, and shared her truth.”

”As far as you’re aware,” Wesker echos, “that’s not a margin I’m willing to bet on.”

You scoff, incredulous. “What’s so bad if she does talk? Eli wasn’t the first to question Umbrella, and he won’t be the last. If enough people start connecting the dots, maybe that’s the pressure needed. It could trigger an official investigation, public scrutiny–”

Wesker cuts in, voice lower now, “you don’t think a multinational conglomerate worth billions of dollars wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a few nothing names down?” He refills your drink. “Umbrella will simply remove the few tumors from their operation and continue. Think lawyers and settlements.”

You bury your face in your hands and groan. Then you look up, meeting his hidden gaze. “Eli was fucking murdered, Wesker! Don’t give me that ‘lawyers and settlements’ bull. The people hold power. If we show them what really happened, cold, hard evidence, not even a fortress made of stacked Bennies will protect Umbrella.” Again, you throw the whiskey down like it’s nothing.

Wesker watches you in silence as you slam the whiskey back, he doesn’t flinch. “Evidence is purposeless when the courts are on your payroll.” He pauses, retrieving the bottle of whiskey from below the counter yet again and placing it in front of you. “And the Chief of Police cashes the same dirty checks.”

You stare at Wesker, dumbfounded. Of what has come of your mouth tonight hasn’t he shot down completely?

“I don’t get it then. What are we even trying to do here?” you mutter, frustration slipping through. “You tear down everything I say.” You pout childishly, though it’s not something you’d do if two shots of whiskey weren’t in your system.

“You’ve gone too far ahead of yourself.” He leans forward, steepling his fingers.

At first you feel a wave of anger rising within you, but it fades quickly, replaced by the memory of yesterday. He’s right. You’ve jumped too far ahead. You manage a sure, small smile. “You’re right. Let’s backtrack. Tell me about your work with Eli.”

“Just as I’d assured,” he agrees, maintaining control of the conversation.

The silence lingers between the two of you for a while, and you don’t mind letting Wesker gather his thoughts. It only gives you time to collect your own, yet you can’t really manage to. You notice how involved your eyes have become with his lips, the way they rest on his face. All his features, really. Just an object of perfection, even the remnants of naivety on his face, like he’s thought through it all. You find yourself caught in a trance made by the rhythm of his breathing.

Wesker still hasn’t said a word, but you see the way his lips press together. He remains deep in thought. He reaches for the decanter to pour you another glass, but your hands have already found it before his. Your grip trembles slightly when you exchange glances, and you pour a considerably larger amount than a shot into your glass. On accident, of course.

He crosses his arms just as he begins to speak. Even though you can feel his eyes on you through his glasses, you can tell his mind is elsewhere. “As I told you yesterday, Eli had approached me. It was under the guise of innocence, he ‘simply wondered’ about Chief Irons private meetings in the conference room. Subtle enough to mask the accusation beneath. Apparently, I’d been observed nearby on more than one occasion.” Wesker takes a moment to adjust his collar, then continues. “I had my own suspicions, just as I do now. As you recall, I used physical force on him when I caught him carelessly sniffing outside the conference room. I was trying to gather my own information, and I didn’t need a heedless journalist ruining that for me.”

“Sure,” you reply, almost reflexively. By the time he continues, your glass is already empty again.

“I suppose you could attribute that as a mistake on my end, as it gave Wilkes a reason to consider me a part of Irons’ equation. However, he approached me not long after that incident. This was when the meetings began to stabilize and occur roughly around the same time each week.” He leans forward, the light from the studio bulbs above catching on his glasses. “I gained his trust quickly. It was not long after that he became adamant that I pry into Irons’ business and gather three specific files he was certain could be used to tie the meetings back to the chief's involvement with Umbrella. This would be an ignorant course of action, and Wilkes seemed to disagree with me on that point. Approaching Irons with the motivation to see three files he keeps guarded would be beyond reckless.”

You sway a little on the barstool, eyeing your empty glass in deep thought. Files. Suspicion. Umbrella. Sure. It makes sense.

“My responsibilities within S.T.A.R.S. demanded much of my attention, but I allocated just enough of my time to Wilkes' efforts to give him the necessary... encouragement. As I have with you. He advanced through his assignments efficiently. Most of his energy was soon redirected toward Umbrella. He immersed himself in the research. Naturally, other aspects of his life began to decay. You could say for such an obsessive pursuit, he paid with his life.”

Paid with his life. That makes you perk up a little. It’s a cruel thing to say, no?

“Before long, my involvement with Wilkes had diminished to the point where calling us partners would be a generous mischaracterization. He grew secretive and defensive. Began taking actions without my consent, often in direct defiance of my instruction. With that behavior, the work only grew out to be more precarious for him. At the peak of his obsession, he disappeared. Abrupt. The meetings ended with him. Not a single one has occurred since.” Wesker pauses, looking past you at the view from his balcony to think. “Frankly, I expected the outcome. If only he had been candid with me.”

Something about the word ‘candid’, makes you want to laugh. Or maybe cry. You're not sure which, and the thought slips away before you can catch it. Your eyes drift again, down the edges of his turtleneck. You squint at him, trying to get serious, but your vision betrays you again. Suddenly the lights above your head are too bright. And your mouth feels too dry. What were you going to say? The realization is sick when it crawls up your spine. The remnants of the whiskey's flavor becomes appallingly noticeable on your tongue. The feeling hits like a truck, one cushioned by a blanket of warmth. You’re drunk. Far too drunk.

You didn’t notice it until now because you were trying so hard to listen. To think. But your thoughts are half formed echoes now, trailing off before they ever make any sense. Your fingers tremble when you reach for the glass again, but you remember that it’s empty.

You need to get out of here. Or sober up. Or at least pretend better than this. You don't even remember how much you've had. Four? Five glasses? Why didn’t he put that damn decanter away sooner to stop you?

You shift in your seat again. Your stomach flips as you grip the edge of the counter to steady yourself and try to swallow the rising heat in your throat. Wesker hasn’t said anything, just watching you with a calculated patience. What must he see in front of him? You can hardly remember what he even said to you.

How long have you been quiet for? He’s just been watching, of course he has, he’s already said his piece. This is what you came for, right? Fucking say something! You clear your throat and sit up.

“You tore those journal pages out, did you not?” The harsh accusation tumbles out of you sloppily, each work sticking together to form a barely cohesive sentence.

Oh fuck. That’s not what you meant to say at all. At least, not like that. It was meant to be gentle, a light push. You had the advantage of knowing he tore the pages out before he knew that you were aware. You’ve completely tossed that out the window now. To make matters worse, your hand instinctively shoots up to your mouth, dismayed by your own words.

Wesker tilts his head slightly, keeping his expression straight. “That’s an intriguing theory,” he says, somewhat indulgent. “But I think you’re approaching from a place of misinterpretation.” His eyes flick briefly to the glass in front of you, then back to your face. What’s he thinking?

“You should drink some water,” he adds, offhandedly, given the situation. He moves slowly, reaching for something below the counter. The action almost makes you flinch. When his hand is brought up again, he’s holding a glass.

Just like that, the weight of your question diminishes, deflected. You’re left with nothing but the feeling of how warm you are.

He moves away from the bar and you can’t help but watch him, disoriented and nauseous. He retrieves a pitcher from the fridge and fills the glass with cold water. He sets the glass in front of you, watching. Like giving a toddler broccoli for the first time and wanting to gauge their reaction.

“There,” he says. “Better.”

You stare at the water, unsure whether to drink or knock it over out of spite. That’s definitely the whiskey talking.

“We can continue this when you’re sober enough to think straight,” his voice is low

You hate how reasonable he sounds. You hate even more that he’s not denying the accusation. Just skipping over it like it’s inconsequential. But who will hold him accountable if not you? You try to speak, but your mouth opens without words. You look down at the glass, then meet his face again.

“I know,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “I know you tore them.”

Wesker studies you with a gaze that borders on being carnal. “You’re confused, sweet girl.”

Your eyes widen, and you realize he’s won this conversation.

He leans forward just enough for his shadow to fall over your shoulder. “Drink the water.”

Your hand finally closes around the glass and you raise it to take a gulp. When you look back up, he’s still watching. But he’s moved on somehow, emotionally, like the conversation has already passed.

“I want…” You blink hard, trying to clear the blur in your vision. “I want to go home.” You hate the way your voice cracks.

Wesker doesn’t say anything for a moment, considering the best course of words. Finally, he speaks. “You’re in no condition to. Rest here for the night.”

Is this what he wanted? Drive you here so that you have no way to get home? To get you drunk and confused? You shake your head, not backing down.

You know he’s right. Your legs wouldn’t carry you five steps. But that doesn’t stop the desperation in your voice. “I don’t want to be here anymore,” you say, quieter now. You feel vulnerable and exposed.

This time your plea lands, there’s a change in the atmosphere. He just steps back slightly, a predator giving its victim room to sprawl in their final resting place. “Fine.”

Your hands are trembling again, and you press your palms to your thighs to stop the shaking. Helplessly, you watch as he leaves the kitchen and joins your side by the stool. Never in your life have you felt more shame. Although, the feeling doesn’t sting as it would if you were sober.

Carefully, you manage off of the stool. Wesker’s arm snakes around your waist, and he begins to lead you towards the entryway. Your body leans into his without meaning to, your head against his shoulder. His warmth is no less addictive than before, and you hate the satisfied hum that escapes your throat.

It’s pouring outside. Cold, stinging raindrops flick against your skin. Wesker handles you like a fragile porcelain doll, guiding you through the downpour to the back of the complex. He gently braces you against the concrete wall, offering a moment's rest.

You want to cry, but the tears won’t come. Instead, you stare blankly at the deserted surroundings. The sky has turned nearly black, thunderclouds blotting out the last of the light. Your eyes move to Wesker, he stands nearby looking off into the distance. This situation feels all too familiar.

There’s no time like now to try and fix things. You’ve already embarrassed yourself to the point of no return, so why not say all those words that you could never manage? It can’t get any worse than this.

You swallow hard, and the words come out slow, fairly slurred. “I don’t get you,” you say, your voice barely louder than the rain. “It’s so on and off with you.”

Wesker doesn’t look at you right away. His jaw tightens ever so slightly, but he stays silent, eyes still fixed on something far off. He’s thinking.

You huff in frustration, wiping the water from your face, your tears mix with the raindrops. “You’ve gone out of your way for me, even at times I don’t deserve it. And sometimes you look at me like you want me dead. Like I’m a fly in your ear.”

Your legs wobble, and your shoulder presses harder into the wall to keep yourself steady. “I’m tired, Wesker. You’re…fucking confusing me. Just,” you sigh, licking your lips out of a nervous habit. “Just tell it to me as it is. I can take it. But stop toying with my emotions.”

The only answer is the rain, and it stays like that for a while. When he finally turns to you, it’s hard to hold his gaze. He’s taken his glasses off. There’s something unreadable in his eyes. You play it up to be guilt, but it could very well be nothing.

You sniff, trying to collect the scattered pieces of your dignity, what’s left of it at least. Drooping your head down, a small pathetic laugh leaves you. This is the last place you expected yourself to be in life, not after countless shitty experiences in the past.

Wesker’s shoes fall into your view, but you’re too nervous to look up. He’s going to make a move, try and kiss you maybe. But you can’t let that happen, you can’t fall again.

You force yourself to look up, just barely. He’s close enough for his hot breaths to almost be on yours. “What are you trying to do, Wesker. I’m right here.” You don’t know entirely what you mean by that, it’s somewhat of a drunken challenge.

He moves forward, body inches away from yours. His hand twitches at his side, like he’s restraining himself. You don’t move, hypnotized by those eyes. And then his hand lifts, gripping your chin. Wesker tilts your head just slightly so you’re forced to meet his eyes fully.

