Chrisker One-Shots

For Spite

Summary:

Chris loses his keys and ends up asking the king of ice for a ride home after a long day at work.
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It started out simply enough.

Just another boring as shit day in the Alpha team STARS office.

You know, mountains of paperwork covering every inch of a desk, dull silence, the reek of printed ink, the constant clicking noise of Wesker typing away in his office like some robot put on automatic.

God, Chris hated that noise.

But what Chris hated even more was the frozen expression that Wesker always wore.

It made him antsy, restless, and though Chris would never admit it out loud to anyone, it made him awfully.. curious.

And so Chris would spend the majority of his slacking time just staring at the man, wondering.

Did he eat like everyone else?

Did he sleep?

If so, how?

Did he snore? Did he like cookies? Did he like anything at all? Did he have friends? Did he piss? Or maybe-

The clicking of the keyboard had suddenly stopped.

"Christopher Redfield," was the wry, British drawl that slithered into the silence of the room. "Stop staring at me. It's irritating."

Chris' back immediately straightened up, as if he had been suddenly electrocuted by something, the pen cap he'd been mindlessly chewing on falling somewhere onto the floor. Swiveling quickly in his seat, Chris faced his messy desk again, his back facing Wesker like it should always be thanks to the odd formation of the room.

"Thank you."

The typing commenced soon after.

Chris wormed in his seat, switching back and forth on his ass for a position that would feel more comfortable, but to no avail. He was bored, goddamnit. He wanted to go home to some nice loud music and maybe some videogames before collapsing into his soft, fluffy bed.

Biting his lip, Chris tried to read through the case file that he'd been working on since eight in the morning that day. He accomplished the first few words, even up to the second sentence, but then he found himself fiddling around with a paperclip he'd found in his pocket that had just looked way too fascinating to even think about passing up.

"Well, guys, I think I'm done for the night. Kathy's probably worried sick by now," Barry said out of nowhere as he stood from his seat, stretching. "Hopefully those case files pass through. Some of them actually looked pretty promising."

"Good," Wesker said to his computer screen.

This was his chance.

Chris looked towards Barry, a huge smile on his face as he stood with the pretense to follow behind. He was getting pretty tired anyway, and seeing how he could potentially punch in a few hours early tomorrow morning to make up for whatever stuff–

"Sit down, Christopher."

"But–"

"Now."

Grumbling to himself, Chris sat down, watching Barry disappear into the locker area with a sympathetic look on his face.

Great.

"Stop being useless. You're not leaving until you complete at least one report."

Chris made damn sure Wesker couldn't hear him mimicking his accent from under his breath while he looked around the room, looking for the time. It was eight in the evening, for fuck's sake. Way past five, which was the hour in which he was already supposed to be at home eating a bag of Doritos with a nice game of football playing in the background.