Chrisker One-Shots

Razor's Edge

Summary:

Chris infects himself, and is put down like an animal and left to die in the snow of a nameless European village.

He gets found.

The wet sound of steel sliding against stone filled every dim corner of the room, an ominous and hypnotising melody. The rasping sound sawed across Chris's eardrums, slicing into his brain and bringing him, unwillingly, from the comforting haze of half-conscious delirium to the icy breath of cognizance. There was the heavy metal reverberation of clattering chains and iron — coming from him. He moved his hand to rub up against the constriction around his neck but there was a clatter as the manacles on his wrist kept his hands from coming up short. He concentrated, trying to piece together shredded memory strands that would justify the iron collar and cuffs. The pain dancing a tango across the surface of his skull made that difficult, though.

"Quite the hangover."

The voice cut through the pain and the cold and fog, sharp and easy. A familiar voice. One he hadn't heard for — what, twelve years? Twelve years should have been enough time to forget a voice. Other voices maybe. Not this one.

"Wesker."

The voice should have come from Chris, but it wasn't half as familiar as the first. Deep, angry, feral. That wasn't him, was it?

"Christopher."

It was no wonder he didn't immediately spot the man despite the fact he was sitting right in front of him. Still wearing all-black. Some things never went out of style, he supposed. Eyes darted around the room, sizing up his place of captivity, military training compelling him to prioritise trying to get any possible read on his location — entry points, weak points, threats. Rough hewn stone, the cold air of underground, the iron around his neck a cultural heritage antique. Some kind of dungeon?

"Nice décor. Very 'Spanish inquisition'."

He spoke only to drown out the sound of blade on stone, the back-and-forth hymn of an unfulfilled promise.

"Not my doing. I just inherited it." Wesker's voice fell silent at the same time as the blade he was sharpening against a whetstone, finally satisfied with the sheen of dim white he'd shorn out of the sharp blade edge. A thumb scraped over the edge, as light as a butterfly's kiss, but even that was enough to knick the skin and cause a blister of rust-red infected blood to well up on the thumb pad.

Chris was originally watching the bowie knife when the sickly colour of the blood distracted him, causing him to watch its ascent toward Wesker's lips. Pale, thin lips, enough to be invisible against the white marble of his skin, but the smear of red painted across them like lipstick caused them to burst in Chris's eyes. A tongue as bloodless as the rest of Wesker slid out, gliding over the wet and dripping red, lapping up the blood. The thumb then gently slid inside the mouth, lips clamping around and gently pressure sucking it to stem the tide.

Chris only realised how hard he swallowed because the tight chokehold of the iron collar obstructed the slide of saliva down his throat. He eased the motion into one of clearing his throat instead, trying to dislodge whatever it was that had scarred his voice.

"Thought you were dead."

Wesker wasn't smirking exactly, but the smile on his lifeblood-dyed lips was still far from warm. "I'm sure quite a few people are now thinking the same of you. With all intended offence, you look like shit."

His footsteps were light, but the dimensions of the dungeon amplified the acoustics. The slap of leather, impacting and scraping over stone.

Chris felt it was the cold that made him shiver.