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It was two in the fucking morning, and Rebecca was ready to go home.
Still, being paranoid as she was, she stopped to check on her cells one last time before leaving, ensuring that they looked okay to infect tomorrow.
Shit.
Her cells were most definitely dead, floating in the flask instead of attached to the bottom like they should be. Maybe she’d been too aggressive with them earlier, or maybe they were contaminated? The company was notorious for sometimes sending contaminated vials.
She could ask around for new ones tomorrow—cell trades weren’t an uncommon thing, though then it would be another day before she could infect them, another day before she could get the virus she needed, another day before she could get the data she needed, and she was already on a tight deadline.
She thought about it for a second. There was only one other person who was psycho enough to still be in lab at 2 in the morning, only one other figure lurking in the shadows.
She’d seen him grab something out of the autoclave a few minutes ago, before retreating back to his office in the dark.
Fuck it—she needed this data, badly, so she made her way into the hallway where the offices were, passing her own and stopping in front of his.
He really was an okay labmate—clean, kept to himself, of course the fact that he was actively working on a bioweapon that she was trying to create a vaccine for wasn’t ideal, but he didn’t need to know her end of the equation. Or maybe he already did, and just hadn’t said anything or tried to sabotage her, which probably meant he was two steps ahead.
The real issue was that she’d avoided Wesker since exposing him at the Mansion—the rookie, child prodigy, freshly 18 and so out of place. She’d only joined S.T.A.R.S. because she needed clinical experience for medical school—and was convinced that the only reason Wesker hired her was because she could answer his stupid biochem trivia that he seemed to love to quiz people with. Or, Irons urged him to hire her because he was a creep.
Either way, she didn’t know what she was thinking. She told on him mostly to help Jill, who had protected her from Irons and his creepiness, and because she was 18 and fired up on spite and didn’t know about things like bureaucracy yet. Admittedly, too, she was a bit starstruck and motivated by Billy—she was a burnt-out gifted kid who wanted to break the rules a little, and well, Billy Coen was there, and he was surprisingly kind and witty and took her virginity once she begged him enough times.
Fired up by spite and burnout and whatever else was in her system, she went back to school after the mansion, practically dedicated her life to cleaning up Albert Wesker’s messes. But she still avoided him like the plague, even when they were labmates in a shared-use facility because there were only so many BSL4 lab facilities in the United States.
And he just happened to be at this one, doing whatever the hell he was doing after Umbrella. Still making viruses, though he’d seemed to take a liking to arthropods and parasitology too lately, as well as small-molecule drugs. A little bit of everything, it seemed—not unusual for someone like him, as he was the type of guy who hoarded discarded samples from labmates and had a freezer full of stuff older than she was.
He’d have cells. She desperately didn’t want to, wishing it was anyone else. Her old toxic PhD advisor, even, or the weird guy from the mice room upstairs who made advances on her sometimes.
But she needed this grant—she was brand-new junior faculty, still without her own funding, and she was at risk of losing her position.
She carefully rapped on the door to his office, which he was sitting in, staring at a desktop screen with the lights off. She couldn’t tell what he was looking at from through the window.
Once he finally noticed there was someone there, he caught her eye through his readers, motioning her inside.
“Miss Chambers.”
“Uh, actually—“ she cut in, wondering what the heck she was doing. “It’s Dr. now.”
Wesker nodded, taking it in as the smallest tinge of a smile crossing his face. “Dr. Chambers.”
Rebecca waited for a to what do I owe the pleasure or similar, but he remained silent—staring at her until she spoke.
“I—um—do you have some cells I could borrow?,” she asked sheepishly, feeling like a kid asking for something ridiculous. “I’m working on a grant, and—“
“Mm,” Wesker hummed, “still cutting it close to deadlines, are we?”
“Yeah,” Rebecca admitted sheepishly.
“Still a perfectionist, I assume,” he said. “What kind of cells do you need?”
“Just some 293’s,” she answered, “just a T75 flask is fine.”
