Fandom: Resident Evil
Pairings/Characters: Jill Valentine/Chris Redfield
Rating: T for some cursing, some mature themes, nothing heavy: no kissing, no sex. Some fluff within the grit. Written for an exchange giftfic.
Jill's a cross between the games/film. And Chris, is set up for the 5th RE.
Summary: Christmas comes only once a year, and what's a girl to do but wait, for an old friend.
When love and skill work together, expect a masterpiece.
--John Ruskin
xxx
Jill looked up from her car, staring at the topmost section of her building, the place where she lived. Temporarily. She would have gotten out sooner, but she took the cigarette out of her purse, pushed it between her lips. Her hand scrambled for the lighter, finding it to light the end of the stick: the flame illuminating her features.
It wasn't even late, the sun still hiding behind clouds, darkened by the threatening rain. It hadn't rained yet, but she was skeptical it would even rain. Her hand reached over to the radio, flipping it on and searching for the station that promised her news twenty four seven.
…..Overcast, with a 63 percent chance of rain….
Jill flipped it off, sucking the cigarette in, and the smoke furled out through her nostrils. "Shit. I can't even goddamn finish smoking an entire cigarette," she said, to no one, alone in the car. Her eyes stared at the piece of filtered tobacco, the end burning bright red, covering in thickening ash. She quickly smashed the butt in the ashtray, the smoke snuffing out, leaving an unpleasant smell that would no doubt cling to the leather seats.
Jill took out a mint from her bag, balled up the wrapping paper it came in and threw it aside, next to the snuffed cigarette not yet finished and used up sat. She allowed the taste of the spearmint to mingle and melt in her mouth, swirling her tongue around the candy, sucking in air to get the full extent of its flavour, until it slowly melted away any disgusting taste of nicotine.
She breathed, opened the window wide, the sound of the machine inside purred as the glass dipped down. "I can't believe Christmas is here and I'm alone again."
The thought of her family snuck into her conscience: No wait. Wasn't she able to visit her family last year? That really turned out grand, and there was nothing but sarcasm laced in her mind at that image. The only time she was able to feel at home was at the police department, where she was close to her colleagues, her closest friends. But they always died. Everyone always died, because of this viral war. Or whatever war was going on. And she was always called in to fix the mess, because, her records stated that she was professionally trained at this. Because she was part of the mess Spencer left behind.
Everyone that was involved: her, Chris, Barry, the others, they were the ones that were either given a special medal, and looks of curious awe from new team members. How could they have survived so long? –was what many of them probably wondered.
She had a feeling it was because fate was trying to make a mockery of things. Still, even if she could wake up another day, fight again, and snap the neck of a persistent ugly infected creature, it was worth it. Wasn't it?
It was Christmas Eve. Another year, and another day, it was just like all the rest. The sound of keys jingled and the turn of the knob always allowed her to open up the emptiness that welcomed her presence. But she never stayed long enough to watch anything on the television, or shove a couple DVDs she was itching to see into an unused player.
Her apartment was just there for sleeping, if she ever got the time. Most of her days were spent on the field; trekking across the country, on a plane, and mostly on a helicopter legions high above fields of familiarity, the yawning great gulping gap of existence: the grass swaying away from the turning, whirling whiplash noise and force of the wind; trees scarce, scattered along the perimeter of growing wheat, nourished weeds that twisted together; the sing song of birds hidden in between the tall blades; they looked for bodies dead, longer still from the last outbreak. Each time wasn't easy and Jill kept her expression neutral, even if inside, she was straining to keep from feeling the shock.
She should have been used to this. Why does it still make her heart beat fast? Was she becoming so thrilled by the prospect of finding the walking dead? Putting a few holes into their heads, watching their brains splatter across the concrete so they can finally rest in peace?
She didn't like to think too much, but days like this, when the lights from the distance twinkled in colours and the sound of holiday music traveled to her ears, Jill couldn't help but think. It didn't help matters when she was sitting in her car, waiting.
It was worse when she was with Chris on an assignment, because he was a little more hard assed than she was. Too trained and pumped up for anything else, all no nonsense and prepared—ready at attention—it wasn't easy—but she kept up with him better than she thought she could. Well-she smirked—it didn't happen often anyway. He was sent to far away countries, and if her superiors wanted her to follow behind, sometimes in another team opposite his-- then it wouldn't be the last to fight side by side with him.
She thought of her last mission: the team she hung out with carried the suitable equipment, the body bags, the medical supplies—for god knows what—perhaps if they encountered the stray and the infected.
Sometimes the bodies were never identified, and sometimes if luck managed to grasp between bony fingers—dusted and darkened by blood-- a necklace, a ring, a token of their legacy, of where they once lived---if they ever had the chance to tell the world that they once existed.
Her job was never easy, and the days seemed to stretch into long years, shorter still by each ticking, louder and louder until she wanted to find a pillow and cover her ears from the screams, the wailing moans not her own; and they were always those of a child with eyes too dead and black from the virus. She never hesitated, because one moment faltered meant death; she knew lady fortune would not give her reprieve.
There wasn't any time to relax in these missions, looking for the objectives and closing it with a resounding click—of a shotgun; of a rifle; of automatics—fast enough because there wasn't much time to reload--even when a .45 would have taken care of things quicker and faster. Enough time for her to catch a breath.
And she always sported her beret, a pistol, enough bullets, and pair of her favourite combat boots. She had to carry a spare, and if she was luckier, she could find some detergent strong enough to tear the blood out of her jacket, bleach the stains so that they ended up faded, leaving decorative spots along the military pants too strong to bear bullets. She couldn't even bring herself to wear them and they ended up in the trash, in the dumpster outside, waiting for some beggar, cold from the winter season to come along and find them.