His thumb brushes your bottom lip. Fuck.

“Do you think I’d toy with something that I want?”

You let out a breath that shakes. You know you can’t answer that. He has you pushed against a wall, there’s no point in restraining yourself now.

His lips press onto yours, controlled at first, but there’s something desperate and messy beneath the firmness. Pure hunger.

You play into it before even getting to feel surprised. Your hands curl into his sides, pulling him in closer. His right hand finds the back of your head, and the other manages around your waist. Being pressed together like this in the rain makes you forget that you were practically shivering just seconds ago.

His grip tightens around your waist. The contact causes a low groan to arise in his throat, how long has he been waiting for this?

“Still want to leave?” He mutters against your mouth.

You pull back just enough to look at him, meet his dark eyes. There’s something vulnerable under all that tension, and it satisfies you a little. You think you can really see him.

His forehead rests against yours for a second. Just breathing. Rain runs down both of you. You reach behind to take his hand off your waist, bringing it forward. Through it all, you stare into his eyes, so involved. You guide his hand to the waistband of your pencil skirt.

Wesker huffs, his lips begin to form a smirk. “‘Atta girl.”

You release his hand, closing your eyes. His fingers smoothly slip underneath the fabric and you lower your skirt, inviting him. Wesker’s lips crash into yours, you taste each other passionately, his kiss stealing your breath as your lips part in sync. One hand grips your waist, anchoring you to him, while the other continues its steady exploration. His thumb brushes between your thighs longingly. You don’t mind the slow pace, savouring the shiver it sends up your spine.

The kiss deepens, and you respond with fingers threading into his hair, back arching into his touch. You can feel exactly where his hand is, lowering the lace of your panties. His fingers press up against your folds, middle finger beginning to rub against your clit in an up and down motion.

Whining into his mouth, you part your lips from his to catch your hitching breaths. He seems to like that reaction, seeing that the pace of his finger speeds up. You bring your forehead forward to press against his shoulder, barely able to keep yourself steady.

When you’re wet enough, he easily slides his middle finger in, pumping it in and out with a relentless pace. All you can manage are messy breaths and quiet whines, holding onto him for support. You relish the smell of his cologne, not minding the way his soaked sweater sticks to your skin.

Every little reaction you give, every breathless sound, every soft whimper, even the subtle way your hips rise to be closer to his hand, drives him to move faster. Your neediness doesn’t go unnoticed, it spurs him on. He loves the way you’ve surrendered so willingly.

Wesker leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin, murmuring things you’re too far gone to fully process. But his voice, low and rough, sends another wave through you. Each moan from you is a sign of being brought closer to an orgasm.

“Finish for me,” he whispers into your ear. Wesker moves his head down to suck on your neck, the motion is as greedy as you’d expect.

His words are enough to do it for you, give you that final push. Your body spasms from pure ecstasy, moaning into his shoulder as you finish.

You struggle to catch your breath as you slowly come down, tears welling in your eyes.

A crack of thunder splits the sky, fates sealed. For a heartbeat, lightning illuminates both your faces. Wesker sees you, a vulnerable piece wrapped around his finger. You think you see him, who he really is. A man who struggles to be fluid with his emotions.

His hand snakes out from under your skirt. “You’re shivering. Let’s take you home.”

The effects of the whiskey begin to settle down on the ride back to your place, leaving behind a soft ache in your head. You feel overcome with exhaustion, lulled further into sleep with every turn Wesker makes.

His black suit jacket hangs onto your shoulders, providing enough warmth to stop your shivering. Your thoughts are dreamy and disjointed. Outside the window, the city moves in streaks of light. You shift slightly in your seat, sighing.

You can still feel his touch, lifting your hand to trace the part of your neck he sucked and bit at with your thumb.

There’s someone trapped inside you, screaming. Your rational, sober self, or at least what’s left of her. You push it down easily, barely able to recall what you were searching for when this evening began.

Something about torn pages.

Chapter Text

April 20, 1998

It’s a jinx waiting to happen, I know. But here’s where I’m going to log my progress with this investigation. Eli’s journal has been…oddly inspiring. And hey, if I do go missing someday, at least I won’t tear these pages out and have some poor investigative journalist rip their hair out trying to put the pieces of my story together. Thanks for that, Eli.

Irons hasn’t been piling mountains of work on me, so I’ve had enough time to put my attention where it really matters. This isn’t a diary so I won’t bother detailing my personal endeavors with the man, but Wesker has been a surprisingly level partner.

He talks, I follow. Almost without question. I think I’m more accustomed to emotionally direct people, and he’s anything but. He moves forward. Anything from the past that doesn’t serve the investigation gets discarded. Our kiss on my birthday? Gone. The argument where he lashed out at me, justifiably, in hindsight? Gone. But he’s still human. What did those things mean to him? I guess it’s an exorbitant demand to know, I hardly understand what it means to me.

I know where Eli’s ex-girlfriend works now. Hopefully one visit to that print factory will be enough for me to find her. I keep wondering how I’ll act when I do. Will I mold myself in accordance with her? My attempts at manipulation rarely land the way I intend. And my ploys never seem to work how I want for them to do. Everything sort of just falls apart.

I’ve already ruined the first entry by making it a complete sap fest, yikes. I guess this sort of thing takes a habit of getting into. When my head’s not such a mess, I’ll try to write something actually useful. Hopefully, once I track down the ex, there’ll be something worth the ink.

Signed, yours truly.

Another blunder, and such a stupid mistake is not something your hungover mind is willing to piece together. Your body is working overtime, but the universe doesn’t seem to care. You still woke up this morning, afterall.

As far as you can recall, the first entry in your personal journal is not something you particularly mind Wesker coming across. Given that you let him completely sweep you off your feet that wistful night, you forgot your work bag there at his suite. He went through your belongings once, what’s gonna make it any different this time around?

You massage your temples with your thumbs and think, brushing off that spasm of pain that radiates through your forehead. Besides your own journal, there isn’t anything else in that bag which would arouse your concern if Wesker got to it. Eli’s journal is in there, but what’s in it that he hasn’t seen already?

A large mirror spans across most of the wall beside the row of booths, reflecting customers hunched over coffee and half-eaten bagels. You glance over the mark on your neck and run your fingers down the memory of last night. It feels like being a saint who strayed from a pilgrimage. There’s no way to scrub away your sins, only time can dull the sting of guilt

Was it so wrong though? And was it really all lust? Even back in college, when you messed around, you were young and dumb. Sure, you cried yourself to sleep some nights, wondering why the “true love” was fading with your partner at the time. When that initial spark had been so intoxicating. No matter what happened, you were convinced you loved them. But in the back of your mind, you knew it was just a fling. A greedy, self indulgent fling.

And after the initial heartbreak, you never had that same thought again. Every romantic encounter since then, you could assess within a minute and know what it was.

But with Wesker, it’s different. Hell, you’re almost scared to even think about it. After becoming so involved in Eli’s disappearance, the concept of life just feels so frighteningly fleeting. The harder you commit emotionally to him, the worse the pain will be when it’s inevitably ripped away from you. So you can’t admit to it. That you’re falling for him.

It’s easy to push the feeling down in practice, and you find yourself feeling quite good about it when you really get to thinking. But when even the memory of the way his touch felt comes back to you, there’s a buildup of dread that weighs your heart down. You love that feeling of being under his cold thumb. You’re something he wants.

Tired of staring at the hickey on your neck in the diner mirror, you finally reach for your cream cheese bagel and take a generous bite. Across the table, Boutros slides back into the booth, carefully balancing two plates and a steaming cup of coffee. You hastily button the collar of your dark green dress shirt, hoping he hadn’t noticed the mark when you first met up at the cafe.

You wipe the crumbs off your lips with your sleeve, ignoring the neatly stacked napkins right in front of you. A small hum of approval escapes before you swallow.

As you lock eyes with Boutros, you realize this is your first time seeing him outside of work. He looks more mature, calmer and almost timid. He lowers his gaze and starts fussing with the tableware, aligning his utensils so they point precisely toward you, straightening the plates until they’re perfectly symmetrical. What’s next, origami with the napkins?

“Croissant and a bagel, huh?” you say, offering a horrible point of conversation. It’s pretty obvious why the air has an awkward feel to it. He probably assumes you and Wesker have been going steady. And to top it off, he just found out you’ve been digging into Eli’s case on your own time.

“I’ve got my breakfast and am ready for you to spill it, rookie. Do you wanna start with the crime noir romance you have going on with the S.T.A.R.S captain? Or Eli Wilkes’ ex-girlfriend?” Boutros, clearly pleased with himself, takes a careful sip of his coffee.

You find yourself sitting up a little straighter when he speaks, his voice cutting through the silence. People feel too complicated these days, and there’s nothing you hate more than tiptoeing around unspoken tension. Sure, you’re the one who disrupted the easy dynamic you used to have with Boutros by not being upfront, you realize that you don’t owe him any sort of explanation.

Recognizing that truth is one thing, but how do you passively tell Boutros he’s overstepping? You did promise to tell him everything over breakfast, sure. But so what? Since when was your word gospel? People make mistakes and take things back all the time, you can do just that here. The only concern of yours is raising suspicion. If word about Eli’s case ever circles back to Wesker, if people start talking, you’re terrified he’ll pull away again. And that thought alone is enough to keep you on your toes.

You’ve barely got him and you’re already scared of losing him, commendable, you think.

No matter how you approach this, it can’t turn into another Chris situation. The story you give Boutros needs to be vague, yet comprehensive. Above all, it has to be boring. Painfully boring. Knowing his appetite for drama, if you dilute your version enough, he’ll lose interest on his own. Then, ideally, you can pivot to small talk. Safe, forgettable and entirely comfortable small talk. All of this needs to sound natural, of course. You can’t just switch on him like the fond conversations before never happened (unlike a certain individual).

“I guess Wesker could be the start,” you shrug casually. “It’s really nothing special. The whole shebang at Club Owl was sort of where sparks started to fly. I don’t know, it’s not really something I wanna dive into right now.” You’ve already lost your appetite, not from the lie itself, but from how easily it slid out. What unsettles you isn't the dishonesty. It’s how little you care.

Boutros’ expression softens, reading something behind your eyes that even you don’t feel is there. “You’re lucky I like you, I won’t prod.”
It’s hard not sighing out in relief, and he seems to catch the tension sliding off your shoulders.

“You’re not off the hook yet,” he laughs. Boutros reaches for his bagel and takes a large bite, eyes fluttering shut as if that will somehow enhance the taste. “Damn, that’s good! Have you been here before?”

“It’s my first–”

“Wait.” He cuts you off. “Yesterday you said you needed to get upstairs. I don’t know where else you could have held that meeting with Blaire other than Captain Wesker’s office.” He looks up at you, face scrunching as he pieces things together. “Don’t tell me…”

“What?” you spit out in a little too much defense. If only you could jump over this table and shove your bagel down his throat. You like Boutros, but where does he get off with these ridiculous accusations that are disguised as innocent curiosity?

“You have him involved in Eli Wilke’s case?” His eyebrow raises, waiting for you to explain yourself.

“No, I don’t. And even if I did, why does it matter? I’m trying to solve a missing person’s case here, not help bury it. If Irons doesn’t wanna do his job, I will. Wesker let me borrow his office, and that’s all. He wasn’t interested in why.”

Bringing his cup of coffee up to his lips, he takes a slow, long sip. The slurping sound grates on your nerves. “That sounds nothing like Wesker. Even with whatever coming of age romance you two have been getting up to, letting you use his office like that without question?” he comments easily. Your frustration doesn’t go by Boutros.

“Doesn’t sound like him? You hardly know him,” you snap. “He actually respects me and the fragility of my work. And yeah he was harsh on me after my stupid fuck up at the club, but he never once mocked me for it. I know I judged him for his cold front, and I was wrong to do that.”

