Chapter Text
At the Raccoon City Police Department, you find the position of general assistant to be generally brainless. This is good, because there are a lot of attractive people around here, and it seems to keep your brain in a constant state of malfunction.
But the only one you’re actually sort of in love with is Captain Wesker. He looks like Adonis in a police uniform and you’re not really sure how to cope with it. In your head, the two of you are married, renew your vows every week, and have as many kids as he wants. You indulge this little fantasy by staring at him a lot and maybe drooling a bit sometimes. He’s definitely caught you more than once. He probably wants you transferred or dead.
You were interviewed and hired by Vice-Captain Marini, as Captain Wesker was out of office at the time, thank god. Talk about crisis averted. Since his return, you’ve never actually spoken to him, because why would you. That would be like walking up to an electrical socket and sticking a fork into it. You’re pretty attractive, so theoretically, you could make like Icarus and fly too close to that handsome blond sun, but there are some leagues you just don’t dare cross into.
The absolute last thing you anticipate is that league crossing into you.
You work in a cozy nook of an office, right next to the S.T.A.R.S. office. You call it the Goldilocks office. It’s not too big and not too small. Officer Valentine rolls her eyes whenever she hears you say that, but she must find it endearing, because she gifted you three bears that you keep on your desk at all times.
S.T.A.R.S., of course, is the team you were assigned to assist. On the slowest days, you do coffee and donut runs on your own initiative, and sometimes fill up their gas tanks unprompted. You steal their keys and by extent their cars for that, but they stopped getting mad when they realized your heart is in the right place. When asked, you explained that getting permission ruins the element of surprise. Some days, you work mostly on your own, performing administrative tasks, making sure they don’t get swamped with paperwork and general phone calls and emails. Other days, you provide logistical support and work much more closely with the team members. Doc Chambers is always the most grateful for your help, even though she hates that you call her that.
You’ve yet to do any work with Captain Wesker. His office is separate from the team’s office and it’s always locked, so you haven’t been able to take his keys and return his sleek sexy car with a nice full tank, all paid for. Either way, your crush on him is so horrendous it probably opened his third eye or something and has him putting in extra effort to avoid you.
Or so you thought. It’s quite the shock to your system when there’s a soft knock on your open office door a little later in the day, and you look up to see him standing there in all his six feet and three inches of glory, saying your name.
“That’s me,” you say, or you think you do, because the voice that came out sure didn’t sound like yours. It somehow simultaneously raised and dropped about 15 octaves with a voice crack so legendary it may have shunted you right back into the throes of puberty. You want to walk into the ocean and die.
If he noticed—how could he not—he doesn’t let on. “Good. I know you started months ago, but I wanted to apologize for the lack of introductions and communication between us. I’ve been beyond busy as of late.”
“That’s completely fine. No worries at all.” You’re reeling both from humiliation and that fuzzy cloud nine feeling. “I totally understand. You’re the backbone of this popsicle stand, Captain. Uh, Sir?”
It’s a rare day where he’s got his sunglasses perched up on his head. You swear you see his eyes crinkle with something like mirth, but it was so brief you could’ve easily imagined it. “Yes?”
“I meant, should I call you Captain or Sir?”
“Sir Wesker is a bit medieval, wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess so. It doesn’t roll off the tongue as nicely. Though if you wanted to switch up the vibe, you could start going by Sir Wesker.” What the fuck are you doing? “Maybe we could have a trial run, a week where we call you that and pretend this is a serfdom. We can all wear those ugly peasant sacks while you wear one of those fancy rich people shirts they had way back in the day.”
He stares at you, face unreadable. “A tunic, you mean?”
“Yep! That. You’d look really good in that.” You need to stop, but the words keep flowing, like beer from a keg at a gross frat party. “You look really good all the time. You look good today, and yesterday, and the day before that, and all days following this one.”
