Post-traumatic stress disorder(noun): a psychological reaction that occurs after experiencing a highly stressing event (as wartime combat, physical violence, or a natural disaster) outside the range of normal human experience and that is usually characterized by depression, anxiety, flashbacks, recurrent nightmares, and avoidance of reminders of the event—abbreviation PTSD; called also delayed-stress disorder, delayed-stress syndrome, post-traumatic stress syndrome; compare combat fatigue.

That there, that's not me

I go where I please

I walk through walls

I float down the Liffey

Prologue

September 21, 2011.

Chris looked up from his styrofoam cup and took a peek at the clock. It read 3:12, meaning he had about fifteen minutes left on break, and then it was back to the briefings he was currently hiding from. Granted, what were they going to do to him if he was late? Fire him? No chance in hell. He was the "BSAA's best," as their directors were fond of introducing him as to various politicians.

He swirled a noodle around with his fork. He wasn't sure why he still ate that shit—God knows he had more than enough money to not be eating cup'o noodles and protein shakes for lunch. Old habits died slow and hard deaths he assumed, though he wasn't quite lazy enough to start carrying MRE's around with him.

The clock ticked on. Chris groaned in anticipation of talking down another head of state who thought a stockpile of biological weapons was a dandy idea. He was not good at this diplomacy shit; why he was dragged into it was anyone's guess. "Firsthand testimony," was the lame explanation he had been offered.

Chris suspected it had something to do with the board of directors' desire to have 220 pounds of muscle with combat experience sitting at the table when discussions got heated.

The door started creaking. Chris sighed. If he was getting called back in early, he was going to inform the Albanian ambassador that thirty minutes meant thirty Goddamn minutes.

But, it wasn't a politician or director. It was Piers Nivans, Alpha team's sniper. Piers was privately Chris' favorite soldier under his command; he was young, but smart as hell and had improbable aiming skills. He was known for keeping calm and rational under even the worst pressure, which was why Chris was quite confused as to why he was crying.

"Piers, hey... what's up?"

Piers weakly waved his hand in greeting, before pulling out the chair across from Chris and just about falling into it.

"Chris, Natalie's leaving me." His voice was very soft and strained, his features twisted up into a pained expression.

Chris knew who was Natalie was: he knew that she had been the homecoming queen, that she was getting her master's degree in speech pathology, that she had strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes, and that Piers had asked her to marry him on the top of Mount Rodgers on a three day camping trip.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Chris said, words choppy. He wasn't quite sure what to say. Emotions were never his strong suit.

"She said that she 'can't connect,' with me anymore... what the fuck does that even mean?"

"I don't really know, Piers." Chris silently cursed himself. He sounded like an idiot. Good thing Piers was too choked up to even notice.

"And I asked her if it was someone else, and she said it wasn't... she'd rather be alone than stay with me."

"Piers... I don't think that's what that means."

"Well then what the fuck else would it mean?" He slammed two hands down on the flimsy table hard enough to shake it, before jumping back, like he had startled himself. Realizing what he had done, Piers' face turned an even deeper shade of red. "Sorry, captain. That was unprofessional of me."

Chris shook his head.

"It's okay... Look, I'm not too good with this emotional stuff. But, I'm listening."

Piers wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve.

"I don't know what I'm going to do without her. What the hell is there to come home for?"

"You can't think like that, kid."

Piers sighed.

"Yeah, I know. I know. It's just hard. I need a drink." He laughed, bitter and hollow.

Chris shook his head.

"No, you don't need a drink." He glanced down at his cell phone and picked it up off the table, punching in a few numbers.

"Hey, this is Captain Redfield," he spoke into the receiver. "I've got a personnel issue; I'm not going to be able to make it back to the meeting. Yes, I'm sure the Albanian Ambassador will miss me. Uh huh. Thanks."

He tossed the phone back down on the table.

"We've got all day to talk, Piers."