Wesker stood up from his desk, and taking that as a signal that he was, indeed, going to help, Rebecca followed him out of his office and down the hall. “What kind? Regular, 293T’s? LentiX?”, he asked as he punched the door code into the cell culture room.
“Uh, T’s would be nice, actually,” she admitted.
Saying nothing again, he grabbed a pair of large gloves from the box on the counter and took the lid off of the large liquid nitrogen storage tank in the back corner.
Slowly, he grasped the wire holding up the metal tower full of boxes of cell vials, pulling it out as he put the lid back on the tank. Setting the tower on the floor, he bent over and read the labels on the boxes, poking out the correct one with a long finger and opening it up to reveal several vials of frozen cells.
“Thaw this in your hand,” he ordered, handing her the plastic vial as he closed the box and put it away. “I’ll seed them right now,” he added, more of a declaration than an offer.
“I—you really don’t have to,” Rebecca insisted, anxious to get the hell out of this awkward situation. “Weren’t you, uh, doing something?”
“You said you only needed one flask, and that vial is enough for at least two,” Wesker chided. “Unless you wanted the extras?”
“Um, no, uh—“ she started, unsure of what to even say. “One is enough.”
Wesker only stared at her again, expressionless.
“Do you have media?,” he asked.
“Um, yeah, let me get some,” she said.
Rebecca hurried herself back to her section of the lab, opening her mini-fridge and retrieving a square bottle of red liquid that looked like kool-aid. Shit, she should have made aliquots, she thought to herself, this was going to take forever to warm up.
She returned to see Wesker, now in a labcoat, with a single empty rectangular flask in one hand as he sifted through drawers with the other, looking for a certain size of well plate.
“This has an antibiotic, I’m assuming?,” he asked.
“Uh, yeah, pen-strep,” she said.
“That should be fine. Gentamycin is better,” he pointed out.
Rebecca’s pride wouldn’t let her admit to him that she didn’t have Gentamycin money, so she stayed silent, leaning against the counter across from the cell culture hood as he finished gathering pipettes and tubes.
“Don’t bother with the water bath,” he said as he sat down and sprayed his gloves and sleeves down with alcohol, and Rebecca knew all too well what he meant—that it was a cesspool of bacteria. “Put it in your pocket to warm up,” he said, turning his head to glance at her up and down for a second, “or your bra.”
She scoffed, slightly impressed that Wesker, of all people, had paid enough attention to a female scientist at one point to pick up on that trick, before doing as she was told.
When he finished labelling his tubes and culture vessels, he unwrapped a pipette and stuck his hand out for the cell vial, and then the media, feeling its temperature for a second before splitting both between 2 tubes.
“Put that back… wherever it was,” he said, handing her back the media tube as he stood and turned to put the cells in the centrifuge, pretending not to smirk as he watched her shove it back into her bra out of the corner of his eye.
He closed the centrifuge and pressed the start button, turning around and leaning against it with his arms crossed once it reached a satisfactory speed.
“May I ask what you’re doing with my cells?,” he asked.
“Uh, I’m gonna infect them,” “For structures. For cryo.”
“Mm,”
“You?”
“Repeat an assay,” he said plainly, “unless Ricardo wants them.”
“He’s a mouse guy,” she pointed out.
“We cover each other,” he said, looking over at her for a brief second, eyes raking over her.
“Isn’t that what old friends do?”
She didn’t know what to say to that—they weren’t friends, colleagues at best, though she’d never admit that she always had a little crush on him—at the time, he was her superior, she was freshly 18, and it was all shades of wrong.
Now, she was 25, and sharing a lab space with him as a peer, opening the centrifuge for him and passing him her cells.
-
As he put the cells back in the hood for their second media change, spraying everything down with another healthy coat of alcohol before doing so, she remained leaning against the centrifuge, looking down at the floor. As she felt his eyes on her, the tension in the air, she moved around the room looking for something to occupy her hands with–bleach bottles to refill, a hemacytometer to clean.
Wesker extended his hand, not looking away from his work surface, holding a small tube of the resuspended cells. She knew exactly what he wanted, taking it from him firmly, working swiftly to add blue dye and count them under the microscope in order to get a live-dead count.
