I know she has no idea that I'm awake as she gets out of the bed we share not because are lovers, but because it is the only thing that helps with the nightmares. If she knew that I woke up every time she left she wouldn't do it. I wait until I hear the door close before I open my eyes and sit up. It's like this most every night. She goes to bed at midnight and sleeps maybe until three or so before she's up again. I let out a sigh as I pull off the sheets, and stand on the ugly carpeting of the apartment. I could afford better with the salary from the BSAA, but have rarely spent any time here that the place was more like a place to storage my things than anything else. Then I had gone to Africa. I note the fact that she had grabbed the tattered robe I owned on her way out as I open the door. I knew where she was going. It was always the same place really.
My feet makes no noise as I walk down the hallway, years of needing the little bit of an advantage stealth could give me making me a virtual ghost. I stand in the hallway and look at her through the open curtains on the sliding glass doors. She stands on the little concrete slab that serves as my patio in the open field behind the apartment, worn out robe wrapped around her form as she stares at the full moon. It's winter and snow is falling, the fat flakes lazy as they come down around her. Her brown hair shines in the moonlight. One of the first things she did after getting back from that hellhole was to dye it back to the way it was and cut it. I had left to get groceries and come home to find her in the middle of the living room floor, my combat knife in her hand, freshly dyed hair littering the floor. She couldn't stand looking at herself with the blonde hair any longer and had walked to the gas station a block away to buy dye before hacking it off without the aid of a mirror. I close my eyes against the memory and the sense of helplessness it brings.
Damn you, Wesker. What I wouldn't give to be able to bring him back just so she could kill him with her own hands. Not that it would likely ease any of this. I watch as the tears start, sparkling tracks running down her face. I fist my hand. She won't tell me what he did to her, what he forced her to do. I get glimpses of it sometimes-her eyes tightening at the sound of the little black girl next door squealing in delight mistaking it for something else, the way her breathing picks up at the sight of blood if I cut myself shaving, the way her hands twitch for weapons that aren't there when meeting someone new. But she won't talk. Not to me, not to the shrink, not to her friends. My hand slams into the wall, the resounding thump making her turn around and look at me.
Her green eyes look at me and then passed me. I can almost feel my heart splitting in two at the sorrow in them-the knowledge of just how broken she is staring me in the face. The feeling of helplessness sparks anger and not having anything to direct it at is new. What am I supposed to do? I take the few steps to the door and open it, a shiver racing up my spine as I step out into the freezing cold, the little bit of snow that has fallen giving way underfoot and I wonder how she stands it.
"Chris," her voice cracks as she breaks the silence. Suddenly, she's in my arms, fingers digging into my upper arms hard enough that I know I will have bruises in the morning. She buries her face in my chest and the dam breaks. Each sob feels like someone is ripping out my guts as I hold her. I rest my cheek on her head and hum, the same thing I used to do for Claire when she had nightmares. That feeling comes back and I repeat the fact that I killed him over and over in my head. I ignore the wetness from her tears, the cold, and the fact that I can no longer feel my feet. She's warm and in my arms which is all that I have wished for, for too long. She stops crying eventually, and I just hold her. She rests her forehead against my chest and looks that the ground, where her tears have frozen after hitting the ground.
"He used to call them my diamonds," her voice is soft and it takes me a moment to fill in the gaps, "Claimed that my tears were more precious to him than all the diamonds in the world." I feel white hot rage course through me at a man already dead many times over. I know that there is surely a special place in hell for him. She looks up at me then, the darkness hiding most of the evidence of her tears, only the shiny tear tracks sticking out. "Chris, I'm cold." Her words have me ushering her back into the heat of the apartment. She stands for a moment looking back outside before turning to me.
"I don't know if I can do this," her voice is so small and afraid that I have a hard time associating it with her. I use my thumbs to brush the tear trails away as I cup her head with my hands. I never realized just how delicate she was in comparison to me.
"You can, Jill," I tell her making sure that none of my own fears show through. "Maybe not tonight. But tomorrow you will." She closes her eyes and nods. I let my hands fall away as we make our way back to the bedroom. She hangs the robe on the back of the door and I turn down the covers, adding another blanket. She climbs in and I wrap my arms around her for comfort. We stay that way for a long time. It isn't until her breathing evens out and I know that she will sleep the rest of the night that I let my own tears fall-the ones for what he took away, for the broken woman in my arms, and for the frustration at not being able to do anything about it.