“Hey, cool it–”

“No.” You cut him off. “You’re being an ass. If you hate Wesker so much that the idea of him helping me with a murder case makes you suspicious, then maybe you should be worried about me.”

“Slow down, rook,” he says quickly, struggling to keep up.

“You should be worried about me, Boutros,” you say, frowning. “Not tossing around baseless accusations like me trying to cover for Irons’ incompetence is some kind of crime.”

Suddenly, Boutros slams his fist on the table, making the plates jump. You blink, startled.

Now that he has your full attention, he clears his throat. “You think Eli was murdered?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you backtrack quickly, voice tense. “I’m not saying it’s definitely a murder case. Just a possibility I can’t ignore.”

Boutros places both his hands on the table, maybe as a way to comfort you. Although you don’t understand why, it works. “I get it. You want to pick up where the chief dropped the ball. We’ve had cases like that, ones that got brushed aside for the sake of convenience.” He watches you, eyes steady. “Eli was a journalist. I know it’s easy to assume he pissed off the wrong person. That kind of job draws heat. But you can’t go chasing theories just because the nature of his work invites them.”

You stay quiet, listening.

“You’re smart,” he continues. “And saying the word ‘murder’ means you’ve got more than just a hunch. It means you’ve either seen something, or someone, that points in that direction. So what is it?”

You bury your face in your hands with a groan, no longer bothering to keep up the act. This is ridiculous, almost as bad as what happened with Chris. Except you’re painfully sober, making it so much harder to bear. Another stupid mistake, and god, you could wring your own neck for it.

When you finally look up, Boutros is still watching you, concern flickering in his eyes. You lean out of the booth and flag down a waitress. “Can we get the check, please?”

Settling back into your seat, you meet Boutros's gaze. “Stupid slip up, Boutros. Just forget it, okay? I’m hungover and…yeah, I’m hungover. That should be a good enough excuse.”

His jaw tightens for a second, then relaxes, maybe as to avoid setting you off again.

“You missed breakfast yesterday,” he says. “And when we finally do get together, you show up hungover to it?”

His tone isn’t sharp, but it stings anyway. It’s beginning to dawn on you that you’re kind of an asshole.

He exhales and rubs a thumb over a smudge on the table. “Look. Jill told me what happened on your birthday. Said you had a little too much and had to leave early.”

His voice is careful now, the poor guy’s probably worried you’re about to blow a fuse again. “I didn’t think much of it at the time, but this is the third occurrence since I’ve met you,” he pauses. “I just want to know if you’re okay.”

Third occurrence, he said. And that’s from his perspective alone. It’s been far more than three times though.

A couple beers after work, then maybe a few more at home to help you sleep. A shot or two before meeting anyone socially, just to take the edge off. Even when you manage to fight the urge, you’ll just cling to cigarettes for comfort. Is that really any better?

You close your hands into fists in your lap, nails pressing into your palms.

It’s been spiraling for a while now, hasn’t it? You’ve been calling it stress, bad timing, or needing to unwind.

Ah, fuck it. I deserve a little something.

I really can’t bear to be alone with my thoughts tonight.

I need a distraction, people really got to me today.

The need to feel nothing at all has become its own kind of feeling.

Has Wesker noticed?

Has he been catching on? All you know is it’s started leaking into everything, your work, your relationships, your ability to show up and just be present. It’s slowly ruining you.

The most horrific part is that you are present through it all, sober or not. You know you’re a ticking bomb. A car’s speeding toward you, and instead of diving for the sidewalk, you just stand there and watch You don’t even know if you can stop this.

Your chest goes tight, your breath too shallow. Shame washes over you in a thick, suffocating wave. You can barely look at Boutros, well-meaning Boutros. And he’s not even mad. Just worried.

No one ever seems to get mad. Do they know you have a problem? Is that why they are so patient with you?

You break.

“Oh, so what, now I’m a point of concern?” you snap. Your voice cuts through the low hum of the cafe, some heads turn. “You and Jill–what, you sit around talking about how worried you are about poor little me?”

Boutros’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s not–”

“Don’t bullshit me,” you cut in, voice rising. “You’re all the same. Smiles to my face and ‘oh, Tornado Tom this, Tornado Tom that’. Then you dissect me like I’m some sick fucking freak behind my back, right?” You let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “I’m just a punchline to everyone. A walking disaster for the group to rag on.”

Boutros shakes his head in quick desperation. He raises both hands, motioning for you to lower your voice. “That’s not what anyone–”

“Spare me. You think I don’t see the way you look at me? You think I don’t know how they twist their words to be just on the edge of judgement? Laugh at her, but God forbid anyone gets close enough to get involved!”

You’re standing now, breathing heavily. A slow panic begins to settle, but it’s far too late to go back on your words.

“I didn’t come here to be picked apart, or some quiet little intervention. Boutros will be the big hero, won't he? He’s ticked off all the boxes. ‘Seen drinking? Check. Angry outburst? Check.’ Well, you got your list, Boutros.” You throw your hands up. “Congra-tu-fucking-lations!”

He’s stunned. And what’s worse than his silence is the hint of fear in his eyes. He’s afraid any move might set you off even worse. Boutros says nothing, so you have to keep going. If your truth somehow hasn’t settled, you’ll really drive the nail in the coffin now.

“You don’t understand me,” you say, voice beginning to settle. “You’ve known me five minutes and already think you’ve got it all figured out. You think I don’t know I’m fucking up? You think I haven’t felt it creeping into everything?”

“There’s no ‘it’, rook. Just me and you. Come on.” He stands too, trying one last time. The effort is a valiant one, you’ll give him that.

You reach into your pocket with trembling fingers and grab a crumpled twenty, slamming it onto the table hard enough to rattle the silverware.

“Breakfast’s on me.” You don’t let him get another word in, heading for the door. For now you’ve outrun the shame, leaving it behind in the cafe with Boutros. The jingles of the door fill the awkward silence inside.

Within seconds of slamming the front door shut, you’re already on your knees, nails digging into your scalp. A few incoherent jumbles of words tumble out of you, cut off with short gasps. It doesn’t take much longer for the composure to shatter when the tears begin to well. You wail, shaking with each disjointed breath. Snot strings between your fingers as you slap a trembling hand over your mouth, desperate to muffle the noise. Your other hand stays tangled in your hair, pulling.

You snapped at a friend who meant well, who worried for you. And it was so much worse than just telling him to fuck off, you just had to go on and on. Like a wave hammering at a dam that finally caved in after enduring enough abuse.

Your head dips lower until your body follows, collapsing sideways. You curl in on yourself, arms around your knees, pulling everything in tight, trying to hold yourself together. Eyes squeezed shut, you press your face to the floor, and the coolness of the hardwood feels nice against your hot cheek.

The guilt is too much to bear, and you let the thoughts drift away, trying to think of something comforting. You wish Wesker could be here now, holding you. But what would he think to see you curled in a fetal position on the floor?

Would his eyes go cold? Would he say anything? Step over you like debris on the floor?

It doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t let it happen. You’d never break down like this in front of another person, and you never have. Although you can’t help but wonder if Wesker would find you pathetic, crying over something as little as lashing out at Boutros. You bet he’d forget about something like that just moments after doing it.

Above everything, nothing else seems more desirable to you right now than sleep. Right here on the cold, hard floor.

Well, there’s one other thing. You hoist yourself up with a small grunt, wiping your nose with a sleeve. It’s not an immediate course of action, as you let yourself sit there for a moment and laugh a little.

Being this pathetic is almost comforting when you’re in no one's company. You can be as much of a mess you want. Order an entire seafood boil right now, eat it in bed and let the butter soak into your sheets. But no, that’s not what your heart is set on. There’s something else that will always soften the pain to a point where you don’t mind getting stabbed by it anymore.

Your palms press into the hardwood and you push yourself off the floor. With the way you waltz to the kitchen, it’s hard to believe the state you were in just moments ago. The cool air feels far too liberating when you pop the fridge door open.

It really is a reflex guiding your movement when you reach out and grab a beer.

You bring the bottle to your mouth and tilt it just right. Clamping your teeth down with a tight jaw, you jerk your head and the cap pops off. The cap hardly has time to even clatter against the floor before you are chugging it down.

You lean against the counter, bottle dangling in your hand. Outside, you can hear birds. Someone moving furniture, cars passing by. It’s awful out there, and surely no place for you. It’s safer in your little box, and far more comforting.

Once more you raise the bottle up and finish the remaining half of beer. The first one is just a test to see if you’ve still got it, and you always make an effort to chug it down greedily. However the second time around, that’s the one you savor. You sip slowly and let it settle in your chest.

Given how sacred the afternoon ritual feels, it’s no surprise that a deep irritation settles itself in you the moment someone knocks at the door. Without looking, you tilt the bottle and your head back in one motion, stealing two greedy gulps before attending to whatever nuisance awaits.

You set the bottle down harder than necessary and drag yourself toward the door.

The knock comes again when you’re halfway there. Not to say you’re an expert on the art of knocking, but the two short taps give off a gentle, unhurried vibe. Although, the intent makes no difference to you, you’re ready to blow up either way, regardless of whoever on the other end is deserving of it or not.

The person on the other side better have a damn good reason. You unlatch the door and swing it open, maybe a bit too aggressively. Well, the hinges snapping are your landlord's problem.

And what do you know, it’s your lovely landlord Ms. Hall.

“Oh, dear, I thought you were home! Is it an okay time?” The sweetness that dangles off her every word is enough to give you a cavity.

You place a hand behind your neck and huff in frustration. “Well, to be honest, I’m kinda in the middle of some–”

“It’s just a quick thing my love, come on down.” She scurries down the stairway before you can manage another word.

You let out an irritated sigh and dart into your room, making it to a dresser drawer. Your fingers fumble desperately through the cluttered dresser drawer, pushing aside vacation pamphlets and half completed sudoku puzzles you long ago gave up on. Soon enough your hand closes around a small, crinkled pack of mints.

With a quick flick, one slips smoothly between your lips. Bye-bye beer breath! You suck on the stale mint while rushing out the door and heading for the entryway of the complex after Ms. Hall.

The stationary bicycle sitting by the entrance catches your eye in an instant. Your eyes drift to Ms. Hall, and her quiet admiration for the machine is reverent. Your eyes return to the bike. The pieces click and the weight of the realization presses down, twisting your face into a grimace.

You like Ms. Hall, and you’ll help her haul that damn bike without a second thought, as much as you don’t want to.

“So, dearie,” she says, eyeing you with a knowing look. “Think you can manage it?”

“I don’t see why not.” You give a playful flex of your left arm and grip your bicep with a chuckle. Ms. Hall laughs softly, shaking her head as she steps aside to give you room near the bike.

“I wouldn’t ask if I had a choice, but that rude delivery man wouldn’t lift a finger to help me! It must be the heat, has everyone acting sideways.” She crosses her arms, still shaking her head.

“Well,” you grunt, grabbing the bike by the handlebars, “can’t blame ‘em too much then, can you?”

You pull, but to your irritation, the bike barely moves. Ms. Hall stays by the front door to her apartment, watching patiently.

You exhale slowly, letting your muscles go slack for a moment. Then, drawing in a deep breath, you brace yourself and tense up, pulling with every ounce of strength you can muster. It doesn’t budge.

One more go. You grunt again, more out of frustration than effort, and straighten up, wiping your palms on your pants. The bike remains planted on the tile.

Ms. Hall watches you with a sympathetic frown, her arms folded loosely over her chest.

“Poor dear,” she says gently. “Maybe pushing it would be better?”

You glance at her, chest still rising and falling. “Can’t you just leave it out here? Give the other tenants a show when you workout?”

She’s unimpressed, narrowing her eyes at you. “Keep joking around like that and I’ll have to start charging you rent!”