“Six million per mil”, she said back, not looking up from the microscope. “Adjusted for dilution.”
He nodded until she spoke again.
“They look good,” she commented as she wiped the slide clean with alcohol, dropping the cover into the sharps bin. “Maybe only five percent dead. No debris.”
Wesker grinned for a second as she fiddled with the microscope, turning it back to its original settings.
“The protégé becomes a professor. How fitting,” he said, slightly taken aback by how she wasn’t a shaky undergrad anymore, how she could do a dilution count in her head quickly. Time had a funny way of doing things.
“I guess it was meant to be,” she sighed.
“Always trying to save the world,” he said, “and look pretty while doing it, though I’m sure you still deny that.”
She looked away to hide her blush, the fluttering in her stomach—it made her feel the same way as when she’d found her picture in his desk. It was a little perverted, sure, but it did numbers for her self-esteem at a time when her peers all viewed her as a baby, as boyish and not in a sexy way like how Jill was boyish, as an annoying know-it-all.
After all, she was a little perverse herself too, whether or not he picked up on that.
Rebecca inhaled sharply as she turned to face his back, having finished resuspending her cells in her flask, and was now working on his 96-well plate—of course, seeding each well by hand, 125 microliters at a time, as they both knew that a calibrated multichannel was a myth.
She watched his hands, steady as he moved the micropipette back and forth, and snaked up beside him, moving the biohazard bin beneath him out of the way as she crawled under the hood, setting her hands on his surprisingly still muscular thighs.
“What are you doing?” he asked plainly.
“You’re giving me cells,” she retorted, “Just let me do this. Please.”
She worked quickly to take him out and into her mouth, his breath hitching as he hardened against the sloppy, wet kisses she pressed up and down his cock, against the gentle strokes of her thumb on his head.
Once he’d gotten over the initial shock of the situation, he went back to his cells, his expression never changing from his usual unexpressive scowl as Rebecca worked over him with her mouth, stroking the base with her free hand and steadying herself on his thigh with the other as he quickly hardened all the way, becoming a little red as he did so.
Definitely not the first time he’s had a cell culture blowjob, she thought to herself, or maybe it is.
His breath hitched again as she took him all the way to the hilt, his free hand finding the edge of the hood to steady himself–the only indication she'd gotten to him at all, besides the taste of salty fluid that’d started leaking from the tip.
His hands still worked above her to finish pipetting his cells as she continued to work over him–taking him faster, deeper, occasionally pausing to flick her tongue over the head, to suck harder at it, which earned her another fluttery breath and a small, deep groan.
Still, his elbows never dropped, never breaking sterile technique, right up until she was throat-fucking him and his head dipped back, jerking his hips a bit as he came in ropes down her throat,, earning her a long, low grunt as she swallowed all of him, not wanting to make a mess of herself or the room, as that could be a contamination risk.
Once he’d zipped his pants closed, Wesker sprayed his gloves down with alcohol before reaching into the hood again to put the cells away, spraying his workspace down and closing it before walking over and crouching down in front of the incubator, putting the flask he’d reserved for Rebecca on the shelf that was labeled with her initials on pink tape, putting his own plate of cells on the shelf above.
“Uh, thanks again,” Rebecca chuckled awkwardly, turning to return to her bench once he’d finished.
“Not so fast,” Wesker said, cocking his head a little as he stood up, almost hawklike.
Fuck, he was gonna ask for something. And she couldn’t really say no now. “What?,” Rebecca asked tentatively.
“I only gave you half of my cells,” he said, “Don’t you think we should make this fair?”
He took off his gloves, dropping them into the biohazard bin, only to grab a new pair from the counter and put them on.
Shit, what the hell was he going to do?
She was going to be test subject number one for whatever new sick bioweapon he’d invented in his spare time, she was sure of it.
Somewhere in the midst of her spiraling, he’d put a hand on her hip bone, caging her in against the door as he looked down at her.
