Disclaimer: Anything not immediately recognizable as a registered trademark of Capcom's is probably mine. Anything you do recognize as Capcom's I'm simply borrowing. I seek no monetary gain from this. I just wrote for fun.

Summary: When something happens to Jill that no one expected, Chris might just be forced to do the unthinkable in order to save her.

Rating: T (mostly for swearing, because I like it when characters curse on occasion.)

Author's Note: This story contains SPOILERS for the RE5 trailers. If you have not seen these and do not wish to be spoiled for them, READ NO FURTHER. The entire premise of this story rides on what happens in those trailers and is designed to be a plausible explanation for the events depicted in them. This is also the last time I plan on posting an Author's Note at the beginning of the chapter.

Also: Many thousands of thanks to my two betas, Fiannan and Yumiko Kaze. Yumi is primarily my cheerleader and mostly checks my grammar and my ideas because she's not in the fandom, while Fiannan has been in charge of grammar, content, canon-checks and characterization (especially characterization, because I am paranoid). So hundreds of thousands of thanks to them, and they deserve more than I could ever give. (So if you happen to spot either of them anywhere, give them additional lovings and say I sent you.)

Estimated Life Expectancy

Chapter One

As thrilled as he was to be going home, Chris was dreading seeing his kitchen. It had been two months since he'd last seen it, and even longer since he'd cleaned it. God only knew what had cultivated there while he'd been trudging around in the Middle East.

Home still beats the desert, he thought, shifting in his cramped seat next to the window. What he and his team were doing in coach class on a commercial flight from Paris to the Dulles International was completely beyond him, but he wasn't complaining. Even these seats beat spending the flight in the belly of C-17 transport plane, which was how they'd gotten out to Camp Doha in the first place.

That had not been a fun trip. And the rest of the mission hadn't gone over much better, either.

We'll get 'em, Chris told himself, turning to the window. Through the occasional break in the clouds outside he could see patches of the blue-gray Atlantic below. Bright, early morning sunlight reflected off the white clouds, blinding him. He turned away, blinking as dark spots dappled his vision.

"I hear it's supposed to rain in D.C. for the next few days," a voice beside him said. Chris looked to his left as Lieutenant Derek Lancer dropped heavily into the aisle seat. Lancer was one of the only guys on their task force not working for the B.S.A.A. A young guy, he had an open, affable personality, a passion for all foods exotic and disgusting. He was also their weapons expert. "Never thought I'd say it, but I can't wait."

"Rain would be a nice change of pace," Chris said.

"Of course," Lancer continued, apparently talking more to himself than Chris (or the sleeping old man between them), "just about anything would be nice after the desert. All that sand, man, and I was starting to go crazy." He shook his head and added, "Sure as hell won't miss those – what're they? Camel Spiders?"

"Yeah."

"Shit. Yeah, I won't miss those things either." He shuddered. "Like the bastard child of a scorpion and a spider, with a little bit of ant thrown in for the hell of it."

Chuckling, Chris nodded – that was a pretty apt description of the things, actually. He'd heard some of the horror stories from his friends in the Air Force even before going out to Camp Doha; finding that not all of the rumors were completely exaggerated had been a bit of a shock. A grin suddenly breaking onto his face, he said, "I wouldn't mind seeing the video Gomez has of Eppley running from Sarge again, though."

"Oh, God. Yes." Lancer cackled and twisted in his seat, looking up and down the aisle. "Bet Gomez's in the bathroom. I don't see him. Shit, I could use a good laugh, too." Lancer turned back around, running a hand along his the side of his shaved head. "God, that was funny."

Their resident biochemist, a B.S.A.A. agent named Griff, dabbled in entomology sometimes and had gleefully caught the first Camel Spider he could find. He kept it in a Plexiglas container next to his bag whenever they made camp (it rode in the humvee with him otherwise) and called it Sarge.

One particularly hot, dry afternoon, Sarge escaped. His first order of business was to find the closest patch of shade. That shadow happened to belong to Eppley.

