All characters and settings are the property of Umbrella—I mean, Capcom. I write without permission or knowledge of the owners, and make no profit.
While I'm giving credit, we can all blame this one on Gabriella. Even knowing I was a slasher, she mentioned Krauser's being "incredibly attached and loyal to Wesker." I raised a brow, she maintained it could work, and before I knew it there was. . . this:
Krauser is welcomed back to Umbrella post RE4 and "Separate Ways." Established relationship. Rated T because I'm pretty sure this archive will boot me for rating male/male kissing as suitable for all audiences. It's slash, very villainous, and kinda dark. Readers who frown on this sort of thing are gently encouraged to seek other stories.
1.
Years ago, Wesker sold his soul. Recently he suspects he's acquired another.
Sometimes it's alarming how far behind him humanity has fallen. Other times it's a relief. Like now, when he stands over a hospital bed. It's been four days since the man in it has returned. Wesker hasn't stopped by until today. There hasn't been any point to it; Krauser was badly damaged. He isn't a doctor and left the staff to their work.
Jack looks up at him with no surprise he's come, but there's very little light in his eyes. "She was never with you," he says, his voice a rasp from recently removed tubes. "Not even at the beginning when she came to help. Used me as much as she could, finished me off at the end." Wesker just nods. He received the summary of Krauser's report. He already knew the point at which Ada decided to sacrifice Jack. He hasn't even bothered with the sample since Krauser confirmed it. They'll have to start over from the spores.
His gloved hand finds an unhurt portion of Jack's shoulder to rest on. It's always surprised him that Jack leaves his scars naked to the world, displaying how much he's been hurt. He recalls perfectly the look on that torn face when Wesker's shirt first fell open. Remembers with total sensory detail how Jack had lifted one large hand and put it over the ridges and hollows of the scar on his chest, shielding it again. Right then, what he'd thought would be a momentary indulgence shifted into a part of his life.
Jack understands on a primal level. He's always worn his pain openly, prepared to lash out the moment someone brushes it. Wesker's preferred to keep his marks hidden far away. He's only showed Jack. Krauser honored the revelation with his devotion and has been there to deflect attention since.
"I think Leon's been upgraded," Krauser says distantly, staring up at the ceiling. Wesker nods. It makes sense; the U.S. government has its own pet projects. "I've got very great speed in short bursts, and yet he always blocked or dodged. First blood went to me. Second blood was this." He touches the long, new scar on his chest. "You know, I don't even think his face will keep my mark?"
Wesker says nothing, but pulls off his glove and firmly runs a fingertip over the healed cut. Jack's never volunteered the story behind these before. He'll know who to thank for this one, even if years from now he just brushes it with the lights out. Kennedy will pay. Jack doesn't even seem to register that he's being touched. "I'm no use to you."
"You survived them both, and on top of that, Saddler," Wesker finally speaks. He undoes a few bandages, surveying the reddened side of Krauser's face distantly. It's healing well, but the skin there will always be a little rougher. "And you got me the spores and samples. You did everything I expected." He doesn't say which he awaited: Jack's survival or the things he's obtained. His hand hangs briefly over the thicker bandages he doesn't dare touch. These burns are etched in them both, now. But the Kennedy and Wong collaboration will never know they've hurt him. He isn't like Ada, giving away his vulnerable points.
"You're smiling." Krauser reaches up, brushing a huge thumb along the side of his chin. "Why?"
"Show me the arm," he orders, letting the question pass by.
Krauser winces, but moves the blankets aside and complies without hesitation. The shield is beautiful, sharp-edged and jagged and perfectly proportioned. It's a rare thing for a newly tried modification to be so perfect, and it's doubtless saved his soldier's life. He trails a hand down the surface, finding unexpected soft places. Jack's eyes follow the movement.
"According to all Sera's data and our projected tests," Wesker takes a seat on the edge of the cot, "the plaga can never truly get its own influence, and its development is now linked to yours." He takes Jack's bandaged hand and lifts it to the edge of his face. Jack waits long enough to be sure the move is acceptable, then carefully pulls his sunglasses off and lays them aside. He cannot be truly gentle, but he's never been rough with Wesker's guises. Wesker puts a hand on his arm as it starts to flex, recognising Jack's description of how the regression begins. "No, leave it. I want to get used to it."
Jack's watching his face intently, studying him. He doesn't usually get to see Wesker's bare face in good light. "You shouldn't. It's still not enough." And there's the bitterness he's become accustomed to. He'd been expecting it to be worse after the mission, but instead it's good to see a flash of something other than weariness and defeat. Wesker mentally adjusts his priorities for this conversation.
"I find you sufficient." When Wesker offers that, his breath catches. Wesker knows he's said enough. He leans down and kisses him, slow and possessive. Krauser can't move his heavier arm with Wesker twisted over it, so he puts his bandaged hand on his shoulder—never his neck—and just drinks it in. But then Wesker realizes he hasn't checked everything and pulls back. "What are you thinking, Jack?"