She looked up, her eyes met his. He was Wesker, so it was hard to tell what his expression was saying, but she thought she saw a bit of playfulness in them.
“What are you—“ she trailed off, her sentence being cut short as his thumb caressed her hip and his other hand pushed her bangs out of her face.
He grabbed her chin and turned it upwards, forcing her to look at him even more, to hold his gaze.
“Let me take care of you, dearheart,” he said quietly, with an almost warmth that was so deliberately un-Wesker.
Rebecca didn’t say anything, only staring up at him as he grabbed her waist tightly with both hands, walking her back over to the hood and pressing her back up against the glass.
One hand remained on her waist, squeezing firmly, as the other unbuttoned the top of her shirt, then snaking behind her to unclasp her bra. Impressive, that he could do that one handed, she thought, but then again, it wasn’t any different from how he had the dexterity to open tubes one-handed.
Her train of thought stopped as hit wet, plush lips made contact with her nipple, his tongue lightly flicking over it as his hand gently cupped her small breast.
A breathy moan escaped her, and she could’ve sworn she saw him smirk a bit, before grazing his teeth against it, eliciting a shudder and a louder whimper from her mouth.
His eyes met hers again, his sunglasses resting on top of his head, and he smirked like a damn Cheshire Cat before resuming kissing down her body, placing small bites that were already starting to bruise on the underside of her breasts as his thumb still circled on her hip.
He made quick work unbuttoning and pulling down her pants and underwear, taking a second to admire her hips and thighs and her already dripping wet cunt before going in.
His hands grasped her hips again as he gently pressed his lips to her clit, running his tongue over it a few times before he began to do the same to her cunt, licking tentatively at her entrance.
Rebecca moaned sharply again, this time not caring who heard or if there was anyone upstairs as she widened her legs and involuntarily ground her hips against his tongue, begging for more.
Wesker pulled back for a second, pressing a kiss to her clit and inner thigh before whispering against her cunt, his breath tickling her gently.
“What do you want, sweetheart?”, he asked as he licked her center again. “You have to tell me.”
“Fuck,” she whined, shivering against his words. “Put your fucking fingers in me. Please.”
He pulled back for a second, like that was too much, like he was going to get up and leave her like this—only to reach for the alcohol on the cart next to him, spraying his gloves down and shaking it to evaporate.
Safety first.
“Very well,” he said before gently massaging two up and down her core, his thumb on her clit as her pussy clenched, begging for more, for them inside her.
She could feel his smile against her skin as she got more and more desperate from his teasing, practically dripping onto his hand as her legs trembled from the need.
Desperate, she grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand to where she needed it, and he obliged, curling them upwards into her as soft lips sucked hard on her clit.
Gripping on his hair, hard, she moaned shamelessly, desperately trying to stabilize herself, to try and hold back from losing it right in front of her former superior.
He must’ve noticed her holding back—if he was anything, it was persistent, determined, and this was no exception, something he’d wanted for years and finally had in his hands, pressing her harder against the cold metal of the hood with the one that still gripped her hip while fluttering his tongue against her.
“Wesker…fuck, fuck,” she whined, her legs shaking against him, grinding against him practically uncontrollably.
“Shh,” he whispered against her cunt, so close she felt it on her sensitive clit, “almost there.”
Another lap of his tongue was all it took for her to come undone, throwing her head back against the hood as she shook and pulsed onto his face, his fingers, releasing a gush of fluids that made a mess of his gloves. She really hoped anyone wasn’t still in the office now–she didn’t believe in a god, but the sounds coming out of her were downright unholy.
"See, that wasn't so hard now, was it?," she could hear him whispering against her thigh as her vision was still blurry.
As Rebecca’s vision refocused onto the fluorescent buzz of the ceiling lights, and then back down in front of her, Wesker flashed her the same catlike grin before removing his fingers from her and taking off his gloves, dropping them into the biohazard bin next to them before turning towards the door, eyeing the cell incubator again.
“They should be around 50 to 80 percent confluent tomorrow,” he said, before turning the door handle and heading back to his office.