You smirk and take her advice, moving behind the stationary bike. The thing looks lighter than it feels. You brace yourself, plant your feet, and give it a solid shove. It rocks slightly only to settle right back into place.

Still nothing. How did the delivery guy even manage to bring it all the way here from his truck?

Ms. Hall kisses her teeth, placing her hands on her hips. “Thank you dear, you can stop now. I’ll have to leave it out here until Walker comes home from work. I’m sure he can manage it.”

“Walker?” You scoff, straightening up to wipe your forehead “Forget it, that guy's a twig. I can do it, just hold on.”

You bend again, pushing the seat, now more determined than ever. Still you’ve made no progress in even managing to move it an inch.

One more push. One more, just–

“Um, dear,” Ms. Hall says cautiously.

You ignore her, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle tightening as you give it everything you’ve got.

“Dear,” she says again, louder this time.

Still nothing. Or–wait!

The bike suddenly rises effortlessly.

You’re too deep in the moment to notice, eyes shut out of focus. Realizing the bike is no longer touching the ground, you open one eye.

Standing beside you, one hand under the seat and the other gripping the handlebars, is Wesker. He lifts it like the thing only weighs fifty pounds.

You blink. “What…” you're not sure if that means ‘what are you doing here’, or ‘what the hell, I had it!’ or maybe just a general ‘what’ aimed at the universe for cursing you.

He says nothing. Just raises an eyebrow, then turns and starts carrying the bike into the apartment without any visible struggle.

You massage your now sore forearms and mutter, “I practically had it.” While staring a hole into his back, you notice your work bag slung over his shoulder.

So that’s what he’s doing here.

Ms. Hall rushes after him, and you can hear her distant chatter instructing him on where to place it. You lean against a nearby wall, still feeling the ache in your arms. Glancing down at your hands, you flex your fingers slowly, willing the soreness to ease. Seeing Wesker’s display of strength makes you feel a certain way your pride would never admit to, but you feel it nonetheless. You shake your head slightly, trying to focus on anything else, but the image of him effortlessly carrying the bike persists.

“Love,” Ms. Hall says as she returns to her front door, distancing you from the perverted thoughts. “Won’t you convince your sweetheart Albert to stay for tea? I must thank you both for your efforts!”

You sigh, forcing a smile for appearances. “He isn’t my sweetheart. And no thank you, Ms. Hall. It’s quite alright. We have some work related business to catch up on.”

She is clearly brought down by the news, but perks back up within a second. “Of course, you and your catching bad guy business. Don’t hesitate to call if you need a snack, okay?”

If only your mother had showered you with an ounce of the same affection. Well, maybe not. You might’ve been smothered under all the tenderness. You nod, seeing Wesker walk up behind Ms. Hall. She moves out of the way for him, and he joins your side.

“Thank you again, dears. Keep cool today!” she says cheerfully before promptly closing her door, leaving the two of you alone in the entryway.

With a low whistle, you turn to face Wesker. You are happy to see him, there’s no denying that. Yet you feel anxious, and rather unsure. What sort of standard does he hold women up to?

You yourself are far too sentimental to forget about your sexual partners, always left with a sort of ache after one night stands. It’s a sad thought, but you don’t know much about Wesker as a person. You doubt he’ll give you any sort of special treatment after last night, but there’s no harm in dreaming.

“You brought my bag. Thanks,” you say, reaching a hand forward to take it from him.

Wesker doesn’t let go, keeping the strap slung over his shoulder. In fact, you can see the way his fingers tighten their grip around it.

“Ah ah,” he smirks. “That’s not how this works.”

You didn’t think he was capable of having a sense of humor. Although it would usually urge a laugh from you, you feel embarrassed. Still, it eases your nerves just slightly.

He leans just a little closer, enjoying this far too much. “Where are your manors? Invite me in,” he says, voice dauntingly low. “Then you can have it back.”

God. If he keeps this up I’ll take him right fucking here. You can’t allow yourself to be too charmed, of course. Your apartment is a disaster and a half. But forget the state of your home, you’re in no state to be alone with him, not when your thoughts are this tangled, and not when your skin still remembers the weight of his hands. Your feelings are still a mess, you're still trying to reconcile what happened last night, what it meant. The parts of it you can remember, at least.

You can’t keep giving him the benefit of the doubt. He knows about your habits and has seen the way you drink when you don’t want to feel. That decanter stayed out far too long. And sure, you don’t expect to be babied, but if he’s such a gentleman, why didn’t he step in?

And yes, you would kill to relive last night with the way he handled you. But would it not have been more nice of him to have taken you home straight away? Regardless of your fuzzy memory, you remember your little emotional outburst. He’s never been too fond of those, his expression always twists a certain way. But last night he just folded you into him without the usual condescension.

If only you could remember more, but when you think about it too hard, a sharp jut of pain courses through your head. You wince and the memory slips away again.

“Fine. But I’m warning you, it’s still a mess.” You start up the stairs.

He follows after you, entering your apartment as you hold the door open for him.

You feel like you’re seeing your own living room for the first time. Suddenly aware of just how bad you’ve let things get this week. A few empty bottles clutter the coffee table next to your ashtray with you still haven’t emptied out. There are crumpled papers littered around the floor, some even having found their way underneath the couch. The throw and a lone pillow tossed on the couch make it painfully clear you’ve been using it as a makeshift bed. The scattered cushions on the floor don’t help your case.

More embarrassing than the empty beer bottles are the two celebrity gossip magazines sprawled open atop your laptop. One is flipped to a random photo of a shirtless male pop star in his boxers, except where his face should be, there’s a dark, burnt hole, a cigarette stub pressed out right on the page.

Even while in your safe space, it feels like the atmosphere of your home has shifted when you close the door behind Wesker. It’s like you’re trapped in here with him. “A mess. Told you so.” You jerk your head towards the couch. “Feel free to sit.” You’re so embarrassed that it’s hard to even feel horny anymore.

He moves toward the couch, passing the kitchen on his left. His gaze flicks to the counter where the two beer bottles sit just as you left them, one is empty, and the other half-drank. The chill still clings to the glass, telling him it’s very recent. However, Wesker doesn’t say anything, continuing to the couch. It’s quite an image seeing the pristine man amongst the mess.

He sets your work bag down on the coffee table with care, making sure none of the bottles close by get knocked over. Though it doesn’t really matter if they fell, not that you’d let a drop of beer go to waste.

You hurry out to the terrace to grab a chair, bringing it back into the living room. Once inside, you set it down directly across from the couch before lowering yourself into the seat.

Wesker watches your every move, clearly fascinated with examining a creature such as yourself in her natural habitat.

You find yourself already beginning to slouch, perking up suddenly. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

When he smirks, you already know he’s preparing some stupid jab. “Given your impressive dedication to daytime drinking, I imagine the selection is extensive.”

His lack of seriousness is refreshing, so you decide to play along. “Oh, absolutely. I’ve bought enough vodka to qualify the brand for the Nasdaq.” You smile a little. “If they hit another quarter like this, I’m expecting stock options.”

Wesker shakes his head to the side once. “No, thank you. Someone has to keep a clear head around here.”

Much to your own surprise, you aren’t all over Wesker already. Really you didn’t think you could manage. What tears at you is the lack of a label for whatever relationship the two of you have, but perhaps after easing into some more conversation it will be easier to bring up.

“You know,” you say, shifting in your chair, “I’ve been keeping a journal myself. And before you start scolding me, I barely let it leave the house.” You lean in a little, eyes narrowing. “But I have to ask, did you happen to take a peek at it when I forgot my bag at your place?”

His smirk lingers, but you feel the atmosphere change. The air shifts to be no longer lighthearted. “I’m not one to give into idle curiosities.”

You grin. “Hah! So you admit you were curious at least? Go on then, ask me.”

Wesker is clearly amused, but no less skeptical. “Ask you. About what, exactly?”

You hold a hand up to your chin and think. “Those ‘idle curiosities’ you have about me. Why don’t you start with that?”

He crosses one leg over the other, clasping his hands together. “Very well. One question. Then we’ll proceed with work.”

Honestly, you want nothing to do with Eli’s investigation today. You still feel sick over this morning. But you doubt Wesker would have come all this way just to return your bag. The man is just too resolved.

You find yourself almost at the edge of your seat, mind running through the possibilities of what he may ask.

“Why such fixation on Eli’s case? What’s driving this investigation forward for you?”

Of all the questions you imagined him asking, you never thought he could stump you with one. You’re almost frozen in time, breaking the posture of a statue when touching your lips to think.

Naturally, you should say justice, right? Well, maybe not! That is way too cheesy, you can already imagine the way his face will scrunch up in judgement. ‘Justice’, since when have journalists ever had a strong sense of justice? You could almost laugh.

Although, why does it matter if it sounds cheesy? It’s the truth. Sure you’re no saint and have a dozen duffle bags worth of problems, enough to go around for all the people you’re acquainted with. But you saw the way grief struck Amber’s face, and how you could just sense Blaire was somehow…fuller, before Eli disappeared.

You never understood the sentiment of a person being selfish if they only help others to feel better about themselves. It’s better than not helping at all!

You want to help because it will wipe away some of your sins, and because you feel bad. It’s not that deep, quite shallow really.

And since we’re being so honest, you might as well also admit that you like being close with Wesker. You’re working on something the two of you are passionate about, and it gives you ample reason to see him again and again.

There’s no denying your small crush on him, but perhaps it's better to keep that to yourself for now.

You realize you’ve taken more time than what is deemed socially acceptable to ponder, perking up in your seat. “Sorry–well, that’s tough. I guess at first it was intrigue that pushed me, but that’s a smaller factor to it now.” Noticing you’ve been gripping at the edges of the seat, you rest your hands on your lap.

You shift in your chair again. “It’s not really about guilt. I just…want to do the right thing.” You glance up, expecting a condescending look or some quip, but Wesker looks besotted with the thought, so you press on. “I know how that sounds naive. But it’s true. I feel compelled to, and I guess it making me feel better about myself is just a brownie point.”

You pull an imaginary loose thread off your sleeve. “I guess that’s just being human. Wanting to do good because you should. Just because it’s the right thing, like some cosmic assurance. That sounds childish out loud, doesn’t it?”

Wesker hasn’t moved an inch, but you can tell he’s changed somehow. He regards you as he always manages to, making you doubt your vulnerability. God, why does talking to him have to be so hard. Can’t we just go back to kissing already, you think.

Finally, he speaks, as intentional as ever. “You cling to your humanity, even though it’s failed you time and time again. It’s not absurd, perhaps brave.”

It’s startling, coming from Wesker. That’s unusually thoughtful of him. Your eyes widen a little, and you hope your face hasn’t already turned red.

Wesker continues, “if more people acted on such sentiment, we’d be in a disastrous world. Your soft virtues are tolerable only because they’re rare. One of you is enough.”

You can’t help but laugh. One of you? Is he suggesting that every other person on the planet acts on self interest except for you? Consider your ego stroked.

“You have an interesting way of assuring me, Wesker,” you smile. “Don’t need any booze to feel touched by that.”

Wesker glances at his watch, the moment evaporating just as smoothly as it came. “Let’s decide how to proceed with what intel Blaire has given you.”

Of course. You suppress the urge to sigh, knowing better than to outwardly be irritated. You’ve been spoiled enough as is, having gotten more out of Wesker than you expected. Still, you can’t help yourself. “Right. Wouldn’t want to interrupt the investigation with my ‘soft virtues.’”

His small smile as a response to your words is enough to satisfy you.

You begin, “I have a few ideas, actually. But I think they should wait until–”

A sudden soft buzzing cuts you off. You stop, glancing toward Wesker’s pocket, the source of the sound. He keeps his steady gaze on you, hand slipping into a pocket to retrieve his cell.

