New story in request from FanGirl! Hope you guys enjoy it. And please excuse my recent poor writing. Just got over a second round of illness that is killing me. As always, Nivanfield doesn't belong to me, but Piers Nivans is locked in my basement and no one else can have him for their evil plans to give him a random PIS ending like in RE6!

Thank you all for continuing to read my stuff, glad you do! Please remember to review if you like or dislike. I always like getting feedback and it helps with the creative process.

ENJOY!


It started out easy.

No fear.

Its easy not to be scared or anxious when there is no one's life on the line, but when you've stepped out of the curtains and into the lime light, displayed your prowess over and over in the field without hide more hair of even the slightest tremor, in mentality or physically, every eye suddenly is on you. So its easy. In the beginning. No one counting on you to be perfect when you are just a grunt, just showing your worth every second of every day until the big guy shows up is what you are suppose to do. You turn them down too, one by one, waiting for the perfect opputunity to prove those sharp as a tack senses are made for the ease and manipulation of every day battle. You wait, bide your time, even though you know it won't take long because you are that damn good, that eventually they'll show; with your file coddled in the nook of his massive bicep and huge pectorals, watching you on the range with those narrowed, suspicious eyes. As though he thinks you aren't made of the right kind of stuff. Hard to prove you are from day one if you are ten years younger than every man out there, but then its hard for everyone, particularly for the guys you keep showing up. Again, from day one, learning to prove yourself has to be priority. Never missed. Not from day one at the academy to that moment where those eyes watch and wait until they'd seen enough to haul your ass down to an empty office for only one question: "Are you ready for this?" A damn fine question. The only one that mattered at the time. Were you ready to move from no one relying on your to everyone. To having men expecting you to back their every motion. There's no hiding from hundreds of thousands of scrutinizing eyes all belonging to someone higher up the food chain than you are. Everyone waiting for you to fuck up because from day one you show them you aren't the kind to throw in the towel. Thi kind of step was the one that made or broke men like Pies Nivans. So was he ready for that?

Darn right he was.

At least, that's what Piers had thought when he started this gig. When he'd said yes and smiled those full pouty lips, taking in every minute expression on Captain Chris Redfield's features as he'd answered the question without a second's delay. "You are either the luckiest little shit I've ever met... or the most unfortunate." He could still remember the words on Chris' lips while he was sitting across from him, his hands untouching, but clenched into taut fists, practically white knuckled. Maybe he'd been more concerned over Piers' quick response than the sniper had been, but you don't train rigorously like he had for years only to back out once you had what you wanted in sight. Even if back then his captain had considered Piers joining up with the B.S.A.A. to be a mistake. He didn't think someone so young with such high ideals to belong to a group where he would likely die within the first six months, and in all honesty if Piers had taken the time to think about it, maybe he would have agreed with him, it was a bad idea for anyone, but someone had to do it. Someone had to be responsible. And him, he was just talented enough to be that person.

That was why he hadn't expected this feeling whatsoever. Sitting on a chopper listening to the mixed voices of all his men throwing around 'never miss Nivans' jokes. Floating around between each of them over who had earned the best 'saved by the sniper' story; while he tried his damn hardest to not let the race of his heart beat show too clearly to these well trained perfectionists. It wasn't even the fear of getting one of them killed that had him concentrating on the tiny orange bottle in his rigging that nestled against extra rounds, the circular pinkish hued pills that silently clicked together in their tiny prison. It was those jokes. He'd proved himself a few times over now, it wasn't that he couldn't back up his men. It was just the anxious hype. The talk about how their very own little rookie sniper wouldn't ever miss, no matter the cost. Things like that. Even experienced snipers could miss a target and manage to completely back up their team mates, without incident. But he had never missed. Those sharp eagle eyes that caught every single detail and hadn't ever even dropped a round without it having someone's name on it. He was a fine sniper yes, but they were getting cocky, and the more cocky his men were about his abilities, the harder it was getting to maintain his blood pressure from sky rocketing every time his guys expected him to save their asses. That was the issue. Before they weren't expecting it, they were constantly vigilant. Not now, now they anticipated his perfect ratio and how his shots flew flawlessly passed them while hitting their intended target without so much as a single ounce of hesitation; making them ever more sloppy. So there was Marco Rose, Ben Airhart, and Captain Christopher Redfield..., three of the most experienced and most talented soldiers in their respective fields. Men who had been earning the respect from every agent in the B.S.A.A. for longer than Piers had been alive, and they weren't chatting about their what they were going to do once they came back, how life back home was; they were gloating about their little rookie. As though he was incapable of fault. Was he really incapable of failure?

