Worth The Wait (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader) - Lover Leader Liar
2715 words, non-chronological, christmas, themes of loneliness, s.t.a.r.s. wesker, wesker yearning, wesker being himself, part of the lover leader liar series | Fic Directory
'Tis the season...
Resentment.
That is what he feels more than anything. Bitterness, jealousy, and anger all wound into one. It used to just make him sad, not that he’d ever care to admit it. Approaching the mail room, nails digging into his palms in anticipation that perhaps the answer would be different this time. It did not matter the day nor the season.
But the answer never did change.
“Can’t you look again?” He’d always ask Mister Thomas, the mail room attendant. The man would gaze at him with some odd blend of sympathy and disapproval wrapped into one. As if a part of him understood the defiant boy who refused to move along and allow the others to retrieve their parcels and letters. The desperation hidden behind irritation and indignance.
“No,” Mister Thomas answers this time. It is the first he’s ever declined to entertain the idea, even if all he’d ever done in the past was meander to the back just long enough to satisfy the request. For a long time, Albert believed he truly did look. Now, at twelve years old, he knows better.
He is not deaf to the murmurs and snickers behind him. Once, the other children had no idea what it meant when another received nothing. The rare few would share their treats, but it never quite reduced the nauseating feeling that said nothing would instill. A handful would resort to mockery. Others would inquire innocently, never truly understanding that their words cut deep. ‘Why doesn’t your family send you anything?’ In truth, he still does not know. He’s never met them, never even known their names. A part of him wonders if he’d done something truly terrible that landed him here before even becoming aware of his own existence. He’s tried to conclude that they simply don’t exist, but this place is not an orphanage. Someone was funding his stay, so they had to be out there… right?
For twelve years he has laid awake hoping that some way, somehow whatever family he has out there would remember him and there would be something waiting for him– even just a letter would be enough. Just once, he wishes he could be like the others. The way they tear through packing paper and uncover all sorts of treasures, each one a testament to the fact that they have not just a family, but one that cares to send them anything at all.
One that loves them.
Albert chews his tongue, turning on his heel. He keeps his head up, eyes forward, and exits coolly. He will not let them know that it hurts.
In the courtyard, the chime of the bell strikes twelve. He leans down and swipes a handful of snow from the ground, packing it tightly between his palms. It is cold and it burns, but it is enough to distract him from the lump in his throat.
He did not know how to feel when he first entered the S.T.A.R.S. team’s office space. In truth, it initially brought him a sense of agitation before he’d realized just who was to blame for the decor. The decorations are simple: tinsel, a few strings of light, a dangling ornament here and there. There are two boxes stacked on your desk. All the evidence he needs, really.
Behind his glasses, he watches how Alpha team gauges his reaction. It’s as if they’re nervous, but some wear more amusement than others. Wesker says nothing, nodding only slightly to express some semblance of approval, and proceeds to his office. Their staring bores into him tenfold as he approaches, and he knows as much to assume that you’d done something inside. Or perhaps you were actively doing it. The door creaks through the first inch as it always does, though he finds not one thing out of the ordinary save for the small red-lidded container atop his desk.
Captain Wesker, reads the sticky note. Hope you like snickerdoodles! That it’s your handwriting is unmistakable.
He closes the door before opening the container. Normally he wouldn’t indulge in such things. They’re not exactly healthy, but… a gift is a gift, no?
The others had gone home for the holidays again.
The dorm is, as always, frigid at best. The masking tape he’d lined along the window seal does precious little to prevent the cold from seeping in at his bedside, but it is marginally better than in past years. Despite the snowy weather, the wind does not howl and fight for entry.
He should be used to this by now.
The pad of his index finger presses against the pointed corner of what remains to be read in his textbook. He pushes harder with every passing thought.
He’d stopped checking the mail room. Stopped hoping on his birthdays. Stopped the fantasies in his mind of finally receiving a letter or a parcel or anything. There would be nothing. He will remain, as he has now for fifteen years, at school while the others leave to celebrate with their families. He will sleep in this cold room and wake tomorrow to no festivities, no classes, no duties– nothing at all. A rather small handful of students will be his only company, but he finds no reason to engage with them. He never has.