Wesker answers with a sneer in his voice. “What inconsequential affair are you calling to waste my time with now,” he spits.

It's not even aimed at you, but you flinch anyway. Wesker notices, as his look never left you. A voice scrambles for a response on the other end of the line, gathering his attention once more. His expression twists as irritation curls into his features.

“If you insist on testing my patience, I won’t hesitate to remove you. Expect my arrival shortly.” All at once, he rises from your old couch. Wesker pockets the device, his attention shifting back to you like you’re going to be obliterated by his words next.

“You're jumpy,” he says, amused. “Don’t forget, you invited me in.”

Did you really though?

You try to speak, but your voice won’t cooperate, only managing a stammer.

He cuts you off with a cold shake of his head. “Nevermind this. We’ll have to continue our business on another occasion, I’m afraid.” Without waiting for a reply, he’s already moving toward the door.

You rise from your chair quickly, watching his back as he is on his way out. The words come out before you even realize what you want to say. “Hold on a minute!”

He pauses, only turning his head back to regard you with a disgruntled frown. The man's busy, and you guess you can’t blame him.

“I thought you’d want your suit jacket back from last night,” you manage.

Wesker turns to face you fully, his interest piqued. “Of course, how could I have forgotten? Go on then, be a darling and retrieve it for me won’t you?”

You nod. “Okay, I won’t be long.”

Passing by Wesker, you rush down the hall toward your room. Not wasting any time, you move straight to your closet and pull open the door. There it hangs. Your fingers close around the hook, pulling the jacket free with your other hand.

For a moment you just hold the black suit jacket up, regarding it with pensive eyes. You can’t help but pout a little, recalling last night. Holding it so dear to your chest as you slept made your slumber so much sweeter. You wonder what brand of cologne Wesker uses, must be expensive for the scent to stick to the suit still. Yet it’s not too strong, each time it gently tickles your nose, your eyes roll just a little.

You look up at the ceiling and sigh, a fair trade, you suppose. To keep him sticking around for just a moment longer, you’ll have to part with his suit jacket. One more sniff wouldn’t hurt though.

Shamelessly, you pull the suit close to your nose, the fabric brushing against your skin. You have a deep inhale and sigh out dreamily. It smells no less godly than Wesker.

A low voice breaks the silence from the doorway. “There’s no need to smell that. I’m right here.”

Startled, you snap your head towards the door to find Wesker leaning casually against the frame, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His sunglasses glint in the dim light of your bedroom.

You’re frozen, caught in the act. There's no charming your way out of this one, it’s painfully clear what you were doing. Realistically, what the hell do you even say! In situations like this, it’s best to keep quiet and let the other person guide you through it.

“Why the startled look? I’m flattered, really.” Wesker’s smirk lingers as he steps forward.

“I’m sorry, I totally wasn’t creeping on you. I just really like the smell of–”

He closes the distance before you can finish, moving his hand to the back of your neck, tilting your head up to face him.

“Your cologne…” you manage, breath catching.

His mouth meets yours, no less exhilarating than any of the other times. You lean into him, eyes closed as desperation takes over your every movement. The kiss is, practiced, threaded with the same ferocity you imagine yourself kissing him with when he isn’t around, when it’s late and you’re needy.

When he finally pulls back, you exhale a little too slowly, lips still tingling. You swallow, savoring the taste of his spit mixed with your blood, his biting having punctured your lip just a little.

Your voice is softer than you intend. “Is this exclusive, Wesker?”

A smile tugs at the edge of his lips. Wesker leans in close again, his breath brushing against your ear as he speaks.

“I don’t share what’s mine.”

In an instant, the suit jacket slips from your fingers, falling with a soft thud on the floor between you. Wesker crouches, lifting his jacket up and tucking it between his arm and side. He straightens and turns to leave, pausing at the bedroom door.

He casts one final look over his shoulder, smirk intact. “Try not to miss me too much, dear heart.”

You’ve been brushing your fingers over your lips in disbelief again and again and again. Maybe you should be more open to Wesker about your feelings, in no world could you imagine him kissing you after catching you sniffing his clothes like a lunatic.

It’s been an evening of melancholic sighs, a weight pressing down on your chest with each gust of air that passes through your lips. A girl who has fallen so hard shouldn’t have to read stupid work emails.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard of your laptop, eyes flickering through your inbox. You’ve read over the same three emails at least four times now, not retaining a thing.

A new message appears, topping the pile of unread emails. You groan softly and glance at the sender’s name. Blaire Bréart.

Suddenly, you’re pulled from the whirl Wesker left behind. You sit up straighter and click open the email without hesitation.

Earlier Entries

I’ll keep this brief, I’m ready to talk. I compiled some notes of my own on what I remember from the early, now missing, entries. Preferably any weekday next week, I’m on my annual five day vacation. I know what you’re thinking, a girl like me needs a break! But speaking to you has awoken some strange eagerness in me. You’ll be interested in what I have put together. Let’s meet soon, okay?

Best,

Blaire

It’s surprisingly ambiguous, unlike Blaire. She seems more like the two hundred word count email type, but this is quite vague. You can only assume she is just being careful, maybe you could learn a thing or two from how cautious she is.

Her words still send a wave of uncertainty down your spine.

‘I know Umbrella is hiding something.’

If that pharmaceutical giant is truly that in tune, to be tracking Blaire’s every move, part of you just wants to walk away from the whole case. Without Wesker’s backing, you doubt you’d have the courage to keep digging.

She mentioned the missing entries in the email, and for some reason, your mind drifts back to last night. There’s a flicker of something, a dead zone lurking in the back of your thoughts. But with your hangover having easily washed the memory away, you convince yourself it probably isn’t that important.

Groaning, you shut your laptop closed and put it on the coffee table alongside your workbag, still sitting where Wesker left it.

Leaning back against the arm of the couch, you close your eyes. The day might’ve started on a bitter note, but you couldn’t have asked for a better ending. Still, that mess with Boutros lingers in the back of your mind. Speaking of which, that whole mess will have to be dealt with eventually.

Okay, you admit it. You were completely in the wrong to lash out at him like that. But you still feel the sting of wrath when recalling that pitiful look on his face. You’re an adult, and can very well navigate your problems on your own. You feel humiliated just picturing Jill, Chris, Barry and Boutros sitting around like some support group, labeling you an alcoholic or whatever, it’s enough to make your blood boil.

To hell with all of them! Even if a person means well, it doesn't give them the right to ambush you with a sensitive topic like that. You wouldn’t be surprised if your next visit to the S.T.A.R.S office ends up being a surprise intervention.

It’s hard to ignore the thoughts, even if all you want to think about right now is Wesker. Only one way to undo that knot.

Your right hand begins to trail down, finding its way beneath the waistband of your pants. So much pent up frustration. And all that dissipates when your fingers brush against your–

Your cell begins to vibrate against the glass surface of the coffee table.

Groaning through clenched teeth, you snatch the nearest pillow off the floor, press it hard over your face, and scream into it. Can a girl not masturbate in peace?

You grab your cell and answer the call, barely masking your impatience. “Yeah?”

“Hey now, is that any way to greet a friend?” Chris replies.

“Chris?” You sit up, more present. “Sorry, you caught me in the middle of something.”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Then I should be the one apologizing.”

You sigh and rub your forehead. “Don’t worry about it. What’s going on?”

“I just wanted to check in,” he says, his voice softening. “I know I kind of freaked you out on your birthday.”

“Oh, that?” You manage a small laugh, more nervous than anything. “It was ages ago. Finally mustered the courage to apologize, did you?”

“Muster the courage?” Chris repeats, amused. “Sorry to break it to you, but it takes more than just a pretty face to fluster me. But, full disclosure, Boutros told me what happened between you two.”

You should be embarrassed, but you’re more furious than anything. Boutros is gonna get a piece of your mind, sharing your private conversation from this morning with Chris like that. That mouth running asshole!

“That’s totally unfair, Chris,” you sound at the verge of tears, voice cracking.

“I know,” he says gently. “That guy doesn’t shut his mouth until there’s someone's fist in it. You’re a good woman, and it’s not my business whatever you’re dealing with. But if it sounds like a good idea to you, how about we get together?”

“Get together?” You reply, skeptical.

“Sure, get together as friends. We don’t have to talk about any of the serious stuff,” he assures.

“Well, alright. I guess you owe me that much after ruining my birthday and all…” you laugh a little.

“You are one dramatic gal.” Chris chuckles, and you can imagine him shaking his head. “How about tomorrow, when we’re off work?”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“Well, then. I’ll be seeing you. You can get back to whatever it is that I so rudely interrupted,” he teases.

“Hah, alright. See you, Chris.” You hang up.

Where to begin with Chris? You’ve hardly had the time to give him any thought. The way he shifted at the mention of the meetings still doesn’t sit right with you, but you can’t expect yourself to be the only person on the planet who acts off when they are drunk. Surely Chris was just having a moment.

He said there will be no serious talk when you meet up, and you believe him. But the sense that he’s not reaching out because he wants to see you won’t go away. He must think he has to. Out of concern.

Stupid Boutros, he had no right to share that conversation. But now, that damage is done.

Despite this new development, nothing is enough to shake you from the mood you were in before Blaire’s email derailed your focus. Your thoughts circle back to the assurance that has been echoing in your head since it was confessed to you.

“I don’t share what’s mine,” you repeat Wesker’s words from earlier.

It’s something serious between the two of you, finally crossing that stupid acquaintanceship that followed after meeting him for the first time. Whatever grey area you were stuck in has blossomed into what seems like a commitment on both ends.

You hate the idea of growing soft and opening yourself up to be vulnerable, far too familiar with getting hurt in that way. But with Wesker, all your guard drops. You just can’t let your stupid mind ruin this for you.

Even if you give it thought, there isn’t anything to be cautious of! Well, maybe one thing.

You’ve replayed last night at least a hundred times in your head today, and something still doesn’t sit right. That stupid dead zone again. You wish so desperately to remember, and wish even harder that your dumb brain would stop going back to it.

What can’t you recall? What were you so caught up with that night? Whenever you think about it, that same sharp pain splits through your head, the same one you felt this morning when you’d also tried to recall the thing you so desperately want to remember.

You groan and settle deeper into the couch. It’s nothing to worry about now. Like Chris said, you should get back to what he interrupted.

Almost instinctively, your hand drifts back into your pants.

Chapter Text

When you think of sacred places, the RPDs conference room is not a room you could have ever imagined yourself taking a liking to. But here you sit on a Monday afternoon, comfortably slouched in a chair, beginning to doze off. It takes your office chair from almost tipping backwards to wake you.

There’s a thick aroma of coffee that lingers in the air. That, combined with each tick of the wall clock, are enough to lull you to sleep. And sleep you did, a whole hour and a half long nap. Although you managed to wake up not too long ago, it's hard not to dip your head down just once more and give in to the exhaustion.

Although you hate to admit it, the most enjoyable part of last night was succumbing to some rather nasty thoughts about Wesker. Aside from that, you tossed and turned for hours in your bed. It was around four in the morning when you dragged your way to the couch and finally managed to fall asleep.

“Oy vey,” you grumble.

The words on the latest report Irons put you on all seem to bleed together into one unintelligible mass. Speaking of the devil, he’s seemed to calm down ever since you dropped Eli’s ID in front of him. You wish he hadn’t taken it, Blaire would have liked to receive it, you’re certain. Anyway, as relaxed as Irons seems, you can tell he has been careful lately. Usually you found his desk to be a cluttered disaster of reports, complaints, multiple coffee mugs and pens. Now he keeps everything in an orderly manner, you suspect because most of those files littered on his desk were confidential. Only there was no reason to put those things where they belong before you showed up, but now Irons has a reason to be circumspect.