Thinking about that bottle... It was the truth of the matter..., that he didn't think so. With men like these looking at you, up to you, it was impossible to hide the anxiety for long. His Major for the longest time had suggested things to the other snipers in the academy. So why did he feel so guilty when he'd finally fallen under its temptations? Every sniper in the academy were taking things to lower their pressure, get rid of the shakes. It was an easy out trick. Clonazapam. Drug of choice for many. So getting his hands on it hadn't been hard. Not physically, but the first time he'd stuffed a pill down his throat he'd thrown it back up within seconds. All he could hear was the disappointment in his captain's voice for having let him down. It wasn't as though it were some thing that would seriously inhibit him, they sharpened the senses. Anti-anxiety medication that was over the counter but not prescribed because once a sniper is known to take it then it went in your file and incompetence in the field. Maybe that was why it made him so sick. Because it made the fact that he wasn't good enough a reality. Those round rogue pills settling in the back of his thoughts and begging him to pop one down and take it even now just to get those men out of his didn't care what anyone in the academy thought, they wouldn't have looked at him differently for this, it was just enough to take off the edge. At least it had started that way. Recently he'd started thinking about them more and more, whenever it was that he saw someone looking at him as though they knew he was a fake. Whenever mahogany eyes would settle on him and suddenly his heart threatened to stop in his chest midway through a mission.

Chris.

So it wasn't just the fact that everyone in his crew was expecting perfection from him every second of every mission. Those guys were his crew yes, but they weren't who really mattered. It was the captain. The way he gave him those approving eyes he sought for every time he nailed a shot and their mission was over. This experienced, heroic man, looked to him and no one else that way because he'd earned it, and once he tasted that euphoric feeling... he never wanted to come down from it. Chris would wrap an arm around his shoulders and offer them all out for drinks, lean in close and tell Piers he shown like a damn star out there. He liked to call him that. His star. To everyone else, Piers was a sharp as hell, lucky little rookie, but to Chris he was a star. And it showed. At first the Clonazapam had settled his nerves and kept him in the moment, focused on that hand sliding up his back over his neck, but after a while even that wouldn't do it, one pill, two, however many it would take to make his hands stop shaking. Chris would ruffle his hair, and smile ever so coyly; all the more approvingly whenever the brunette would apologize and ask a rain check for their drink before he couldn't even breath in the man's grasp. Chris liked whiskey, a little too much, but he liked that Piers didn't. He liked that his star was just that. Clean cut, and completely his. Though Piers wasn't sure the man knew he belonged to him. Everyone else could tell, probably because he was constantly burying his fist into the maws of other men for even nearing his captain, but Chris? Chris didn't know. He didn't need to, just keep on keeping on. Keep on getting twisted into knots.

Which meant so long as this continued... that the little bottle haunting his conscience would stay hidden away in his rig; his little secret.


"Lookin' good out there Nivans. Keep that up and we're gonna build ya' a freakin' statue." Rose slapped lean shoulders with his own gloved hand, throwing his rigging into the corner of the lockers, along with the stink of sweat; first tactical jacket, then S.O.U. regulations under shirt he wore, followed by black tank, four rigs, two hard rubber boots, socks, and boxers and fatigues in the same instance. Leaving this man with himself half balanced with one hand on his sniper's shoulder without any modesty at all for his nudity before it was off to the showers. Piers tried not to show the disdain for the affection but he hated it, and shrugged it off his skin, brushing gunner glove clad finger tips over that same shoulder and brushing away the germs of Rose's rutty hands. "What do you think boys, Nivans earning himself a rep around here? Where else don't you miss pretty boy? Never misses the toilet I'll bet!" Rose's bass was over the spray of water raining down on the other men, washing away the weeks of crimson mist that heralded their arrival. He was the last of them who would flood into the showers and away from their lockers, leaving the sniper staring in their direction for only a brief minute before his rough palm dove into his rig to retrieve the vermillion plastic bottle, shaking it. Two left. Taking in a deep breath, he heard the the tiny round pills clatter against one another before setting the bottle in his duffel tucking it possessively between layers of his spare clothing. Turning back to his locker to grab his jacket, Piers only flicked his eyes up to meet, instead of with his locker's innards, with slick war torn skin of huge broad pectorals. Hazel went wide and his olive skin immediately reddening, caught off guard as his captain had slipped completely unnoticed against his locker before his clean arm around wrapped around his limber, completely rigid shoulders, brushing wet fingers through longer strands pushed back to ruffle them.

