โYou knowโฆ you kind of remind me of one of those secret agent guys from those old spy movies.โ Itโs an absentminded thought, one that spills out carelessly as he picks at his greasy lunch. Technically, they werenโt on the clock right now, so the sharpshooter figures even if the โobservationโ is unwarranted or out of line to offer, he can get away with it here. With a slight upturn of his lips, he finishes off the fries held between his fingertips, peering curiously back at his ever mysterious captain.
๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐
๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐. The silver glints in the light as he places the utensils onto a paper towel he took from the break room's vast quantity of paper products.
Wesker finally fishes out a plastic container and a glass one - he'd prepared some London broil and a nice, varied salad to bring with him for lunch. The broil is pink in the middle, absolutely dripping with the meat's viscous, red juices, and on the outside, it is a perfect brown that is dull but rich to the eyes. Seasoned so it emphasizes the earthy flavor of the meat. It would help with iron intake, eating the meat like this, and it satisfies some deep-seated urge within him to eat something so messy with such care. Practiced and well-mannered in how his wrists draw together with the silver tools, he carves into his broil like an experienced hunter guts a deer carcass, careful to not spoil the meat. Smooth, efficient, making sure that his movements are methodical.
The salad sits to his right, lovingly tossed with some homemade Thousand Island dressing. The lettuce and romaine are swatches of green and purple against the tan, speckled sauce. A light sprinkle of Colby Jack cheese and bacon bits tops it all off.
Being a spy for all of his time within the Army, Wesker had taken to preparing his food all on his own, not trusting others to do so, and he'd settled into a routine of providing the best for himself. He'd done well for himself, despite being an orphan.
His glasses rest to the right of his napkin, folded in on themselves. Almost an admission of removing the carefully crafted facade to actually sit down and just spend this lunch being less reserved.
Oceans of icy blue suddenly settle when Chris speaks, and one blond brow lifts at the comment. It is not often that he spends time eating with others, typically preferring to eat in the comfort of his office, alone, but Chris, lately, had been drawing him out of his shell. And it is even less often that Redfield speaks so... candidly.
For once, a glimmer of his Army Days pops in, when he'd been struggling after finding that William had replaced him with another, a romantic other, to make matters worse, and Albert had decided to enlist as an engineering officer. And when he'd been able to train as a sniper, he did so. He had been so cocky back then, always ready to quip and rub it in that he was God's gift to the world - that it must be so strange, now, for Chris to see him so different.
"Wesker, Albert Wesker," he quips, smirk curling his lips up, and then he cuts a piece off his steak for the other to try. The mastermind takes out an extra crimson napkin and puts it on the table in front of Chris, then places the London broil piece down for the sharpshooter to take.
"Taste," he orders, sharing the pleasure of his cooking like Chris so freely offers his company, "I made it." The other's comment doesn't raise doubts in his mind - though he reveals a more true self to Chris, his motivations remain obscure. Jill, on the other hand...
The sniper tilts his head, sliding over his salad so the other could take a bite, too.
"What evidence do you have for that?"
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