Much to your dismay, you’ve received a resounding zero visitors in your ‘office’ today. Boutros always made an effort to show, even when the front desk was drowning with calls and visitors. You’re not exactly free from blame though. This morning you made sure to peek into the main hall to be certain he wasn’t by his desk, snuck over and signed yourself in. Even if you’re pleased by your own sneaky antics, there’s a sting of guilt there for avoiding him.

You at least expected Chris to come down, considering the two of you have plans this evening. Speaking of which, it may not be such a bad idea to make a quick trip back home and return with a more charming outfit. Not that you have any intention of attracting an unwanted Chris, it’s just that the idea of having dinner with him in your tank top that doubles as pajamas, lazily concealed by a bomber jacket, is not the most delightful image.

Perhaps it’s time to get off your high horse and stop expecting your co-workers to visit you like some sacred monument waiting at the end of a long pilgrimage. The thought of going up to the S.T.A.R.S. office just doesn’t sit right with you though. You’re having trouble keeping up appearances, and can hardly remember which version of yourself to be around who! From how you understand it, Chris and Jill view you differently. And beyond all that, you and Wesker are practically dating now, how are you meant to behave like everything is normal up there?

Speaking of which, you wouldn’t really constitute that night on your birthday as a date. Should you make the first move or wait for Wesker to take you out now that you are ‘official’?

Your fingers curl around the edges of the file on your desk, closing it.

It’s all too much to think about right now, especially when there is a far more urgent matter on hand. Like the fact that Blaire went AWOL on you. The two of you were meant to meet early in the morning, before your shift. Less to your annoyance and more concern, she didn’t show to the breakfast diner the two of you agreed to meet at.

You can hardly feel bummed, aside from having had a craving for crêpes all week, you are far more perturbed on the whereabouts of Blaire.

No matter, you can’t let it get to your head until after you spend the evening with Chris. The man must have just recovered from thinking of you as a total weirdo (thanks a lot, Boutros). If you’re all jumpy over Blaire while with him, he’ll assume you’ve been drinking again or something.

You wonder how much Chris knows about what’s going on between you and Wesker. If Boutros ran his big mouth, you wouldn’t be too surprised. Assuming you do go upstairs to see Chris after you’re all finished up, what if Wesker caught air of you two hanging out? He doesn’t seem like the type to assume there’s something more going on beneath a simple hangout. In fact, he doesn’t strike you as someone who jumps to conclusions at all. If he even cares that you're spending alone time with Chris, that is.

Now that your thoughts have wandered, it’s impossible to find it in you to give the case file another try. Running a hand through your hair, you sigh.

You glance around the office, both doors are closed. Hell, who's going to stop you? It's your office, most of the time, at least.

You reach into your pocket to retrieve your old reliable zippo, it's weathered more than any of your relationships ever did. Tomorrow, you'll finally kick this dirty habit. You promised yourself that much this morning. But before that, you see no harm in treating yourself to a pack of Marlboro reds, something a little lavish for these last few smokes. You figure you deserve at least that.

Gracefully pulling out a cigarette from the pack in your pocket, you bring it to your lips.

You light the thing and inhale, the first drag hits like a tingly kiss on the lips. You watch the smoke coils and lean back in your chair, cigarette perched between two fingers, other hand reaching for your phone.

You’ve already called Blaire twice today. Initially you wanted to wait, but decide to give her one last ring before going into a full panic. You dial and wait. As the line rings, your eyes wander towards the filing cabinet. You think of Eli’s gun, picturing it in your head. A man like that, from what you understand, could not have it in him to use the thing. So what sort of terror must have his investigation on Umbrella driven him to? To be prepared to use a gun to defend himself?

You hang up when it's clear Blaire won’t answer, taking another long drag.

Perhaps you shouldn’t call a fourth time. And maybe it’s best if Wesker doesn’t find out about this new development.

You edge into the S.T.A.R.S. office like a kid trying to catch Santa on Christmas Eve, peeking before allowing yourself in. Jill looks as she always does, a sight for sore eyes. Chris, on the other hand, is still locked in his eternal grudge match with the office printer. Barry isn’t around, but the coffee mug sitting on his desk leads you to assume he's taking ten.

“Hey guys,” you offer with a casual wave, stepping inside.

Chris finally gives up on the printer, slapping it once on the side like an old jukebox before turning toward you. “If your printer is down, you’re in the wrong place. This thing is gonna devour any paperwork you feed it.”

Jill gives you a nod of acknowledgement, speeding up her pace of writing so she can hand you her full attention.

You smile and approach Chris, shaking your head. “I came to say hi, and retrieve you. Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Chris looks over at Jill instinctively, but she doesn’t offer a word, just lifts her eyebrows and shrugs, a clear 'don’t look at me.'

Seeing Chris is at a loss for words, you tap your wristwatch in his face. “Seven-thirty, Redfield. Do you have any idea how boring busy work gets when going overtime?”

Chris smiles sheepishly “I was helping Jill with some case files, and then this thing,” he gestures at the printer, “decided it wanted to ruin my evening.”

You shake your head and glance at Jill. She says nothing, but the corner of her mouth curls.

“Let me give it a shot.” You motion at Chris to move aside, and he takes a step back.

Chris crosses his arms. “No clue we had a professional on our hands.”

You roll your eyes and step up to the printer. Popping the front panel open, you peer inside. There's paper jammed in the fuser, and you carefully fish it out so as to not tear it. There’s a crooked looking notch on the alignment, so you firmly click it into place. Once you close everything up, you press print and watch the thing give its usual working hum. The first paper in queue slides out normally.

“Good as new.” You smile.

Chris takes the paper and combs through it. “Unbelievable.”

“I had a brief gig at a publishing company,” you say with a smirk, wiping your hands on your jeans. “So, dinner’s on you, Chris?”

Jill finally removes herself from the report she’s been glued to, pushing her chair away from the desk. She stretches her arms and yawns, crossing her legs. “What’s the occasion with you two for dinner anyway?”

Chris glances her way, then shrugs. “You know, for fun.”

Jill doesn’t entirely buy his words, it’s not hard to read her expression. Regardless, she doesn’t push it. “I can’t remember the last time I had fun. Wesker’s been hammering down with these reports nonstop.”

You perk up at the mention of his name. “Is he in now?”

Chris begins to print out all his pending faxes, looking back at you as he talks. “Of course. He’s one of the last people to leave the department some days. Though with the recent pileup of work, it's most days.”

Jill lets out a weary sigh, pushing her chair back as she stands. “Alright, Chris. You go on ahead without me. Thanks for the help with my shit today. I’m gonna go make sure Barry isn’t getting sidetracked in the library.” Her eyes soften when they meet yours, and she waves goodbye.

“See you, Jill.” You wave back, watching her head out the door. When she’s gone, you glance toward Wesker’s office, the faint glow of his desk lamp visible through the frosted glass.

Chris is already halfway through packing his things, shutting down his workstation, then shrugging into his gray coat, “Didn’t expect the wind and rain today. Way to screw with our plans.” When he catches sight of you eyeing Wesker’s office door, he stops what he’s doing and crosses his arms, a look of much amusement on his face. “You interested in joining the S.T.A.R.S unit?”

“And have to spend the rest of my professional days with you?” you scoff. “No thanks, Chris.”

Chris heads for the door but throws a glance over his shoulder. “Just asking. You get this look every time Captain Wesker’s name comes up.”

You frown. “Well excuse me if I am somewhat interested in the man who practically saved my life.”

“Somewhat?” Chris chuckles. “Keep the humor up, my appetite grows the more I laugh.”

“Why don’t you shut your trap before I put my foot in it?” you snap, shooting Chris a warning glare. But the edge in your voice fades the moment you hear a door creak open. You turn toward Wesker’s office, heart fluttering as he steps out, like a badger emerging from its den.

The two of you weren’t exactly having the most discreet conversation. You don’t know whether to smile or politely nod at your now lover. No, wait. That just doesn’t sound right in your head. Situationship? A bit too freshman-year-of-college-ish. The word fling comes up in your mind, but you shut that down in an instant. The mere thought of that word makes your heart ache.

His gaze jumps between you and Chris, unreadable as usual. Although, you wouldn’t be very far away to assume that he looks a little pissed off.

He speaks with that perfectly curt voice of his. “Chris, stop faxing me from one room over. If you have something to say, use your legs.” Wesker adjusts his glasses, then adds, “I expect your full report on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

Chris opens his mouth, probably to say something dumb, but promptly shuts it again.

Wesker regards the sight of Chris having his coat on and standing next to you. “And where exactly are you and your little friend going?”

Chris shrugs, all casual bravado. “Just dinner.” Clearly someone doesn’t like taking shit from their boss.

“Dinner.” Wesker’s mouth twitches, almost a frown. “You’d do well to learn from Jill, Chris. She knows how to prioritize her work.” He turns away without another word and steps back into his office, the door closing softly behind him.

The subtle twitch of Wesker’s mouth didn’t slide by you. Could it be jealousy? Is a man as accomplished as himself even capable of feeling that way, or better yet, would he allow himself to?

Whatever that expression meant, there was undeniably a hint of possessiveness you’ve never quite seen from him before. You wonder if beneath that perfectly controlled facade, there’s something more human. A man is a man, after all.

You don’t know if that scares you or excites you. But suddenly, the entire dynamic feels a little less clear. Because if Wesker does care, how must he think you regard the relationship you two have? No matter, you need to focus. Your first priority is to ease any lingering negative preconceptions Chris may have about you, and to prove you’re not just drifting through life like a perpetual mess. Only some chunks of it.

You can’t help but smile, turning back to face Chris. “Getting scolded by Wesker, how embarrassing for you.”

It hadn’t been hard convincing Chris to grab dinner at a Vietnamese joint that was about a five minute ride from your home. Rather selfish on your end, as you didn’t want to have a long drive after a big meal, as eating too much at once had a history of making you sleepy. Of course, you didn’t enlighten Chris on all this. You just told him you knew a place, and after a long day of work, just about anything suited his tastebuds just fine.

The two of you drove there separately, and you spent most of the car ride thinking of Blaire. Every minute that passes since this morning without a response from her, the more your paranoia grows. She’s meant to be on vacation, having said so herself, so why take so long to respond to you. Why didn't she show up for breakfast in the first place?

Soon enough you’ll have to tell Wesker about this, if she really doesn’t reach out to you by tomorrow. Although he can’t do much on the matter, the two of you are partners in this.

“I remember you being a big talker,” Chris says as he pours himself a glass of lemon water.

From his perspective, you’ve been absolutely enamoured with the napkin on your plate, eyes following the embroidered design of water lilies. You glance up at him, offer a faint smile, then look back down.

“I had a long day,” you say with a shrug. “You really just wanted to get together?”

Chris is already back to scanning the menu. He’d asked the waitress to leave one, “in case we get hungry again,” he claimed. Setting it aside, he raises a brow. “That’s what I said over the phone,” he reminds you. “A casual get together. Unfortunately for you, not a date.”

You give him a deeply exaggerated frown before letting out a short laugh. “Unfortunately for me? This is coming from the guy who tried the ‘you are not as old as you look’ flattery on me.”

Chris shakes his head. “And you still remember that. Clearly, it worked. Any normal person would’ve let it go by now.”

“Well,” you say, stealing the menu from his side of the table, “I have to keep some material handy for when the cops ask why I need a restraining order.”

Chris’ chuckle is followed by a long stretch of silence. You can hear the low hum of a radio coming from the kitchen, that alongside the occasional clatter of a pan and shuffle of feet behind the curtain that separates the dining area from the back creates an oddly comforting environment. Aside from you and Chris, there are no other customers.

You speak again, softer this time. “I’m only asking because you don’t really know me all that
well.” You glance at him, then back at the napkin. “The not a drunk mess me, or when I’m not feeling cocky because I’ve just gotten a new job me.”

