here’s a little drabble. therapist wesker x emotionally dependent reader. enjoy. love you lots xx
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You were a favoured client of Wesker’s.
Phone calls a few minutes before an appointment to ensure your arrival.
Ending emails with “sincerely yours,” rather than “kind regards.”
He made himself more available. Willing to stay an extra hour if you had stumbled into your appointment 10 minutes late.
You were a curious composition. A handful of traits that Wesker thought to indulge.
“Thank you for fitting me in today– m’ sorry it was so last minute.” You cleared your throat, neatly folding your hands in your lap. Sandwiching your fingers between your thighs.
A soft, milky expanse that Wesker had committed to memory a long time ago.
“I’m certain you won’t make a habit of it.” Wesker smoothed over the glass of his watch, considering your frame.
His head cocked to the side, tufts of ash-blonde hair turning over with the movement. Eyes anchoring on your dress.
You seemed to be in good spirits.
“I– I actually have some um.. good news.” You pulled your lips into a weak smile, eye contact faltering the minute it was made.
“Ah?” Wesker straightened upright in his seat, crossing one broad leg over the other.
You flitted your tongue across the gentle outline of your lower lip, wetting the space in preparation to speak.
“Um– well. I managed to uh– sleep properly last night.” You beamed, grogginess lingering in your gaze. The kind that you couldn’t really shake.
“A small victory.” Wesker continued in that same butter-soft resonant timbre that could tilt someone back from a ledge and into his lap.
A practiced tone, of course. A stark contrast to his typical nasally voice.
“Um, yeah. Guess so. It feels nice to.. Like y’know, feel rested.” Your lips cinched into a thoughtful smile, voice laden with a particular relief that Wesker was yet to hear from you.
A noiseless thrum dragged its way through the pair of you. Wesker sitting remarkably well in the silence, squaring his shoulders with a unique elegance that many thought to be long forgotten.
“Um,” you cleared your throat, sandpapery timbre wracking down your vocal chords.
Wesker’s chin jutted upwards.
“I’m– I’m sorry I don’t really, uh- know what to say.” You beat out a pitiful bout of laughter, curling your fingers underneath your thighs.
“You feel threatened by silence, don’t you?” Wesker began.
He unfolded himself from his seat then, rising from his seat. Oxfords clicking against the hard-wood floor of his office.
“Silence predates language.” Wesker clasped his hands behind his back, standing before you.
Glare holding something unplaceable.
“True observation can only be done in silence. Perhaps we fear observation.” Wesker continued, cool-toned. Affect flat.
You nodded quickly, tufts of hair bouncing along with the motion.
You parted your lips to speak, flattening miscellaneous wisps of hair.
“As your psychiatrist, I have an obligation to observe you. I have an instinctual need to get beneath performance. The facades we give ourselves.” He splintered through your train of thought.
Your brow pinched, inhaling a belated breath.
“Does being watched frighten you?”
Wesker edged closer to you, pushing down the quirk of his lip at your immediate withdrawal back into your chair.
“Or perhaps you’ve been aware of it all along?”
Your mouth ran dry. Saliva wrenching down your throat as you swallowed with agonising difficulty.
“I– I’m sorry, I don’t– I don’t quite um, follow.” Your breathing spiked to an erratic thud, gnawing at the inside of your cheek.
Wesker took a precise step backwards. Re-directing himself to the window opposite you both.
“I.. anticipate you.” He spoke evenly, eyes not diverting their attention from your thin expression.
“That degree of regard is rarely impersonal.” He admitted with cruel casualness.
You looked out the window wesker had taken to, squinting your eyes at the sudden rush of light.
“What– so, you– what you can’t be my therapist anymore? I don’t understand?” You nibbled on your bottom lip.
Wesker adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.
“I don’t believe we can continue entertaining the idea that our relationship is.. uncomplicated.” Wesker’s voice grew closer as he settled back in his chair again.
The meat of your jaw tensed. Expression shifting as each possibility fluttered through your minds eye.
“The thoughts I have of you are not ones that belong to a physician.”
You sat with the weight of wesker’s confession on your chest. The silence dipped to a steady hum once again.
This time, your attention was solely on Wesker.
His watching. His observation. It dawned on uou that Wesker always had that look when he was with you.
“Doctor Wesker–” you began, conflict knocking the sense from your immediate thought process.
“I really– I don’t think I can.. do without you.” You confessed quietly, eyes widening with the flurry of embarrassment that hit you with the long-awaited confession.
Wesker craned himself forwards. Usual, practiced restraint becoming something heavier to bear.
A hand. Large and uncalloused stilled on the exposed skin of your knee.
“Then I believe we are no longer speaking as therapist and patient.”