Eppley apparently didn't like bugs.

His reaction when he saw Sarge charging for him? Scream like a girl and run. Sarge followed right on his heels, zig-zagging after him as Eppley tore around the desert. Griff (having realized that his buddy was no longer in its little carrier) gave chase as well, bellowing for Eppley to just stop running, he's only after your shadow!

After that, the entire task force made sure to tell Eppley whenever they spotted a 'Spider coming. Even when there wasn't one.

"I'm sorry we didn't find anything," Lancer said suddenly. "It would've been nice to have something to show for all the time we spent out there."

"It isn't the first time they've gotten away," Chris replied. In the years since the Spencer Mansion incident, Chris and the others had grown rather accustomed to failures like up every last sample of the T-virus lost (or sold on the black market) after Umbrella collapsed was a long, painful process, made even more so by the international laws the B.S.A.A. often had to work around just to investigate any reports of the virus.

"That's right." Lancer snapped his fingers. "You've been doing this for a while, haven't you?"

"Longer than I like to admit."

"How long?"

"Since ninety-eight."

Lancer stared, and Chris watched the gears turn in his head as the lieutenant did the math. "Oh…"

Hours later, the plane touched down on the wet, shiny tarmac of the Dulles International Airport. Rain pounded against the plane as it braked, slowed, and finally taxied into the airport. Chris fidgeted in his seat, fighting to wait until the light switched off and he was free to get off the plane. Screw the state of his kitchen; he just wanted to go home.

"Reckon we're lucky," Lancer said, leaning over Chris and the old man in the middle seat to get a good look out the window. "If this were any worse, I don't think we'd have been allowed to land."

"No," Chris agreed. The seatbelt light above his head went off with a distant ping and Chris rose to his feet. He didn't have a carry-on bag to be bothered with, so he slipped past Lancer with a wave (he'd see him at the B.S.A.A. main office the following day for debriefing, anyway, so there was no real need for formal good-byes) and quickly ducked past all of the other passengers on his way to the exit.

The airport was just as busy as he'd expected – busier, actually. As he disembarked a voice started announcing that all flights in and out of the Dulles were going to be either delayed or cancelled because of the rain. Chris couldn't help but grin to himself. Lancer was right. They were lucky.

Now all he had to do was grab his bag from baggage claim, go and release his car from its long-term parking prison, and he'd be at his apartment in no time.

And then he'd do the dishes.

Soon he was standing idly in front of the carousel, watching the same five bags parade around and around. They were getting soaked every time they disappeared outside.

Why does this have to be so hard? He moaned to himself, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The same five bags were beginning to make their rounds again. I just want to go home and get some sleep.

He had only two bags – one small duffel bag stuffed with just a few changes of clothes, a notebook and a few pens, and some equipment; and his gun, kept in a hard case as per regulation. Everything else – his passport, B.S.A.A. ID, driver's license, cell phone, and a deck of playing cards – were kept in his pockets. He had quite a few; so going through security was a bitch.

All around him travelers were setting off for taxis and hotels or greeting their families. He heard laughter and joyful yells as some of his soldiers' kids spotted their parents through the throng.

Oh, he thought suddenly, watching the carousel go around again. Still no sign of his bag, but he recognized Griff's stuff in the mix, meaning they were getting close. My phone. Pulling out his cell phone, he flipped it open and turned it on. He sat through its load-up and had just moved to close it and put it back in his pocket when it beeped at him – a different sound than the one he was used to hearing.

Looking at it more closely, he saw he'd missed a couple of calls. One was from Jill and the other was from a number he didn't recognize. Without bothering to check the voicemail one of the callers had left, he dialed Jill's number, pressed the phone to his ear, and waited.

No luck. He only got her voicemail.

Must be at dinner, he thought, making a mental note to check his voicemail once he got home. He closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket, glancing once more at the carousel.