Chris leans back a little in his chair, almost like he’s giving you more space to speak. But you say nothing else, realizing it all came out far more woeful than you had intended.

You let out a quiet breath, an almost laugh. “Am I wrong?”

When Chris shrugs, you feel an odd sense of loneliness. Did you really expect him to understand? You have to remind yourself that he knows nothing about the investigation, Blaire, or your thing with Wesker. To him, you’re probably just a mess who waddles through half her life drunk and lashes out on people who don’t deserve it, like little old Boutros.

“I mean, we’ve worked in the same building for some time now. I catch some frequent glimpses of you, or even mentions,” he replies.

“You see Wesker everyday, practically. Do you know him?” you question, almost too eagerly.

Chris lets out a short laugh at that. “Touché. But to be fair, Wesker talks like a personified email. He’d probably be confused if I sent an invite to my wedding, like we haven’t been working together for years.”

You laugh softly at Chris’s jab about Wesker, the tension easing between you. When the waitress falls into your peripheral vision, you almost jump out of your seat. For a moment you forgot the two of you were sitting in a restaurant. She gracefully carries over two steaming bowls of pho balanced carefully on a tray, setting it down in front of you. Both you and Chris thank her, leaning in slightly with impatient readiness to devour the remedy for a long, grueling day.

“Boy, did I need this,” Chris says, reaching for the chopsticks. Then, almost hesitantly, he looks up at you with an almost harrowing expression.

You’re too absorbed in the fragrant, steaming bowl in front of you to notice right away. When you finally glance up and catch his gaze, you pause. “What’s wrong?”

Chris carefully picks up a fork from the utensil caddy and gives you a frown. “You better not be like Jill and judge me for not knowing how to use chopsticks.”

You grin, raising an eyebrow. “Poor Chrissy-whissy can’t use chopsticks?”

He rolls his eyes but can’t hide his growing smile. “Don’t make me bring Tornado Tom back.”

You laugh softly, reaching for your own chopsticks. “Fine.”

You’re both far too busy eating to dive into anything serious, not that you would even allow a deeper conversation to take place. Between mouthfuls, you trade questions, small talk about family, friends and the usual little things. At one point, you tease Chris, accusing him of being the chick-magnet stud back in college. He doesn’t outright confirm it, but the sly, knowing smile he shoots you with says more than an agreement would. Much to your surprise, he’s pretty easy to talk to. Maybe even more so than Jill.

Chris quickly turns the conversation back to you, asking about your previous jobs and what college was like. He listens intently, genuinely curious. Although you don’t give away much, every little story is telling of your character. You can just see him growing more familiar.

You feel full faster than expected, surprised by just how generous the portion is. The bowl had seemed manageable at first, but a good handful of noodles float at the bottom of the remaining broth, and you find yourself leaning back slightly, humming in defeat.

Chris, on the other hand, finished his bowl long ago, not leaving a single drop of broth. The thing probably doesn’t even need to be rinsed. He even had the audacity to order a small plate of lemongrass beef, which he’s now picking at with plain satisfaction. He glances up at you, catching you lost in the bottom of the bowl with your chopsticks.

“I can write this off as a business expense, you know,” he says, deadpan.

You give him a look. “Really.”

“Yeah. Vital interview of the possible new S.T.A.R.S recruit. Very necessary.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already smiling. Funny guy.

Chris sets down his fork, wiping his mouth with a napkin before adjusting in his seat. He observes you with quiet curiosity.

“I told you about my sister Claire,” he says steadily, testing the waters perhaps. “How about you? What’s your family like?”

Even while intently staring at your meal, your eyes widen for a fraction of a second. “My family,” you follow. The weight of the word ‘family’ never shrinks, always carrying a hefty amount of anxiety. “We don’t talk much, you know. Things aren’t bad per se, just forever unsteady.”

Chris doesn’t speak. He just waits. His look isn’t one of expectation, moreso an extending hand.

“It’s my fault. I don’t return calls. I forget birthdays. Don’t reach out.” You pause, finding the courage to continue in Chris’ reassuring eyes. “It’s not that I don’t care. Every time I try to reconnect, it feels like I’m setting myself up to fail. So I wait until I’m better. Then suddenly you are old. And I’m human, I can’t just flip like a switch. Even at my highs, I won’t just be a jolly old tube man all the time, bad shit happens! But I’m never allowed to show them that, it’s an emotional burden and yada yada. You go through the same string of thoughts every time you contemplate it, nothing ever changes.”

Chris finally speaks. “But you still think about them.”

You nod slowly, and it's a serious look. Then you laugh pathetically, wiping a tear from your eye before it gets the chance to grow. “All. The. Damn. Time.”

You look away, eyeing the decorative lanterns in the distance. You realize how much space your words have taken up. You clear your throat, suddenly aware of the change in mood. “But you and Claire, it’s sweet. Finding solace in one another during tough times like that.”

He gives you a small, encouraging smile. “You’re allowed to talk, you know.”

It almost works on you, and for a moment, you feel ready to go on. But you pause and think hard about how this dinner has turned out, how do you look right now? You glance at your reflection in the dark window behind Chris, catching only a vague outline of someone tired, someone trying too hard to seem fine. You shift your gaze back to him and then return the smile, shaking your head. You open your mouth to thank him. But then you see that familiar look, it's an unmistakable quality in his eyes.

That same look Boutros had given you. Pity. Somehow worse in its softness and refrain from judgement. The look people give when they think you’ve hardly any dimension aside from angst and woe.

You sit back with a sigh, despite not wanting to make your sudden disposition noticeable. What were you thanking him for, anyway? Being given the room to be open for a person like you is the equivalent of a first date offering an open tab, no strings attached.

“I better get going, Chris.” You stand suddenly, despite how comfortable you have gotten sitting on the cushioned chair.

Chris blinks, surprised. “Oh?” he says, quickly recovering as he watches you rise. “Sure–of course. Need me to walk you out, or?”

You shake your head. “That’s alright.”

He watches you, interest piqued. He’s clearly unsure of what he’s done wrong, or maybe very sure, and just has no clue how to fix it. Although you’re not mad at him, a part of you feels disappointed. You’re not even sure you have a right to be upset. He was being nice, after all. But it’s that kind of nice, the pitiful one that can’t see you as a person beyond your problems. You suppose you can’t blame him, you’ve got a lot of those.

As you reach for your workbag, Chris speaks up, “dinner’s on me, at least?”

Normally, you’d protest, insisting on splitting, or paying for your respective meals, whatever. But you’re already halfway checked out of the moment, not knowing if you can bear sitting through the awkwardness of the waitress asking how the meal went. So you just nod.

“Fine,” you say, managing a small smile that curls up unnaturally by the weight of irritation. “It’s on me next time, k?”

You’re heading for the door before he can respond, through the cozy little restaurant’s front door and out into the crisp air that gives you goosebumps when it breezes past your now sweaty neck. You breathe in deep, shoulders finally dropping, safe at last from the horrible atmosphere entirely of your own creation in there.

Back inside, Chris sits still, staring at the empty seat across from him for a moment. “Next time,” he repeats after you into the empty restaurant.

Stumbling up the stairs of the complex, you sigh out of relief that your couch is not much further. Much to your surprise, there is something sitting at the foot of your front door on the welcome mat. Perhaps Irons has mailed over a bomb to put you out of your misery. Upon stepping closer you make it out in the dim hallway light, a bouquet of roses and baby's-breath, much to your delight. The arrangement is neatly displayed in a black box with velvet fabric. It’s like those fancy ones you’ve sometimes seen at the weddings of your colleagues. It always struck you as a huge waste of money. But now that one has been seemingly gifted to you, your heart is absolutely touched.

Kneeling down, you lift the box up, seeing something on the black velvet glimmer in the light. You bring it up to eye level and examine the golden initials, A.W. Pulling the bouquet closer to your face, you close your eyes and take a deep inhale through your nose, the fresh, flowery fragrance is unlike any rose you’ve smelt.

You turn the box around and raise a brow, expecting a card or some other message. Knowing you, it’s hard to relish the luxurious gesture much longer without beginning to grow anxious. What’s the occasion? Sure, Wesker is a gentleman, but this goes a bit beyond princess treatment. In all honesty, he doesn’t seem all that head over heels for you, there were guys you dated in college who were far more smitten and obsessed.

Though you don’t classify being sent a bouquet of roses that, let’s be realistic, are easily worth at least a hundred and fifty dollars, to we are engaged level, it is something you would expect a boyfriend to do on more of a three year anniversary type thing.

You set the box aside and rise up, groaning with the pain in your knees that would surely make you feel existentially old on another occasion. When you unlock your front door, you lift the box up once more and bring it inside with you, closing the door on your way in.

Setting the roses down on your coffee table, you sit on the couch in front of it and cross your legs, staring at them. You look down at the initial once more, just to be absolutely sure it really was him. Do you call him and say thanks? No, that would come off as clingy and overexcited.

Maybe pay him a visit in his office. But you shut the idea down within a second, hardly able to stand the thought of having to see Chris after that dinner.

As you adjust your reprehensible posture, your mind begins to wander in the process. The last time you saw Wesker was earlier today, of course. It didn’t take long for him to find out you and Chris were going to grab dinner together. You recall the way Wesker’s mouth twitched. As usual, his expression was nothing short of disdainful, though from what you understood, there was a hint of something personal there.

You squeeze your eyes shut and lean back on the couch, giggling to yourself. Could it really be that he is jealous? It’s hard to contain your laughter when you open your eyes and stare at the roses. Are they simply a means of reminding you that you are his? The thought of Wesker being jealous excites you, mostly out of feeling smitten with how cute that is.

As sweet as the theory sounds, you stop yourself from falling into a possibly farfetched idea. But nothing else constitutes, at least logically, the reasoning behind the roses in your mind. You decide it’s nothing to turn your head over, especially since you won’t get an explanation out of Wesker until you’re face to face with him.

You open one eye and give the roses a final look of admiration before succumbing to today’s exhaustion as a result of the 9 to 5 rat race. Smiling softly, sleep comes easily tonight, as opposed to your daily toss and turn tango.

Three loud thuds followed by a four second pause, unless your counting is off. Five thuds now, all in closer, desperate succession. You sit up within an instant, immediately bringing a hand to your forehead as if you’ve just been elbowed in the face. The dead silence fades away as you begin to grow more aware of your surroundings, accompanied by your heavy breathing. Not even the crickets are chirping at this hour, as you make out 3:52 AM on the analog clock, just barely lit by the moonlight pouring in through a small gap between the terrace curtains.

You’re halfway to the front door before you realize you’ve moved at all. Your feet know the path better than your conscious mind, carrying you forward on instinct. You try to reason with yourself. It’s probably just Ms. Hall again, wandering the halls in her nightgown and lost in one of her sleepwalking episodes. Maybe she’ll confuse you for her late husband again who died, what, fifteen years ago? The cascade of thought is simply a mechanism of fear, an emotion you don’t realize you are feeling until you’ve already unlocked the door and are halfway through opening it.

You hold your breath and make out who it is.

Much to your surprise, and even more so relief, it’s Blaire.

You’re impressed you’ve even managed to recognize her in the dimly lit hallway, especially when she seems nothing like her usual self. Her short auburn hair is unbrushed, and tufts of it stick out unevenly. Her eyes are wide and glassy with what you understand as adrenaline. She’s in an oversized, dark green hoodie with an embroidered fabric patch of the RPD symbol on it, which you assume used to be Eli’s. Clutched awkwardly against her side is a stack of folders, some papers just about to slip free with some paper clips poking out as well.

Convinced this is all just some ridiculous dream, you play along as the hazy feeling begins to dissipate.

