I wanted to say thank you to the kind reviewers of my one shot fiction, and for their encouragement into further adventures into the stories. I'll be sticking with this one, and probably will create the long fiction that I've been contemplating for a long time, mostly waiting to hear what RE:5 history would come out of it.
And now, the show must go on.
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Chris couldn't sleep this night, or for many nights; he could never remember.
He could feel the fingers of sleep poking and prodding at him, enhanced by the pleasant July breeze from the window above him, slightly ajar. Wrapped in a old comforter with someone in his bed, he should be sleeping and relaxing.
But his dreams wake him, and what they do to him scares him, even though Chris, the man who survived everything and took every bit of pain with it, would not admit it.
He would start to dream while he was half-asleep; crossing into the boarders of a dead sleep while knowing that he still had control. Most of his dreams would consist of drawn-out missions he had taken with the BSAA, of which all were victorious until he reached the one door.
Chris knew that door so very well.
The sleek, metallic shine with a pressurized seal that would hiss when it opened, and it would never matter where this dream was. He could have been coming back to his apartment after a mission, to see the door where his room was. An old mud hut or a government building would have that long corridor with the passage carved where he needed to continue his journey. Chris knew this door, and there was never a way around it.
That hiss would penetrate his dream-ears, and they would pull apart, and Chris would see Him, backlit by a massive tube with a figure in it. The man with the glossy blonde hair, and his uniform that dubbed him a leader, a comrade, and a traitor. Instead of watching the figure come alive in the tube (as he has lived this over and over as his own memories), he acts hastily, as he has come by. He runs, he slides his oil-slick knife out of his shoulder hostler, getting softer by wear, and is ready to stab Him and to kill and…
And he wakes up to see that same glint staring him in the face, and he is frightened.
Many times, he is ready to punch when he wakes up, and instead of killing Him, he's ready to hurt his partner and lover. His breath catches when he sees that glint, and he freezes with his arm in mid-swing. Sometimes she faces him, and he prays to anything that the eyes don't open, fearing that one day they'll be red and wild like His. Chris isn't sure if he could stop himself if he ever saw that.
Chris still cannot sleep, and he lies in bed watching her and worrying.
The hair, the milk-white skin, and even the slightly defensive gestures were all like Him, but yet, he still knew it was Jill when he was awake. The toughness and determination was still her, even with all the pain, and even possibly, the torture she had gone through for three years. But she still looked like Him, and He had touched her, defiled her, and left her less herself.
And he didn't know if Jill knew about his resentment, or that he couldn't sleep because of the dreams and the pain he could cause her, and his fear.
Chris leaves to have a cigarette, a habit he picked back up after Jill died.
Jill hears him leave again, as like every night, and forces herself to sleep again while a soft sob escapes her lips.
