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The first thing Caleb noticed after a trial was always the quiet.
It wasn’t silence. Never silence. The Entity did not believe in mercy enough for that. Dead Dawg still groaned around him. Old wood settling, saloon signs creaking in the desert wind. Rain was beginning to gather somewhere beyond the graveyard hills, the air tasted of it.
But compared to the screaming? Quiet enough.
His boots struck heavy against the saloon floorboards as he stepped inside, rusted spurs jingling with each thud. Mud clung to the heels. Blood had dried dark beneath his gloves, creaking as he flexed his fingers. The smell of gunpowder still followed him like a second shadow, Redeemer slung over his shoulder like a prize.
And there, beneath the amber glow of low-burning lamps, sat Albert Wesker. One leg crossed over the other. Composed as a king on borrowed territory. Waiting.
Though Caleb knew better than to call it that. Not unless he wanted the man to get up and walk out.
Wesker tilted the chair back slightly against the wall, gloved fingers tapping once against the armrest. Calm. Controlled. His sunglasses reflected gold in the dim light. Defiant thing, even in these quiet moments.
The saloon door slammed shut behind Caleb with a resounding thud, the old wood groaning. Wesker did not look at him immediately.
“You’re staring,” he said at last.
Caleb pulled off one glove slowly, finger by finger, “Ain’t subtle enough not to.”
The corner of Wesker’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something sharper.
Outside, thunder rolled low over Dead Dawg. Inside, heat gathered slow as sin.
Their relationship had never been something soft enough to name. It lived in the pauses between violence instead. In glances held too long after trials. In bruised knuckles cleaned in silence. In Wesker appearing at Caleb’s side night after night like something inevitable.
Neither of them were built for tenderness. But devotion?
Devotion was another beast entirely.
Caleb crossed the room toward him, throwing his gloves onto the bar top. Wesker watched openly now, chin tilted upward in that familiar challenge.
That man wore arrogance like fine silk over sharpened teeth.
Caleb planted one hand against the armrest beside Wesker’s hip instead of around his throat, though perhaps they both expected otherwise.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” Caleb murmured, “one day I might misunderstand.”
“Would that be so terrible?”
There it was.
That bratty edge beneath the composure. That deliberate prodding, like Wesker enjoyed seeing how close he could drag Caleb to the edge before restraint snapped clean through like an old dry-rotted strap. It worked every time, whether Caleb wanted to admit it or not.
Then Caleb leaned closer. The lamp light painted gold against Wesker’s pale throat. Against the sharp cut of his jaw. Against the mouth Caleb thought about far too often.
“In the low lamp light,” Caleb murmured, voice rough as gravel roads, “you ain’t near as cold as you pretend.”
I was free.
Wesker scoffed softly, though it lacked its usual venom, “You’re sentimental tonight.”
Heaven and Hell were words to me.
“Hell of a thing to accuse me of.”
His hand found Wesker’s jaw at last. Rough fingers, calloused from work, careful touch. That was always the contradiction of him.
Caleb Quinn had spent most of his life destroying things with his hands, yet he held Wesker like something he feared breaking. Even if deep down he knew this one didn’t break easy.
Wesker inhaled slowly through his nose. Tiny reaction. Easy to miss to anyone else.
Caleb noticed every damn one.
Thunder cracked suddenly overhead, rain beginning in earnest against the saloon roof. The sound swallowed the silence between them whole.
Then Caleb kissed him. Hard, and immediate.
Wesker met him with equal force, gloved hand knotting in the front of Caleb’s shirt. There was always resistance in him, even like this. Especially like this.
He kissed like a challenge.
Like if Caleb wanted devotion from him, he’d have to drag it free with his bare hands. God, if there even was one, help him; Caleb loved that too.
The chair scraped harsh against the floorboards as Caleb crowded closer between his knees. Wesker tipped his head back slightly, maintaining control as long as he could.
Until Caleb’s fingers slipped into his hair. That broke something- but not entirely.
Wesker would never unravel completely, not where anyone could see, but a quiet sound escaped him anyway. Small. Frustrated for existing. Caleb’s grip tightened instinctively.
“Careful,” Wesker warned against his mouth. But his fingers pulled Caleb closer instead of away.
“You don’t sound like you want careful.”
Lightning flashed white through the saloon windows.
For one impossible second, Wesker looked almost human.
And Caleb-
Something inside Caleb’s chest ached hard enough to feel holy.
No grave can hold my body down-
He thought of every trial that could, or should, have killed them both. Of blood. Of smoke curling from factory chimneys back before the Fog had swallowed him whole.
I’ll crawl home to her.
And every time, somehow, he still returned here.
To him.
Wesker’s forehead rested briefly against Caleb’s throat, breath warm against weathered skin. The gesture felt unconscious, tired even.
Trusting, in the smallest and most dangerous way possible. The only way Wesker knew how. Caleb’s hand spread across the back of his neck.
Outside, thunder rolled across Dead Dawg like the wrath of God.
Inside, the world narrowed to lamp light and heat and another ruined man breathing against him.
“You look at me,” Wesker said quietly after a long moment, “like you’re praying.”
Caleb brushed his thumb once beneath his ear, “Nah.”
His voice had gone rough. Honest enough to hurt. And it did.
“Like I’ve already died for it.”