July 31, 2013

The escape pod broke the waves. Chris' fingers were pressed so hard against the glass, his hands were going numb. The last few minutes of their battle with HAOS flashed through his mind in disjointed segments—Piers covered in blood; Piers injecting himself; Piers attacking the monster... Piers saving his life, again. His eyes stung with bitter tears.

Everyone he loved hurt themselves protecting him. He wanted to grab Piers by the collar, tell him that it wasn't worth it, that he should have been the one to die. The same thing he had wanted to tell Jill.

Piers though, he wasn't coming back from that.

The pod opened, and Chris tasted the salty air, mixed with something metallic. The chopper would be coming for him soon. Until then though, all that was left for him to do was wait. Wait and think.

Chris cringed. He knew he could revisit Piers' death a hundred times before he got picked up.

The ocean was choppy, undoubtedly the result of the massive explosion. The water was practically bubbling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him. A limp body, smeared red with blood and blue in the face. A clod of red muscle tissue hung off the shoulder.

Piers.

Chris jumped out of the escape pod, not even considering the potential ramifications—drifting off, drowning, Piers' blood attracting all manners of aquatic beasts. He swam with all the force left in his body, desperately trying to reach Piers.

He was no lifeguard, and the way he dragged Piers through the water was slow and graceless, but they made it back into the escape pod. Without a moments hesitation, Chris began performing CPR.

Chest compressions, breaths; he worked so fast that he nearly forgot to remove Piers' bulletproof vest, which could only harm him now. He went on for ten minutes, pushing his hands into the center of Piers' unmoving chest, forcing air into his lungs. He felt a beat.

Piers, still unconscious, coughed seawater and bloody sputum onto his chest. Chris grabbed his radio. "This is Captain Redfield to command; I have an injured soldier, potentially infectious. I need a medical team, stat. You've got my coordinates. Hurry."

August 2, 2013

He heard.

"Well, what do you think we should do about it? Just carve his face out with a potato peeler?"

"It's preferable to keeping the gangrenous tissue."

"Did anyone suggest leeches?"

"You wanna find out what happens when we let leeches go to town on C-Virus infected tissue?"

"He's been vaccinated."

"If you're so confident about that, how about you take your gloves off?"

"So, I guess we're going to have to cauterize the whole left side of the face, and the forehead?"

"Unless you've got a better idea."

"It's a shame. He was a good looking fellow, wasn't he?"

"He's BSAA. They'll pony up for reconstructive surgery."

"When we're done, it's going to take a little more than reconstructive surgery to make him look like a person again."

"Let's just focus on getting him out of this room alive, please."

He saw.

There were six of them, astronauts, maybe. Big white suits and clear masks. Twisted faces.

They were digging into his skin with steel and fire, sealing his flesh and ligaments together. He could feel it; feel his face being burnt off. There was smoke.

He was on fire.

He screamed, but no sound would come out; his mouth wouldn't open because it was sutured shut with tiny stitches digging into the soft flesh between his nose and lips, skirting his chin.

He wanted to weep, but his tears wouldn't flow. The necessary connections were gone; all his tears were dried up, the ducts seemingly frozen shut.

The room was so sickeningly white and sterile. The lights were bright as hell, like staring right up at the sun. He was completely naked under a thin piece of paper, and these six astronauts were digging into him with what felt like a thousand lit matches.

He could smell his own flesh burning.

He tried so hard to scream, he ripped the sutures right out, tore holes right through his pretty old "cock sucking lips," as he'd been called before.

It wasn't like it mattered anymore.

"Fuck, he's awake! More Propofol; he can't wake up yet."

"Shit! I'm on it."

And then it was dark.

"Why, Chris?"

And then he slept.

I'm not here

This isn't happening

I'm not here, I'm not here

In a little while

I'll be gone

The moment's already passed

Yeah, it's gone

Notes: Story inspired by a prompt from "chrisxpiersfan" on tumblr. If any of you have tumblr accounts, I highly recommend you give them a follow. Piers' ex-wife comes from sadlittletiger's headcanon, which I merely borrowed. Lyrics are the intellectual property of Radiohead.

Leeches really are used in modern medicine. Yes, really.