Chrisker One-Shots

Bite To Break The Skin

Summary:

It's at night when the monsters come out.
Work Text:
Bite to break the skin

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His apartment is dark still when he blinks awake, halfway between a dreaming state and a waking state.

For awhile he lies there tangled in his sheets staring up at his white cracked ceiling, feeling sweat cool on his body and his muscles gradually start to relax. Somewhere the air clicks on and he shivers, trying and failing to forget the dream that had been more like a nightmare.

The dream about that man falling down, down, down, all heat and red creature eyes— No, no, he'd told himself that he wouldn't think about him at least not when he's awake and his is remembering him and feeling that familiar rage burning under his skin like lava—

With a growl Chris Redfield rolls over on his side and closes his eyes, intent to try to find more sleep before his alarm inevitably goes off. The time on the clock, blood red letters, tell him that it is early morning, 4:04 to be precise so he has four more hours to attempt to pursue sleep. And this time actual sleep and not nightmares and memories that will leave him sweating and thrashing and screaming silently in his throat.

He lies there for minutes that stretch on and on and on, his eyelids pulled almost painfully shut against his eyes. Sleep, he tells himself even though he is wide awake and too hot, the covers confining around him. Please just sleep. But it is a lost cause and he knows it, eyes opening to see the clock now reads 4:49. With a heavy sigh he rolls out of bed and walks to his bathroom, relieving himself before rubbing cold water on his face in a half ass attempt to cool down. He really needed to talk to the landlady about the goddamn air in this place because it is suffocating.

He is heading back to his bed to try and fail at getting more sleep when he sees it—two red eyes glaring at him across the room. Eyes that he knows, eyes that he thought were dead, eyes that could only belong to—

He is defenseless and he is acutely aware of it and yet he still tries to run into the next room where his gun holster is sitting innocently on the coffee table. He doesn't even make it to the door before there is a low familiar chuckle and a dark blur and pale skin in front of him, tackling him down to the hard unforgiving ground. Chris fights even though he knows after so many experiences that it is really futile, lashing out with hands and legs and teeth until he is panting for breath and his limbs are being easily held down in a punishing grip, a fist that is inhumanly strong snapping out to hit him in the jaw until he tastes blood and there is a dull ringing in his ears and he is dazed, weakened.

Through pain filled and eyes hazed over with rage and fear Chris stares up into the familiar handsome face of his tormentor, the face that has haunted his dreams and hasn't left him alone for years now, back to haunt him more and more.

"No," Chris spits out, a single word full of blood. "No." The figure above him, dressed in that all black ensemble he'd been in when he'd supposedly died chuckles low and condescending again and a pale hand forged of granite moves to grip at Chris's neck, so delicate in that grip. "I take it you missed me then?" the accented voice sneers and in the twilight darkness of the room Chris sees thin lips pull back in a smile that is all teeth. "Judging from your reaction, Christopher, I think you did."

"You're supposed to be dead," Chris accuses and tries to aim another desperate punch and Wesker doesn't even flinch, just captures his wrist and his fist and squeezes until it aches and the bones groan. Chris does not cry out or flinch; he will not show this creature any weakness, not anymore, not now. Wesker is surprisingly without his sunglasses and his eyes are like that of a demon's, the color of blood as they stare down at Chris. "But I'm not dead now am I Chris?" Wesker says, all smugness and arrogance as always.