"Hey super star, leaving without so much as a good bye huh?"

Holding him there against that stone built body, Piers' entire face flushed, hoping both his obvious rush of vital fluids to his face and otherwise went unnoticed. As well as the tiny bottle he'd stowed just before being stalked by a half naked version of the man who had all but held all responsibility for Piers will to continued inability to breath during missions. A quick slap of wet, calloused hand, to his slimmer shoulders and Chris released him, leaving the startled man to stumble back into his own locker that lay half open. Tanner flesh thank goodness hiding that dusky pink that tried to overtake his features. All the guys were like this with each other, but this was Chris, and he made a naturally stoic human being turn into a wordless commando, brows furrowed in concentration. "I...-

"How about you come out with us tonight. You spend all your time cooped up at the range I'm starting to think you sleep there Nivans. Come on. Its on me." Chris stood opposite his sniper, huge biceps held across taut against massive chest muscles with a his tapering waist that came along with those intoxicating 'V' lines that led teasingly downward toward the unknown. That dark green fabric of his towel only covered just enough though to let the imagination wander. With bulged thigh and calf muscles thicker than most men's; and all of him slick with the clean shine of humidity and shower water. Such a sight to behold, that Piers could never get use to it. He could keep composure after he'd collected it accordingly, but that didn't mean he could look a that square stubbled jaw and not think of what it might taste like. "Your captain is asking you Nivans, how often do you think that will happen?" Intimidating and awe inspiring as he was, Chris was staring down the younger tawny haired rookie with those hardened eyes, laughter written behind them where they were naturally impassive. It was as though it were a challenge between them. He would wait for Piers to finally raise his head from having his eagle sharp eyes trapped on the ground between them, to give him that small forgiving smile so he could remind him that he asks every time. And every time he has to remind him no. Except this time Chris wasn't waiting, and instead slammed one of those immense hands up against the side of the locker just at the side of that soft featured face, grinning down at him. "Come on hot shot, it's an order now, not a request." Chris' eyes were daring him, dazzling brown, and for a brief moment they stared at one another before Piers finally jerked his sharper eyes away.

"Sorry captain. I can't. I appreciate the offer, but-

"I said it was an order. You need to cut loose. Relax. Grab your shit and lets go Nivans."

"I can't." Eyes dashed to the bag, back to his captain who had removed his limb and had begun dressing in his civies; speaking with a tone that used the remaining force of his position within the team. Others who had started storming in, doing their own ongoing dance of transforming their persons into every day people rather than vicious soldiers. It was always no. And his captain tried harder each time but even as the words came out Chris' demand turned into a smile, and after pulling on a shirt that was obviously meant for much smaller men, ruffled Piers' hair out of place and shook his head, admiring his resolve even though it was managed through half-hearted words. "I've got some things I've got to take care of. Whiskey has never been my poison." No... that wasn't his poison; he was staring at that right now. It happened this way every fucking time and every time it ended the same. Three pink hue tablets would roll between his fingers from the new bottle at home and dropped into his mouth, chased by whatever was closest; down his throat. Lying back on the couch he would spend the next few hours staring at the backs of his hands and waiting for them to stop shaking. Or, Chris would relent here and go instead of continuing to push until Piers made him, and the sniper would spend the rest of the fucking night here, his thoughts going where they would. Hoping for them to turn away from his captain and sharpen his senses like they once.

Chris smiled, and that was the give away. Just a nod and a short adieu that was barely anything to talk about and the team would wave him off as they disappeared back to their own real life worlds and families. "I'll see you later Nivans... Eyes to the sky partner."

"Eyes wide open, captain." Piers sat back on the bench and watched as they retreated his smile fading with each of their steps. Hazel oculars never shifted from his captain's back; ruing the words even as he'd said them. The rest of his squad disappeared as they went off for victory drink, or in Rose's case to get one and drive home to his wife and kids, each one to their respective lives until the final click of the locker room door's tumbler sliding into place; closed shut and returning him to solitude and ruin. How had he turned into this person? Piers kicked his dropped duffel, took out the bottle, downed the last remaining pills, and found his rifle, resting his forehead on the muzzle. Another night on the range hoping and praying for his hands not to shake and his aim not to stray... one more night. Always one more night.