So the birthday of Lemon-Sprinkles has come and gone, and I've written this (short) oneshot just for her. I wish it was longer, but I didn't want to cram it with smut. So I hope you like it, Lemon, and I really hope you don't mind the craptastic length. But other than that, I hope you had a good birthday regardless, and I wish you all the best. I love you to bits, Mama Wesker!
Special thanks to Lastglances and DaggerArcadia, who both did a brief beta and pointed out the surprisingly few mistakes they found so I could fix them. I also love you guys to bits, no doubt about it!
The full title of this is actually Dinner and Secondhand Scotch, as seen on Tumblr, but I don't like long titles on FF, so it's been shortened just a little.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not a damn thing. I do this for fun, not profit. All creative rights to the characters and storyline belong to their original creators. No copyright infringement intended.
Wesker's not surprised when he comes home to find Chris in his apartment, but he is when he finds two plates of steaming hot food and Chris in his best shirt waiting at the kitchen table. He raises an eyebrow while he reaches back to lock the door.
"What's the occasion?" He asks, hanging his coat up on the rack next to Chris'. The faint smell of a cologne wafts toward him when the coats brush together, but he can't tell what kind. After a moment, he remembers what happened the last time Chris wore this particular scent, and he almost chuckles; Chris had worn the heady, somewhat spicy cologne one night and came to work the next day with a noticeable limp, wincing every time he sat in his chair.
Chris shrugs, watching Wesker shed his vest and rest it over the arm of the couch, sunglasses perched atop a bulging pocket. "Dunno. Just felt like cooking."
"Then why wear the shirt you don't even like wearing?"
"...I felt like doing that, too?"
"Liar." But Wesker gives in anyway, pulling out the only other chair and sitting to pick up his fork. He twirls it idly, inspecting the food Chris has prepared.
Chris isn't widely known for his culinary skills, and very rarely does he show them off. His apartment is normally filled with instant dinners or leftovers from the weekend that look far from appetizing. This time, though, Chris has obviously spent a considerable amount of time in making dinner.
Wesker tastes the salmon, quite aware of Chris' hopeful stare, and a tiny smile touches his lips at the sheer taste of it. The pink flesh is hot and moist on his tongue and full of flavour, and he can taste the dill that has permeated through the fish. He tries the rice last, glad that Chris has kept it mostly plain to complement the salmon. It's light and cooked perfectly, not at all undercooked like he hates.
Chris sits practically on the edge of his seat, eagerly awaiting Wesker's final judgement of his cooking. His Captain is hard to impress, but Chris has been holding hopes all day that he can accomplish the feat. He feels more hopeful when he sees a smile.
Finally, Wesker looks up at him.
"It's good, dear heart."
A weight lifts off Chris shoulders then, and he breathes a sigh of relief before starting to eat his own dinner.
Chris is quick to finish his food, but Wesker has been quiet the entire time and it's beginning to bug him. Silence is normal for Wesker, but this time it feels wrong; it seems Wesker has been pensive the whole time, his mind anywhere but at the table, and Chris has a feeling something's bothering him.
"What's wrong?" He asks outright, brows furrowing when Wesker stops rolling the last stem of cauliflower around on his plate.
Wesker can't tell him what's wrong, not when it means explaining twenty years of viral research and illegal, immoral experiments on live test subjects. Chris can't know, not yet, so he lies through his teeth to get out of it.
"Just thinking."
Chris nods slowly, unsure if he should believe him, but he takes their dishes off the table after Wesker chews and swallows the cauliflower. He leaves them on the counter for later and goes into the living room to find Wesker already there, taking a glass from the shelf above the fireplace. Scotch is poured into it and Wesker drinks it quickly with no ice.
Curiosity gets the better of Chris, and he comes up behind the Captain to read the label on the bottle. "I've never had scotch before."
"You might not like it." Wesker pours a small amount into the glass again and offers it to Chris, taking in the smell of Chris' strong cologne while he's close. "It's an acquired taste, I've found."
Swirling the liquid around the bottom of the glass, Chris shrugs and tosses it back like a shot. He regrets it immediately and chokes on the burnt, acrid taste, but manages to swallow after thumping his chest a few times. Coughing, he holds the glass away from himself and ignores Wesker's thoroughly amused smirk.
"That's disgusting."
"I warned you." Wesker shoots back, capping the bottle and replacing it in the cabinet. Chris sets the glass down on the coffee table, his face set in what seems to be a permanent wince.
When Wesker comes back to snap him out of it, Chris pulls him into a kiss to rid the taste of scotch from his mouth, catching Wesker off guard and dominating his lips when he allows it. As Wesker walks backwards while keeping their mouths together, Chris lapped across teeth and gums, savouring the taste of Wesker flavoured with scotch.
The mouth disappears briefly as Wesker sits in the leather kick-back chair, but Chris follows it eagerly. He hums around the tongue he's captured again as thin fingers grip his rear to drag him forward, fitting his knees in beside Wesker's hips.
Chris decides he only likes scotch when he licks it straight from Wesker's mouth. Wesker decides he likes it better when it tastes like Chris.