AN: I…haven't written anything for Resident Evil that I've put anywhere. However, some of the things I've read brought out a certain sadness to me, so I wrote this up to fix it. Yes, it is pointless fluff, so if that turns you off, RUN AWAY. I hope you enjoy it!
Disclaimer: I don't own Chris, Jill, or anything else Resident Evil related. If I did, there would be an actual admittance of love, Sheva would be…elsewhere, though not dead, probably with Josh, and whatever bothers me so much about Claire Redfield wouldn't be there so I could like her. All hail Capcom!
It was like everyone had expected him to just move on.
Chris Redfield walked down the park path with quick steps, balancing a hot dog in either hand with a large soda wedged firmly between his body and arm. Sunlight filtered through the trees in warm, glancing rays, lighting the way around passing bicyclists and joggers. His face showed deep concentration for his task, the remains of his last failed attempt still partially smooshed some yards ahead, but his mind was elsewhere.
Only recently had his partner, Jill Valentine, been allowed out of the specialized Biohazard Hospital Wing. It was even more recently that she'd been allowed to return to the states, although only with enforced doctor visits and Chris's constant supervision. She loathed the first requirement and apologized for the second, but Chris didn't mind, truth be told. It was just one more excuse to watch out for her, one more reason to be close.
The Redfield snorted. Like he needed one.
Ever since she'd been allowed visitors, Chris hadn't left her side. Admirers came and went, colleagues paused to give respects, but no one came in without Chris's approval- he made sure of that. He had a reputation for being a nice guy, but he could still be damn scary if he wanted to.
In those brief moments when he had to leave her side, someone had looked on him with pity, as if he were stuck with her. They didn't see the exasperated, tired blues pleading with him to go rest, to go eat, they didn't know that the only reason he ever left was because she asked him to. No one understood that he couldn't leave her. She was his partner, his best friend, and so much more.
'Partner'. It seemed like such a flimsy word to everyone else. Some of them pointed out that the young African, Sheva, had also been his partner. No one got it. Sheva was a good friend, a good partner, but Jill was his partner, had been for nearly a decade, and she'd been his friend for longer. With the two years she'd been gone, it all rounded up, showed him what he'd be missing if she left. He couldn't take it.
They said that the Jill he'd known was gone, lost to the dark, but he didn't believe that. She was haunted, to be sure, but who wouldn't be after two years spent under Wesker's control, committing atrocities that you couldn't stop? The thought still made Chris's gut curdle with rage and he hadn't even been the one controlled! Underneath the hurt and the guilt, hidden inside a thickly walled casing, she was still his Jill. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her chuckle that was so rare now.
They were wrong. It wasn't only a wound to be healed, no, but a self to be found and trusted again. To do that she needed support, love, and normalcy; Chris was happy to supply all three. Jill Valentine was still Jill Valentine. She was still smart as a whip and snarky to boot, caring nearly to a fault and hardheaded as a ram. She just wasn't quite so quick to smile and maybe she screamed more in her sleep.
Didn't they all?
"Chris?"
The inquisitive female voice drew him from his thoughts. Chris found himself at the bench that held his mind's occupant, her expression faintly amused. It was softer, less broad, but the wry twist of her lips and the merriment in blue eyes were unmistakable.
"You've been standing there staring for two minutes."
A sheepish smile curled over his features and he crouched down so that she could relieve him of a hot dog and her drink. "Sorry about that."
Jill took a small sip of her soda, gaze cool over the straw. Chris took a seat beside her, watching a pair of joggers go by and trying to dispel the disquiet that lingered around his mind.
"Seemed like you were thinking pretty hard," she said tentatively.
Honey brown eyes turned to his partner, meeting with calculating, guarded blue. Chris's chest felt tight for a moment, the concern threatening to choke him before he forced a smile.
"Yeah."
He didn't want to elaborate and worry her. Jill let it go, nodding and looking off into the tree line as she started on her food. The smile slipped from Chris's features and, for a long moment, he watched her, the light slanting over bright blond hair and porcelain pale skin. Sometimes she joked about dying it brunette again because she 'looked like a snow fairy', but the older Redfield knew it was more than that. The blond was a painful reminder of what the virus had done to her, what Wesker had controlled her to do.
All at once, Chris wanted to bring her close, to tell her that it was all right, that she was still loved. He'd said it before, hundreds of times, but he'd never gotten the guts to follow through, to show how much he cared. He'd never been able to say that he loved her. Even as the thought came, his tongue felt thick and heavy and heat rushed to his features. He was terrified of losing her, terrified of pushing her away, even though he knew that that was ridiculous, even though he knew, deep down, that she was all ready aware. She was too smart not to know.
"Hey Jill, want to hit the shooting range?"
A blond brow quirked, her tone amused. "Think you can beat me yet?"
Chris never had been able to best her at marksmanship, but he gave a confident smile. "I think so. You game, Valentine?"
She laughed then and Chris knew he'd scour the earth all over again for that sound alone. His partner stood, the smile lingering on her features, and Chris moved as well, meeting her light eyes.
"Bring it on, Redfield."
And even if saying it scared him, Chris knew he wouldn't give up. For the moment he'd make up for it like he always did- with confidence and tenacity.
-End-