Secret Santa was always a baffling concept to him. Any individual with reasonable deduction skills could easily figure out who had who. Then again, the vast majority of the population lacked those skills.
Still, he pretends to be surprised when you show up to the RPD Christmas party with two gift bags. He hadn’t put his name into the drawing list. In fact, as far as he knows, he was the only one who didn’t. When it comes time for the exchange, he acts somewhat surprised when you approach him and he traps his tongue between his molars to keep himself in check. He’s received gifts before. Small things. He’s not sure why it catches him off guard despite having deduced already that it was for him.
“Merry Christmas, Captain!”
The bag is heavy.
He’d wandered beyond the bounds of the school, but he imagines the bare-bones staff hardly care. He hadn’t exactly tried to be sneaky about it either. Why bother?
The white fluff crunches beneath the soles of his shoes, each step leaving a trail easily followed by anyone looking to catch him in his delinquent act. The woods are beautiful this time of year– quiet, too. Sometimes that’s what he needs. Silence. And the occasional flake falling to his eyelashes. There’s something oddly soothing about it.
He’s walked this trail before. Heard some of the other boys talk about how they sneak out this way to meet up with so-and-so or whatever chimeric love interest they’ve decided to pursue. While everyone’s away, it’s a domain of his own. Or so it should be.
“Hello, Frosty.” He greets the standing figure. It’s lopsided and one of the pebbles of its mouth has fallen away. God, now he’s talking to a snowman. He’s losing it, truly. Maybe that’s a good thing, though. He’ll fit in just right with the higher-ups someday if that’s the case. Madman Marcus in particular…
He’d rather not think about it.
Albert pulls his hands from his coat pockets, reaching to adjust some things. A new pebble here and there, a better stick for the arm… and who in the world tied this poor thing’s scarf? It’s all wrong. He packs a little extra snow at the base to support it better for when the wind picks back up again.
“There you go.” He hums. “Less like a pack of fools dressed you.” Wesker sighs, watching his breath disperse in a lovely little cloud. Were it only a tad warmer, this weather wouldn’t be so bad. But, then again, he wouldn’t have come across his little friend in need of a fix. So many things need to be corrected… Not one person in this world has it right.
Sometimes it feels like that’s what he’s here for. Fixing everyone’s mistakes, righting the wrongs, rising above the chaff to set a new standard of excellence. It’s like this snowman. Why couldn’t the individuals responsible for its creation get it right the first time? Why is he out here adjusting a snowman’s garb as if it meant anything at all? The sun will rise and remove its presence from this clearing, returning it right back to the watercycle. If not today, then tomorrow. If not then, another day.
What was the point of it?
“Damn it all,” comes an exaggerated sigh from an all too familiar voice.
It’s a frigid night, ice cold even for him. The wind only makes it worse. Alpha team had let out of their night shift a while ago, so why were you still here? A flat tire maybe? You’re not completely helpless, so why would you be struggling with something like that?
He makes his way to you. Wesker intentionally steps in a remaining pile of road salt to alert you to his presence as he rounds the corner of the parking lot. You’ve got the car hood open, and you peer around it like a deer in headlights.
“Sorry, Captain, sir, I–”
“What’s wrong?” Your stammering is endearing, but he’d rather get to the point in such uncomfortable weather. If he had to guess, it’s a de–
“Battery’s dead.” You answer through chattering teeth. You’re hardly dressed for this at all. Your hoodie and windbreaker combo is not nearly heavy enough… and you’re without gloves. You’ve never been one to dress appropriately for the cold, now that he thinks of it.
Your fingers– red from the cold– fumble around a small jumper pack you’ve hooked up to your battery. Ideally, you’d have had another car to hook up to, but, given this isn’t working…
He shakes his head as you try unsuccessfully to start it all over again. “Leave it.” He huffs. “Come. I’ll drive you home.”
You look at him like he’s got three heads. “N-no, that’s okay, I can–”
“That’s an order.” God, wouldn’t it be funny if his didn’t start? The perfect combination of poor luck to strand you both, but he doubts that will be the case. He’d replaced his car battery this past summer.
Wesker watches with mild amusement as you fumble through the process of unhooking everything and locking up your vehicle. A small smirk slips at the way you take your frustration out with the slam of the hood. He can hardly blame you.
