Chrisker One-Shots

Point of No Return

Summary:

Chris wakes up back in time, before the mansion incident ever happens and boy is that ever fucked up. In which it's Barry's birthday, there are too many shots, and Chris has no goddamn clue what he's meant to do with all this knowledge that's haunting the hell outta him.

-

The past should be unreachable. Like a star seen through a long-distance telescope - bright, almost there, but so far away it might as well not exist for him. So why did Chris keep returning there?

There was something about these dreams - burning, screaming, the flames hot on his face - that felt real. Real as though he was there, looking through glass that near-bubbled from the heat. He'd not had a night of peace since that damned volcano, waking with the scent of seared flesh in his nostrils and the slick feel of tentacles beneath his hand and knife, stabbing, always stabbing to the heart.

He clutched the bed frame, sodden through with sweat. Every fucking night. And what could he do? Watch. Watch it repeat and do nothing. Chris gasped in air, his own voice alien to his ears, then groped around in the darkness for the lamp switch on his bedside table.

He fell off balance when his hand didn't find the switch, faceplanting into the pillows. What the fuck? Chris sat upright abruptly, noticing for the first time that he was in a single bed.

Again, what the fuck? He'd definitely gone to sleep in a kingsize but here he was, in a single bed. And - fuck. There were those hideous old blinds he remembered so well. The dim light came through that one broken slat that'd been there forever. He turned to the side to try and find his cellphone, a last-ditch attempt at pretending everything was normal. It wasn't there. Of course.

Chris swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, wobbling to the tiny bathroom and pulling the cord to flood the room with light. Squinting, he looked in the mirror and yeah, there it was. He reached up a shaking hand to touch his face; smooth cheeks, no stubble, none of those careworn marks and little wrinkles that were now a part of him. Hell, the only thing he recognised as recent was that haunted look in his eyes. That would probably never go away.

Chris clutched the sink, knuckles whitening. "This must be some sort of dream," he said out loud. His voice was different too. What the hell was this sci-fi bullshit?

The phone rang, cutting through his confusion like a knife. Shit! Should he even answer it? Well not doing would probably be worse. Maybe someone would come round to check on him... No. Better answer it...

The phone was large, but portable, and the tinny ringtone cut off when he hit Accept. "Yeah?" he said, trying to sound casual.

"Redfield, why aren't you at work?"

Fuck, it was him. Albert Fucking Wesker. Chris nearly screamed down the phone at him, but managed to get hold of himself. "Uh yeah sorry, I woke up feeling sick. I'll be in a bit later."

"Hmm, very well. Next time, inform me before I have to chase you." The phone went down and Chris just stared at it, incredulous. It was him alright. Fuck.

He slapped his cheek twice then shook his head. "Not much else I can do I guess." Yeah, he'd have to carry on as if he was his own younger self... For now at least. And maybe he could do something about those horrors in his own future while he was here.

Wesker looked up at Chris over his sunglasses and frowned. "You look particularly well, for someone who woke up feeling sick."

Chris could almost hear the air quotes, but he stifled his annoyance and that insane urge to pull his gun and put the monster down where he sat. "I feel better now," he said simply, heading to his old - no, his actual - desk.