Oh. There! There! His gaze lit on his duffel as it went around the conveyer belt, and he lunged for it as it went by. When his gun case went by not long afterward, he grabbed it, too. He unzipped one of the side pockets in his duffel and dropped his passport and deck of cards in since he wouldn't need either for a while, then shouldered his duffel, picked up his gun case, and headed for the exit.

Fifteen minutes later, Chris found himself sitting in slow-moving traffic on the toll road heading into D.C. The rain had brought everything to a near standstill, and he could just hear the weatherman on the radio advising everyone to stay inside over the pounding drumbeats against the roof and windows of the car.

At least I haven't started to miss the desert, he thought, smiling darkly to himself. He was drumming his hands on the steering wheel when his phone began to ring, vibrating in his pocket.

Shit. This is why you put it in the cup holder, you idiot! Chris fumbled for his phone, fighting against the grip of his seatbelt. Counting off the rings – he only had seven before it went to voicemail – he yanked his phone from his pocket and flipped it open just in time. "Hello?"

"Chris Redfield?" The voice was fuzzy with static – likely interference from the rain – and not one he recognized.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Redfield, my name is Carla Vanachek. I'm a doctor at the George Washington University Hospital. I have you listed as the emergency contact for Jill Valentine. Is that correct?"

Chris balked, surprised. "Yes," he said, finally finding his voice again.

The doctor sounded relieved. "Okay. Good. Well, she's here at the hospital with us. We've been trying to reach you, and she's been asking for you."

"What?" Chris' brain had been stumbling over the 'emergency contact' bit, and was only just starting to catch up. "The hospital? Why?"

"It would really be best if you could come here, Mr. Redfield."

"Okay." Chris ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. I can…" He craned his neck, trying to see through the rain and over the rows of cars stopped in front of him. "I'm stuck in traffic right now, but tell her I'll be there as soon as I can. Even if I have to ditch my car and run there."

"I'll be sure to let her know. Thank you, Mr. Redfield."

Chris hung up his phone with just a faint, whispered goodbye. The hospital? What is she doing there?

And then he remembered the voicemail, and the call he'd missed from Jill. How long ago had she called? For one reason or another, his phone was incapable of telling him which number had left him a voicemail unless he was already listening to the message, so there was no way for him to know whether it was from Jill or the hospital. Flipping his phone open once more, he hastily punched in the buttons necessary to call his voicemail up, then pressed the phone to his ear.

"…Chris?" The voice was neither Jill's nor Dr. Vanachek's, and tinged with raw panic. Chris pressed his phone closer to his ear, squinting at the brake lights of the car in front of him. "God, I hope you're the person she was asking for. You, uh, don't know me but I'm one of Jill's – Jill Valentine's – neighbors. She's, uhm, she's…had an accident."

Chris's heart froze and his grip automatically tightened on his phone. An accident? That was more than the doctor at the hospital had given him. What kind of accident? A hundred different scenarios – none of them good, almost all of them involving Umbrella somehow – began running through his head, distracting him so fully he nearly missed the rest of the message.

"…She was asking for you, before she left with the EMTs. At least, I thought it was you…" The message cut off there, ending with a beep and the mechanical voice intoning that his inbox was full. Chris closed his phone without deleting the message and slipped it back into his pocket.

Don't leap to conclusions, he told himself, watching the cars around him as they all inched forward. The doctor said she's been asking for you. The message said she asked for you. It means she's conscious. It means it's not serious.

Please, don't let it be serious.

What felt like an eternity later, Chris finally found himself at the hospital. He dumped his Jeep in the first available spot and rushed for the emergency entrance. Once inside, he scrambled for the intake desk, hitting it with all of the force of a small hurricane (and bringing with him nearly enough water to flood the lobby floor). "Jill Valentine, where is she?" He demanded.

The nurse behind the desk looked at him, her expression hard. Rising to her feet, she reached for a stack of charts piled before her and began rifling through them. Her movements were painfully slow. Finally selecting one, she began to pull it from the stack…

…Only to stop when it was barely halfway out from under the pile. She looked back up at him, tilting her head to one side and scrutinizing him closely. "Are you family?"