The trek to his car is short, but it’s painfully frigid. You’re shivering once you get inside, tucking your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie for warmth. It will do you no good, he thinks as his car successfully rumbles to life. It will take some time for the heat to get working properly…
“S-s-so-rr-y,” you chuckle through chattering teeth. “O-out t-there for a m-mi-nute.”
Longer than that, surely… he’d stayed later than the others were let out.
With a deep sigh, he pushes a finger beneath the wrist of his glove, working it free before repeating the process with the other. He holds them aloft in your direction, worldlessly signaling for you to take them.
“You’re welcome to keep staring at them, but I can’t imagine the heat from me wearing them will linger long in this weather.”
“You w-want me to–”
“Yes,” he says firmly. “Hands out.” If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself. He wriggles the first one onto your right, shaking his head when his finger grazes your ice cold skin. He repeats the process with the left, pressing your hands together between his own as if to trap any precious heat seeking to escape.
There’s that look again. Like he’s got four heads now.
For some reason, he doesn’t quite want to let go even though he knows he both should and must if he means to get either of you to your respective homes. He lingers only a moment longer, releasing your hands in exchange for the steering wheel and gear shifter. Normally he would allow his car to warm up a bit longer, but getting you out of this cold was more important.
You give him directions and, slowly but surely, the car warms up and your shivers cease. You thank him profusely by the time he pulls up to your apartment complex, though he assures you that there is no need to do so.
“Here, let me take these off.” You slide a finger beneath the wrist of his glove, but he stops you.
“Keep them.” He says with just a touch of awkwardness. “And start wearing them when it’s cold like this.” He has to turn it into an order just to get the words out properly. “I’ve no desire to fill your role because you decided to go and freeze to death.”
The bit of tension breaks just like that, and you’re smiling and thanking him once more, explaining that it’s more of a not-wanting-to-carry-extra-stuff-around reason that you don’t dress properly for the cold.
“Wear them when it’s cold.” It is an order, though it is one delivered far too softly to be considered such a thing. It’s going to be a frozen week for Raccoon City. “Or I’ll assign extra paperwork.”
With your hands up in surrender, you chuckle and admit defeat to his empty threat.
He doesn’t drive away until you’re in the door.
It is small and somewhat ridiculous, but you’ve done it. You’d successfully smuggled a small pine tree into the compound, and now here it stands with warm white lights strewn about and golden balls dangling from its limbs.
The glow it gives the living room is not unpleasant, though there is a part of him that cannot help but feel it is a waste of resources no matter how traditional it may be. But it brings you joy, so it is worth it in the end.
There’s something about watching you work meticulously to make it perfect. A feeling deep in his gut that he can’t quite squash. Wesker leans back against the couch and places the heavy file binder off to the side, shutting his eyes for a moment. His thoughts flash quickly with a recollection of the tree he used to imagine as a child. Never something so grand as what would be erected in the main hall of the schools, but always something genuine and real. Something normal.
Something like this…
He stands and approaches you, silent as ever with every step. Your surprise at his arms wrapping around your waist is genuine, but you smile and continue on with your decorating. Nothing needs to be said. You already know how he feels about this holiday. You’ve never tried to force him to like it, though. The act of celebrating it is unfamiliar and it always seems to dig up unpleasant memories and feelings. But there are others now. The good ones seem to mostly include you. Some of the others from the team, but… well.
“You’re thinking too much again,” you hum, breaking him from his thoughts. “I can hear it.”
“Really now?”
“Yeah. Like gears grinding.” You chuckle. “Smell the smoke too.”
“Might just be whatever you’re burning in the oven.” Wesker leans forward, nuzzling against your hair. “Smells awful.”
“You love my snickerdoodles!” You feign offense terribly well, but that little grin gives you away all the same.
“...guilty as charged.”
His mind flashes back to the little red-lidded container on his desk in his office. There’s a consistency to your love. You bake it into the cookies, press it to his forehead with every kiss, and you send it through his heart with each and every smile. It can be found in your patience, in your understanding and compassion. It’s in every small, simple thing you do. He doesn’t know how to explain it. Sometimes he wonders if he even knows how to properly accept it. But this is it, isn’t it? What he used to dream of.
He wishes he could tell the little boy in the mail room that it will all be worth the wait.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
