Chrisker One-Shots

Stained (how deeply)

Summary:

"In this world love has no color, yet how deeply my body is stained by yours."— Izumi Shikibu
This would never be a love story, but at least it would be a story. wesker/chris and the end of the fighting

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Stained (how deeply)
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I want you to understand something, whoever you are.
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--"You are no god, Wesker."
--"Ah but Chris, how would you know that? Who are you to judge what a god is and isn't?"
--"You aren't. You're cruel."
--"Yes I am. But don't be foolish now—any god is cruel. Just look at your own life. All the friends you've lost and all the wounds you've received. Has your god given you happiness, in any measure?"
--"A man cannot be a god."
--"Chris, Chris, Chris. Do you really believe I'm still a man? Or do I have to prove to you once again what I am and always will be?"
--"You're not a god. I don't care if you have enhanced everything, that doesn't make you that powerful. You have a weakness still and I will find it and use it to bring you down."
--"Oh but dearheart, what if that weakness is something you can't kill without meeting death yourself?"
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I am a good man. I've always tried to do the right thing. My life should have stayed good. But all good things come to an end because they have to.
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"Hell is empty, darling; all the devils are here." He had said that to him before, mocking and superior above him as he had laid there, choking on his blood and his shame. Another foot to the gut; the shifting of a bone; a groan of agony. Around him the infected are teeming, restless and lost, fingers curled up and faces contorted in expressions between inexpressible rage and irrepressible sadness.

He hears Jill calling his name from far away and he wants to turn in her direction, to make sure that she's okay, but he knows that if he takes his eyes off of this predator in front of him he is dead. He might already be dead, with the way Wesker's eyes are glowing like pools of blood inside of his pale face, all sharp and strong bones.

"You are a little fool," Wesker tells him almost conversationally, moving down to lift him effortlessly off of the ground so that he is dangling like a ragdoll by the neck in Wesker's inhuman grip.

One small move of his wrist and Wesker could snap his neck. He has every reason to snap his neck; here he is, the hero, however beaten down inside, trying to stop the villain once again. But the hero—this hero at least—knows he never had a chance. None of them do, no heroes, so long as monsters as deadly as Wesker are there to catch them in their jaws.
"You were supposed to just die," Chris tries to tell him around the grip, words coming out strangled and garbled and dying, a little lamb bleating in the grip of the beast. "Why—"
But Wesker throws him, not bothering to hear anymore, and Chris lands hard against a concrete wall in yet another underground facility, another breeding ground for infamy and viruses and the formation of hell on earth. Jill screams his name, desperate, and there is gunfire. Chris closes his eyes at Jill's cry of pain, her little yelp before her body hits the ground. She might be dead now, like all the others.

Another person he has lead to the beast and watch be sacrificed.

He stays there against the wall with his eyes closed, feeling his broken ribs shift and stab with each breath he takes. He is waiting for death—both his and the world's. Soon he has no doubt that there will be the sound of a countdown, the sounds of a virus riddled rocket being sent out into space.

Instead there are footsteps coming towards him, familiar and terrifying and too many other things. Wesker stops next to him, above his prone form, and Chris doesn't open his eyes; Chris doesn't move. He is still and he is silent, playing dead in some sense maybe, even though he thinks soon he might really be.

Wesker reaches down and grabs him, hauls his up roughly by his shoulders. Chris almost cries out at the abuse it puts on his ribs but his jaw is wired shut and his back hits the wall. His eyes are still closed and he can feel Wesker's hands squeezing into the muscles of his shoulders, feel his cat gaze on his face and his breath on his cheek, not rancid like an animal's like it should be but rather cool, like peppermint.