"I thought I was dead. Took a long time to realize I wasn't." The orange plating of his arm draws up a little further over his chest. "Thought I wouldn't see you again, and that was. . ." Krauser looks away, distressed at his own inability with words. That's all right. When the lights are off, his scars are invisible, and Wesker can coax anything from him. He'll wait. Krauser manages a one-armed shrug, and finally finishes, "don't let anything happen to you."
Oh, that's right, he'd meant to take care of that. He draws back and sits up. "Wait a moment. I forgot to turn off my phone." He pulls it out. A swipe of his thumb carries him through recorded files. He presses one button, and instantly sends an order for for a sizeable bounty on one Jack Krauser that will only be available after his own death. He set up that file when he first suspected. Now that he knows, he'll protect Jack from the worst that can happen: living without the last person he's able to care about. He presses the power button within the next quarter-second and slides the computer into his jacket pocket. A drug-slowed and pain-ridden Jack hasn't noticed so much as his concentration.
"Now. . . Saddler never had true power." Wesker leans in again, pinning Jack's healthy shoulder down, and nips sharply at the edge of a bruise on his neck. Jack tips his head back for him. He's the only person in the world who can do this to Krauser. This is power, although he knows the example's been wasted. Well, except for the indulgence. "Saddler had so much knowledge and authority. But he never quite knew what to do with it."
Krauser's face becomes drawn with awareness of his injuries and regret. "I gave too much away talking with Ada. I should have just killed her and not warned her."
He's definitely become Jack's confessor, but he will not give him a reprieve. "See? Conserve knowledge. You're learning." He's been where Krauser lay, in agony and left for dead, and he vows he'll teach Krauser how to avoid it next time if he has to personally half-kill him. He climbs onto the bed and settles down on Krauser's other side. The arm comes up to wrap around them both protectively. He rubs curiously at a pulsating spot at its elbow joint, and Jack laughs silently and grabs his fingers in quick reaction. Wonderful. "I was thinking." He slides his hand free and reaches into an inner jacket pocket, coming up with a small metal tube. "Saddler made you a part of his world-"
"I was never his soldier." And there's another flash of feeling. That's been guilt, hope, love, playfulness, anger. No combat involved, and he's already shown more different expressions than he usually displays in several days. Perhaps getting almost killed by two different enemies has been therapeutic. Despite the risks, Wesker might have arranged this before if he'd known.
"I never believed you'd join him." The broken warrior has paid Wesker's investment in him with utter loyalty, even more so after they first compared an index of pain. "But after you gained the plaga, I did realize your body's in the past now, tied to a long-dead cult. I thought perhaps," he opens the unbreakable container to reveal a dangerously fragile interior, "I could welcome you into my future."
"What, that's your virus?" Jack's eyes flick over the needle, the fluid in the tube.
"A recent and adjusted version, but extracted from mine. I've destroyed the similar versions and only had this much made. Can't guarantee you'll have cat's eyes, mind." He holds the syringe carelessly.
"Can't guarantee anything." Krauser's voice is rough. For the first time, he actually has been told how much he's wanted.
"Tests turned out swimmingly." The subjects came out with, among other benefits, the ability to remold their own flesh in minor ways. Perhaps someday he can maneuver Jack into masking his skin's history, just once. That physique without random distracting lines, just clean musculature. . . "Even with the arm to complicate the mutations, I'm confident."
It will work. And Jack won't die like the subjects. It wasn't that the virus is flawed, it was that Wesker didn't trust them with such abilities. Unlike them, Jack would recognize an execution being arranged around him and take appropriate measures.
Krauser smiles, a soft flex of clean skin against inflexible ridges, and the smile actually stays. "Which arm do you want, Albert?" In answer, Wesker slides a fingertip down his bandaged bicep. Krauser's shielding arm twitches. The shortest tine lays the gauze open. Wesker carefully brushes it out of the way, exposing weeping but healing skin. He puts his fingertips over the vein as delicately as he can, lines up the needle, straddles Jack, and kisses him deeply as he presses the plunger home. He makes it good, hitting all Krauser's sensitive points without catching the raw places by his lip. Then the mauled soldier starts shivering in small jerking spasms. He pulls back, inwardly noting how many seconds it took the virus to take effect, gently tracing one of the scars over Jack's mouth. Krauser's eyes glaze over as he concentrates on withstanding pain.
That's when Wesker stands, puts his shades back on, and presses the call button. He stands back as the doctors and nurses and guards enter, strap Krauser securely into the heavy gurney in the corner, and wheel him away. There's nothing he can do now but let everyone do their jobs and trust Krauser to survive again. Well, that and keep coming by to be sure the lab's recording data correctly. An opportunity to watch a plaga mutate is not to be missed.
Wesker lost his soul. Now he has another. It's battered and twisted, and he's just made it not human anymore. But he's keeping it.