"I'll take it from here, Lynn. That was my case." Chris and the nurse both looked up as a young woman wearing a doctor's coat extended one slim hand, reaching for the file. The nurse handed it over.

"You got here faster than I expected given the rain," the doctor said to Chris, offering him a warm smile as she pulled Jill's file in towards her chest. "I'm Dr. Vanacheck."

"Chris Redfield," Chris replied, for lack of a better idea what to say.

Dr. Vanacheck moved away from the desk, motioning with a tiny jerk of her head for Chris to follow. "You got here just in time. We just finished getting her a room, and were about to take her upstairs."

"She's being admitted?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It's just for observation." Dr. Vanacheck stopped just outside a door.

Chris opened his mouth to ask for more information, but Dr. Vanacheck held up a hand and motioned towards the door. "She's just inside. I'm going to get an ETA on her trip upstairs, okay?" She smiled. Though it seemed bright and cheerful, Chris could see a bit of pain behind her eyes.

Then she strode past him and back down the hall, leaving Chris standing dumbly just outside room one-twelve.

The door was open just a crack, just enough that he could see inside. Jill was in a hospital gown, her lower body covered by a blue knit blanket. An IV line trailed from her arm to a bag hanging on a metal pole beside her bed, and she had a cardiac monitor clipped onto one hand. She was sitting upright and didn't look hurt, though she was kind of pale. A girl of about twenty was sitting on the far side of the bed, sandwiched in the space between it and the wall.

She didn't look like a nurse.

"Who're you?" He demanded guardedly as he pushed into the room, glaring hard at this stranger.

She stared at him, clearly confused. Her tone was defensive as she said, "Jennifer Buxton? I'm her neighbor."

Jill looked at him. "She called nine-one-one, Chris. And you."

Oh. Well. Chris turned to apologize, but Jennifer was already waving him off. "Never mind. I'm gonna go grab some coffee." She gave Jill's shoulder a gentle squeeze before getting up and walking to the door. She paused just inside the doorway and pointed at Chris before adding, "I'll bring you decaf."

And with that, she was gone, leaving Chris and Jill alone in the room. Chris's gut twisted, and he turned back to Jill.

"You're slow," she chided with a small, forced smile. "Jen called you almost three hours ago."

She's okay. She's gotta be okay. Jennifer probably just overreacted and called nine-one-one without really needing to. And they're just admitting her to cover their asses. Having reassured himself, if nothing else, Chris raised a hand and said, grinning, "Hold on, I have the perfect excuse: I was on a plane. En route from Paris. And then there were a lotta people wrecked out on the highway. You'd think no one knew how to drive in the rain." Chris pulled up a metal stool and sat down. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at her again. "Jill, what happened?"

Her gaze dropped, her head and shoulders drooping as she shrank back into her pillow.

Chris felt his stomach sink. Something is wrong. Oh, God, something really is wrong.

Softly, Jill said, "I had a seizure."

A seizure? "A what? But…why?"

"The doctors say it's not unusual."

"A seizure isn't unusual? What the hell are they on?" Chris rose to his feet, ready to storm back to that goddamned intake desk and do some yelling. "A seizure's not unusual my ass. You're a perfectly healthy – "

Cutting him off, Jill said, "They say it's not unusual with what I have." Her hands – so much paler than usual, so much tinier than he remembered, so much weaker than they ought to be – tightened on the thin blanket covering her lower body.

All of the anger in him evaporated with that simple gesture.

Jill was scared. Whatever the hell was going on, she was fucking scared. Chris unclenched his fists, letting his arms fall limply at his sides. He found himself looking at her hands because he couldn't meet her eyes.

There was no good way this conversation could end: she was in the hospital without visible injuries after having a goddamned seizure, for God's sake.

Jill continued, "They ran some tests."

Chris didn't say a word. He just kept looking at her hands.

Her voice was thick with tears as she finally said, "It's cancer, Chris. I have cancer."