“Blaire? Are you o–”

She shoulders past you into the apartment, going straight for your coffee table and beginning an impromptu setup, scattering documents in a disorganized sprawl. You manage an exasperated breath and close the front door. As she spreads her papers out, you cross your arms and watch, feeling as if you could doze off just standing there.

When her hands are free of all the folders, Blaire glances around your living room. It’s hard to make out much in the darkness, but when her eyes land on the couch, she turns to face you.

“You sleep on the couch?” she asks. Her tone is far too lively for it being almost four in the morning. She raises one hand and starts trying to tame the mess of her hair with her fingers, as if now, now is the time to care about appearances!

You don’t answer right away, not surprising considering you’ve just realized you aren’t dreaming. At first you were glad to see her alive and breathing at your door, but now that you grow more awake, a deeply seated anger begins to settle in.

“Sometimes…” you reply, rubbing at your temple. “What are you doing here, Blaire? Where have you been all day?”

She stops adjusting her hair and takes a seat on the couch. “I couldn’t compromise you.”

You hesitate. “This is a lot, Blaire. I thought something horrible might have happened. You went static on me, why?”

“Listen to me,” she sighs. “There’s this black Chevy that’s been parked outside my apartment for three nights. I recognized it last week at my work parking lot too, for maybe around five days in a row. It’s the same plates, and I know it’s the same car. It just sits there with tinted windows and the engine running. It’s Umbrella.”

You glance toward your own window instinctively, suddenly feeling unsafe in your own home. It’s too late to see anything out there in the darkness.

“Don’t worry,” she assures. “I waited until tonight, when it was gone. My car is back at home, I cycled all the way here.”

Then, you laugh, hardly able to calm down. “Don’t worry? You think a company worth billions of dollars will take their eyes off you for even a second knowing you could have dirt on them?” You repeat Wesker’s words almost verbatim. A lot less intellectual sounding, of course. “Forget the car, Blaire. You really think that’s the only way they’re keeping watch on you? If they’re onto you, then I’m most definitely fucked.”

She stiffens. The weight of your words visibly changed her demeanor. You realize that Blaire is more of a victim in this than anyone else, and you are supposed to be the calm and rational one here.

“How did you even find out where I live?” You walk towards the coffee table and begin to move the papers around, eyes skimming the subheadings.

“I saw a utility bill sticking out of your bag when we met,” she says, shamelessly. “I noted the address. Figured I might need it.”

You look up. “You figured you might need it? Definitely Eli’s ex-girlfriend, I’ll give you that.”

There are some handwritten papers on what Blaire could best recall of the earlier pages in Eli’s journal. It’s like something straight out of a science fiction novel. “Biological weaponry?” you read out loud, and it sounds a bit ridiculous.

Blaire leans over the paper, nodding. “Eli had reason to believe that beyond the pharmaceuticals and transportation, Umbrella was and still is, developing something else.”

You blink, feeling sick at the sudden realization of how small you really are. “That’s…insane. He took this all away from what he heard at those meetings?”

“Yes, that’s what he noted down.” She moves around a few more papers to draw your attention to certain ones.

Your mind moves back to Eli’s file, which is kept amongst some others in Irons’ safety. Eli must have been right to assume that those same files Irons keeps with him are the same investigators who ‘vanished’ as soon as Umbrella caught air of their work.

“Of course,” you say. “Eli did mention that Irons was receiving bribes to cover up. Him and the others must have stumbled across the bio-weaponry business.” You wonder what Wesker will think of all this.

“Does anything seem clearer to you now?” She sits up, intrigued by the expression of perplexity on your face.

Although Blaire’s eyes are on you, it feels as though you’re completely elsewhere. Eli never got to finish his investigations, and you assume he didn’t understand the full extent of Umbrella’s work, clearly because he was not prepared for them to fucking execute him! Wesker told you he was hardly involved as Eli delved deeper into his work, and that’s probably why Umbrella didn’t take him down too, right? But if they were aware of Wesker’s involvement with Eli, they would have to have killed Wesker too, since he would know Umbrella was behind Eli’s murder if he suddenly vanished! Why would they leave him alive?

“I have to take over where Eli left off,” you whisper to yourself.

Blaire’s eyes widen. “You absolutely can’t. They have a headstart, they’ll come for you.”

Your eyes meet Blaire’s. “If they have you in their sights, they already know about me, Blaire. If I do this fast, I can do something before they blow me out.”

She stares at you, lips parted, chest rising and falling like she’s holding back everything she wants to say. There’s the fear in her eyes that she’s watching a repeat of what happened to Eli, seeing that same look of defiance in your eyes that he once had, the assurance that you would bring justice to the investigators who were snuffed out trying to take Umbrella down.

“I asked you about Eli’s relationship with Captain Wesker. Did you get anything on it?” you ask as you keep reading through the papers.

“Albert Wesker…let’s see here.” Blaire begins to go through the papers, her lips are curved downward, and her brows are drawn up at their inner corners. She’s clearly in distress, and it’s a surprise to see someone so usually composed in such a state.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Blaire,” you say, although it comes out sounding awfully unsure. Hell, you don’t think anything can stop what will ultimately happen to you once Umbrella digs their claws in. As scared as you feel, you understand that Eli was ultimately in his work alone, he cut Wesker out. But you have him as a partner, and you don’t plan to keep him in the dark on your findings. That surely counts for some degree of protection, right?

She only nods, seeing through your false sense of security. Not that it’s all that believable anyway. It’s hard to be a convincing liar this late.

“I don’t have much on Captain Wesker here,” she lifts one sheet of paper and hands it to you. “I jotted down all that I could recall on the few earlier entries where Eli went into detail on their work together. I wouldn’t want to panic you any more, but his writings made it clear that he and Wesker were at least a thin layer into the bioweapon business discussion. I think it’s strange and highly suspicious that Wesker had the same generic response to Eli’s disappearance that the regular person would have. He and Eli knew of the dangers, and there is really no other explanation to Eli going poof like that, so Wesker must be completely aware and has just chosen to drop the investigation entirely. On account of his own safety, maybe?”

“Very strange.” You touch your lips in deep thought, reading through the sheet of paper. Normally you would find the investigation being dropped like that expected, but that isn’t the type of person Wesker is. He wouldn’t be scared and back down if his partner disappeared like that. What surprises you even more is the fact that he hasn’t brought up the bio-weapon topic to you, despite being aware of it. You suppose that can be out of wanting to keep you safe, even though it doesn’t make too much sense. It’s not like he has ever stopped you from digging, he has only encouraged it thus far.

A big part of you wishes you decided to do this with Chris, Jill, or even Barry. Anyone but the man you’re romantically involved with. You wanna make love, not fucking investigate him. You can’t help but feel some indignation towards Wesker, why won’t he just be honest with you?

It doesn’t take long for Blaire to take notice of your visible frustration. “Is he a point of concern?” Her eyes are drawn to the bouquet of roses now.

You clear your throat suddenly. “No, not at all. I think most people would be afraid to continue their investigation if they were in a similar position.” You yawn.

She smiles, just a small one. “Are you seeing someone?” Blaire picks up the box of roses and catches a waft of their scent. “These are beautiful.”

You scratch the back of your neck and look elsewhere, unsure of how to answer. Hopefully Blaire will assume the initials are a coincidence and it wasn’t Wesker who sent the flowers. Of course she will, no one else seems to get caught in such stupid, pointless thoughts aside from you.

You let out an uneasy laugh. “Shitty answer, but…it’s complicated.”

Blaire nods, finding some comfort in such casual conversation. It comes easily. “How is he?”

You place the sheet down and clasp your hands together on the table surface. “Well, if you really wanna know. Painfully handsome and infuriatingly stoic.”

Maybe it’s just the late hour, but something shifts in Blaire’s expression, more personal now. She leans in slightly, eyes softening. Even with a solid two feet of space between you, it suddenly feels too close.

“Do you love him?”

You blink twice, and are reasonably thrown off. For a good moment, your mouth stays slightly parted in disbelief, trying to process the question. Of course you’ve considered it on your own time more than once. Typically it’s the type of thought you liked to ignore, just because of the implications. You can’t deny your deep affinity for Wesker, regardless of whether or not it stems from pure infatuation with the enigma that he is.

You don’t love him because you won’t, but because you can’t. You can’t knowing that he will hurt you. And he already has. How long until he meets another hot mess somewhere in a bar? One that doesn’t have the same problems, at least not to the extent in which you do. Even beyond that, does he love you?

It’s hard to make sense of why he keeps so much from you. Perhaps that’s where the answer lies. Maybe he’s just sketchy as hell. Or maybe he’s hiding things to protect you. Because he does feel a sort of genuine affection towards you.

Blaire shakes her head. “My apologies. It’s not my place to ask a question like that. I’ve invaded your personal space enough as is.”

You look up, almost startled. “That’s okay.” Your voice is quieter when you speak again. “I’ve asked myself that many times, don’t get me wrong. With him I feel like there’s a wall of glass. When I think I’m making progress it gets clearer, but then all of a sudden he’ll do or say something that proves completely otherwise. He just keeps making it cloudier, and I don’t know if he’s doing it to keep me out, or to keep himself safe. I guess I just need someone to slap some sense into me and say that I’m wasting my time. Because let’s be honest, him and I could never work.” You let out a dry laugh, realizing that you’ll begin to cry if you go any further. “I just destroy everything I touch.”

A deep, uncomfortable silence follows. You keep your eyes fixed on the table out of fear, scared that she’ll be judging you when you look up. Blaire isn’t one to struggle with articulating her precise thoughts, almost instantly. To your embarrassment, she says absolutely nothing.

When the soft sound of snoring breaks the silence, you glance over and find Blaire leaning back into the couch. Her arms are loosely folded, head tilting forward. You’d be lying if you said you’re not relieved.

April 28, 1998

It’s hard focusing with Blaire Bréart snoring next to me, but I’ll try and do my research here tonight some justice. With such a large hand dipped into the stock market, private and freelance investigators aren’t exactly the first to question Umbrella Corporation’s more… questionable personal affairs. Naturally, companies want to know who they’re investing in, especially when the shares involved are massive.

All I know is that there is a great amount of evidence pointing to…unconventional biological projects, gently hinted at by competing big pharma corporations that would financially benefit from taking Umbrella down. Not because they care about the greater good, I’m sure. Unfortunately, that’s a massive claim, one that can only be given substance if researched in an unethical and highly illegal manner. Hence, competing companies hiring PIs that are getting paid hefty wads, large enough so that they are willing to get their hands dirty.

What Blaire has gathered for me is great, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve been skimming research papers and articles written on these unethical practices, despite them not having much ground for their claims. What I’m noticing though is the vast array of people who are suspicious of Umbrella, all for the same reasons. That counts for something.

I’ll brief with Wesker on all this tomorrow, or rather, later today. Blaire’s a smart one, if she suspects she’s being followed, I’m not going to make the mistake of doubting her. From now on it’s best to assume that my every move is being tracked. I suppose visiting Wesker’s home wouldn’t be a very suspicious thing to do. I’m dating him, after all.

Speaking of which, I’m not getting drunk this time. I won’t touch his whiskey. Or vodka. And if he offers me any, I think I’m well within my rights to accuse him of doing it on purpose. Wesker isn’t stupid. As much as I enjoyed that night with him, being drunk got in the way of everything that mattered. I still can’t remember half the conversation, especially the part I know was important. It’s just gone. My mind blanked it out, and for the life of me, I can’t fucking recall it!

Signed, yours truly.

As you close your notebook, your eyes drift back to the roses. ‘Wall of glass’, who are you kidding? He clearly wants something from you. The roses make that more than obvious.

But you can’t allow yourself to be swooned so easily, not when you are so close to uncovering something huge. And even more so when you have so many accusations (disguised as questions) towards Wesker. He needs to get his story straight, and you won’t let lust fog your judgment this time.

Pure business. That’s all that tonight will be.