The entire day had been cloudy. He was going to be on time. She knew. Her eyes strayed to the digital clock on her dashboard. Her hands, fingerless gloves and worn from wear, touched the steering wheel-fingertips bare from nail colour, clicked on the edges.
"Hey gorgeous!"
Chris greeted, a little too loud, surprising her by the car window.
"Jesus!" She breathed out; hand gripped the steering wheel, the other reaching for a gun in her purse.
He laughed, "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. You were expecting me weren't you?"
Jill sent him that look, with murder in her eyes, but relaxed immediately and the smile—charming and pleasant returned to her face, "Merry Christmas, Chris."
He grinned; the short crop of his hair tousled dark and softly curled around his perfect head, and his eyes—sometimes too common—looked magnetically aesthetic today. Maybe it was because she knew she wouldn't be alone tonight. He was here to have dinner with her, share a holiday that she doesn't normally follow, and there was something inside her that wondered if he were as lonely as her.
She clicked the button of the seat belt, it released her from the restraint. Chris opened the door, his eyes lingering to her short skirt and the way it inched up over her thigh. Jill caught them, and he was wont to dart them away, assessing the building instead.
"Your place looks great." He tried to compliment, even if the neighborhood wasn't upgraded, still—it wasn't bad. She got something simple to live in, and the ocean was nearby, where the pier offered her some solace whenever the time afforded.
"Yeah. Right." She said, her smile never leaving. "And you? You still living at that place?"
Chris closed the door for her, his gloved hand hovering close to her arm, the short day's growth of beard kept him looking mature, rugged, and she wondered too if he did that for appearance's sake, or if he were just an incredibly lazy guy when it came to shaving.
"Naw. I couldn't keep up with the place, so I had to move. The place was ram shacked more than once, my furniture overturned, drawers pulled out and smashed, and everything in the cupboards was taken out."
"You're a popular guy; everyone wants a piece of you." She joked, her back against the door of her car, and she was suddenly aware of how close he was, and his face leaner than she remembered; or was it because he was bigger? Somehow….broader of shoulder, and she couldn't help but permit her eyes to scan the length of his body, a slow languid perusal of her old friend's change.
"I've missed you, Jill." Chris suddenly said, he was so close that she didn't think she could move away unless she pushed him off.
He swallowed, clearing his throat, "It's just been a hell of a long time."
"Yes it has…come here." She said with seductive intonation; lashes lowered; the sound of her intake--slight and breathy. "I haven't given you a proper hug."
And his body was already pushed against hers; his leg had managed to lodge gently between--against the heat of her crotch; her ass on the muscled thigh. His arm had snaked around her body, smaller than his—his hand flattened against the small of her back, pushing her closer, and she was snaking her arms around him, her fingers separating the soft curling hair by his nape. She breathed in his scent—tones of musk, masculine tones of bergamot, with leather; the delicate shape of her nose touching the edges of his neck, skin warm and his hair tickled the edges of her lips where she parted them to gasp as the feel of his hands, his lips; they moved along her back, her neck, pulling her jacket shoulder down to plant a small chaste kiss on her exposed collarbone.
"Jill, god, Jill, it's been so long." He told her, the abrasive growth of beard, shadowing his jaw would leave a red mark, perhaps everywhere where her skin was exposed.
They were interrupted by a passing older couple, the sound of car doors slamming and closing, they walked by with curious looks, and no more.
Chris held himself at bay, but didn't release her, his face close, forehead against hers, "I guess," he tried to catch up with his breathing, "we should go inside, huh?"
He was playing with her hair, his gloved fingers held a strand, while the other kept the curve of her back firmly against the heat of his flattened palm.
"I have something for you." Jill managed to say, just as short of breath as he, and she almost smiled at their situation, glancing once to see the older couple disappear inside the building of her apartment complex. She would have bought a house, but her traveling, her missions afforded her little comfort for anything permanent; no gardens to tend; no pets to hold and care—it would have been empty and useless.
"Oh yeah?" Chris chuckled, grinning wide, so that straight white teeth flashed in the dying sunlight; and he looked good; real good, too good, "I hope it's something you're going to wear?"
"Uh uh. Why do women have to be the one wearing a gift for the man?"
He raised a brow at her, his body still close, hot against her pelvis, her leg hung slightly over his leg. Jill's hand was still at the back of his neck, playfully tending to the nape, allowing herself some free reign—wandering close to the broad shoulders, wishing that he wasn't wearing his jacket.
"I have something for you as well," he said in hushed breaths, watching the way her eyes light up; it was like christmas. "I hope you'll really like it."
"I can't wait." She said, the blush creeping up to her cheeks, and she hardly ever blushed, but he was looking at her in that way—the way he does when he can't keep his hands off her, the way he looks when they were sharing private moments. Chris was like that—so night and day—taking his assignments with gravity and passion. He never afforded her anything else than any other soldier in the field. There may be at times, slightly, a window of advantage on her part—giving her more than the others, but he was still a hard ass, in control and authoritative. It kept them alive, and many under him seeing another day to live.
He did something he didn't normally do, as he picked her up, lifting her up in his arms—while she—laughed, squealing uncharacteristically, "Chris! What are you doing?!"
"Taking you inside, because I think you've been a very bad girl, Jill Valentine."
She shrieked, "No! I'm always damn good, Chris Redfield. Nothing but."
"We'll see about that." He threatened, smug grin on his handsome face.
Her legs lifted in the air, swinging, her hand behind his back; she was still laughing as they disappeared into the building.
--the end