It’s suddenly very quiet, very intimate. Does the quiet lend to the intimacy or does the intimacy lend to the quiet? God, what a marvelous man. You’re sweating, turning a nice shade of stewed tomato red. You’d love to be intimate with him. Anywhere, honestly. In this office, on public transit, in one of the dumpsters out back. Or maybe in a nice hotel room on a luxurious bed with silken sheets covered in rose petals and afterward he confesses his undying love and asks you to marry him. He’s just been staring at you. Is that flirting? Is quiet staring flirting? Is he flirting with you?
Your nerves are setting themselves on fire. Your mouth opens, seemingly of its own volition, and even you can’t anticipate what’s about to come out.
“Sometimes, when I hear you talk, I think of a textbook written by a very smart person turned man,” you say.
Which circle of hell did that awful sentence come from?
A muscle in his face twitches.
“I’ve been told many things about myself,” he says. Despite his low, even tone, you get the feeling he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “I can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”
“Sorry.” The embarrassment sets in fast, bringing a smooth, icy panic with it. The sweat cooling on your skin makes you feel like a slug. “I’m not sure where that came from.”
“No need to apologize.” He finally breaks eye contact to look at the bears lined up on your desk, smallest to biggest. “At its core, it was an acknowledgement of my intelligence. In the future, should you want to be more apt, you could specify what sort of textbook.” He looks back at you, his eyebrows only very slightly raised. “You somehow managed a compliment both verbose and vague.”
You hum, an affirmative noise. “Thanks for the peer review. Unfortunately, vague and verbose are my few discernible strengths.”
“Yes, well. We all have our niches.”
With a polite nod, he leaves you to your devices.
Well, how about that! You actually had a whole conversation with him, and he didn’t seem to hate it, at least outwardly. That has to count for something. You can deduce that while he might not want you dead, he may very well want you transferred for that whole creepy “you look beautiful forever” spiel. Hey, you win some and lose most.
But apparently, this is a some you won. Further in the week, after a few more polite nods and pleasantries exchanged, your desk phone rings, and it’s exactly who you for so long fantasized it would be.
“Are you terribly busy,” he asks, though it sounds more rhetorical than anything.
“I was just about to see Officer Redfield. He requested my assistance with paperwork and some sort of project. It seemed important.”
“Ah. So you aren’t busy. Good.” He sounds quite pleased with himself, for whatever reason. “I’ll have you in my office immediately.”
The line clicks, dead. It seems your input on this matter has been deemed moot. You feel a little bad about the easy dismissal of Chris, so you pop into the S.T.A.R.S. office and zero in.
“Christofficer,” you say. He immediately groans and drops his head into his hands. Doc Chambers spares him a sympathetic glance. “My sincerest apologies, but I’ve been summoned by the Powers That Be. Can we push it back a few? It’s nothing personal.”
“Sure, yeah. Fine.” He looks awfully exasperated for someone claiming it’s fine. “Whatever he wants.”
You mosey on over to Captain Wesker’s office. You knock on the door, still locked, even though he’s in there. He must take confidentiality very seriously. How admirable!
The door opens, and you don’t mean for the doe eyes to come into play when you look up at him, you really don’t. It’s almost intrinsic, though, the need for him to think you’re cute. And maybe he does, because the way his gaze drags over you almost makes your knees buckle.
“Please, come in.” He takes a step back, holding the door open for you.
You walk in, paying attention to every detail. It feels like a great honour, being in here—you may never see the inside again! You can tell he’s very clean, very fastidious. Oh, and he smells ridiculously good, too. You’ll have to figure out what cologne that is and put it in an air diffuser. You give his desk a once-over, noting the high-end laptop, a gorgeous pen that has to be worth at least three months of your salary perched atop a stack of perfectly aligned documents, and most importantly, the lack of framed photographs. So not married then, hopefully? That would track with his lack of a wedding ring. Man, are you ever dogged about figuring that one out. No keepsakes either. Actually, it seems a bit like the desk of a lonely man. Maybe he only knows how to keep busy.
He closes the door and locks it, gesturing for you to sit. You sink down onto one of two leather seats, and he takes his place in the luxurious office chair across from you. He folds his hands together and places them on his desk.
“I’ve been thinking of you,” he says.
Wow. What a dangerous bomb to drop. In a locked office no less, just the two of you. You have to clench your teeth and fight to stop yourself from saying anything damning.
“I wanted to ask,” he continues. “Do you enjoy hiking? Up in the Arklay Mountains, perhaps?”
This is it. He’s going to ask you out. He’s leading up to it. He’s going to ask you to go hiking with him, and god be damned, for him you will become the finest hiker Arklay County’s ever seen. For the date, you will prepare amazing food and find a beautiful place to stop and have an exceptionally romantic picnic, and when you get back to the nice cabin the two of you booked together, you will make sweet, sensual love in the shower and then again in bed after.
“Actually, I do. I’ve only gone on occasion, but I’ve been meaning to make a habit of it. I was thinking of getting back out there, uh, soon.”
“Well.” He unfolds his hands and begins drumming his fingers on the desk. “Don’t.”
Oh, um. There goes that wishful thinking, then. Your heart deflates, a meaty red balloon he stuck a pin into.
“I see I’ve upset you,” he says, not unkindly. “That was far from my intention. I hadn’t realized your enthusiasm for hiking. You see, as Captain of STARS, I’ve been made… privy, to a potentially dangerous circumstance. I only want to ensure your safety.”
So he cares about you. You perk up. “Oh? Is everything alright?”
He studies you for a moment. “I must stress that this information is classified. You will not discuss this with anyone, at any point. It is solely my responsibility to inform the rest of the team.” You nod, very solemn, and he lowers his voice. You lean in a little closer. “There is talk of ongoing experiments out in the rural areas. I can neither confirm nor deny the verity of these claims. However, supposing there’s truth to them, I would hate for you to be nearby should something escape.”
Hmm. Okay. You can’t say you care for any of that at all. What would “They” be experimenting on, and why? What sort of somethings are we talking about escaping here? On that note, who even is “They”? Oddly, you get the sense it’s better if you don’t ask him any of these burning questions. He probably doesn’t know, anyway.
“Then I will forfeit hiking until I’m given the green light.” You stand, smoothing out your slacks, and give him a lopsided smile. “I really appreciate your concern.”
Is he… returning your smile? Is that what the small little upturns at the corners of his mouth are? Captain Wesker smiling in any capacity is a known Raccoon City Police Department myth. Incredible. Nobody will ever believe you.
He sees you to the door. You assume it’s just because he’s antsy to immediately shut it and lock everyone out again as soon as you’re gone. But as you cross the threshold into the hallway, his hand finds the small of your back, and just like that, you’re rooted in place.
His voice comes hushed, barely a murmur at your ear. “Should you need anything or find yourself in any form of trouble, do not hesitate to contact me.”
“Got it,” you breathe. The warmth of his hand fades too soon. The door shuts, gently and politely, behind you.
Miraculously, you make it back to Chris instead of walking out the front door and into the highway. He picks up on your tizzy, but has the decency to politely razz instead of interrogate you about it—it’s not as if your crush on the Captain is some big secret, and it’s not like anyone can blame you for having one.
At the end of the day, when you’ve packed up your things and sit behind the wheel of your car, you linger. The lot flares with headlights and fills with the purr of engines. The people you work with nod, wave, or salute you when they catch your gaze as they drive by. In that moment, you acknowledge how much you love your team. Despite some quirks, they welcomed you into the fold, and seem happy to have you there. Including Captain Wesker, much to your surprise.
Like yours, his car is one of the few remaining, still empty. What the hell keeps him so busy, anyway? There’s crews that take over for you all when your shifts end, though everyone’s hours are subject to change at the drop of a dime. But it seems like his are always ongoing. You’ve certainly never seen him leave before anyone else. It could be that freaky experiment shit that may or may not be going on that’s keeping him. Maybe there’s actually always something like that going on, and, pulling out of the lot, you decide you’re probably better off not knowing. Leave some things to your betters.
Still. You can’t seem to shake the feeling that something’s afoot.
Whatever. Chalk it up to the excitement from finally forming a connection with the object of your desires. You’ll even out after a while, surely. It’s not like any man, even Captain Wesker, can turn the world upside down.