Oh, hai there! So, I had a couple of requests for a sequel to Turning Triple X (if you haven't read it, I would suggest checking it out first). I wasn't terribly keen on the idea, but after a little thought (and some boredom) I decided to give it a go. I have to warn you that the majority of this was written in a sinus-pressure-induced stupor, so, my apologies for any outstanding typos, grammatical errors, or flat-out weak sauce. Oh, and the M-rating is for "coarse" language.
Anyway, all characters are Capcom's property.
(Also, "moded", in this instance, is pronounced moe -ded.)
It was one of those mornings that would have been perfect for sleeping in: Overcast skies and a distinct chill in the air had given way to a light rain that most would find rather peaceful. However, Jill Valentine was nothing at all like the masses of people happily resolving to go back to sleep for an extra hour or two: the soft sounds of water against the rooftop had broken her otherwise peaceful slumber, the noise somehow akin to dozens of explosions going off inside her skull. With a strained sigh, the barely conscious woman slowly emerged from underneath a plush comforter, an intense need to urinate overshadowing a strong desire to never move again. She sat up and rubbed at her face, slightly repulsed by a thick coat of foul-smelling drool that covered her left cheek. Jill carefully climbed out of bed: the second her feet touched the carpeted floor the room lurched to the right and she had to do everything in her power to keep from falling. She shook her head, gathered her wrinkled skirt, and forced herself to dash to the bathroom across the hall. She nearly tripped again, not because of her distorted equilibrium, but because she was tugging her panties down as she ran. Clumsily, she threw herself on the toilet and half-sighed, half-giggled as she emptied her bladder.
Jill took a moment to assess the situation: her head was pounding, her deodorant was failing, and she had just taken what had to have been the longest piss in the history of pissing. The fuzzy memory of throwing up all over her best friend – and possibly her living room floor – popped into her mind, and she felt an interesting mix of relief and horror. How did she get home in the first place? She searched her mind to no avail: other than screaming at a random car – whatever the hell that was about – and Chris probably maybe having some sort of conniption fit at an unknown point during the evening, everything else was a complete blank. Finishing up on the toilet, she caught sight of a sizable bruise on the side of her thigh. Purple-ish black and slightly raised, it was nowhere near the caliber of any of the contusions she had ever had, but it was definitely noticeable.
Jill leaned heavily on the counter as she reached for her toothbrush and toothpaste. She flicked the light switch and squinted – Since when were the lights so goddamn bright? – at her own reflection: The creases in her pillows and blanket had created a series of complicated streaks all over her slightly flushed face; her eyes were puffy and a little blood-shot, the outer lids and lower lash lines adorned with gray and black splotches from where her makeup had smudged or rubbed off, and her lips were dry and cracked. Her hair, which was at that aggravating length between short and long, was actually fairly decent, though the insane amount of drool that poured from her mouth during the night had adhered a good portion of it to her face. She was pretty sure that this was the worst she had ever looked in her entire life, her appearance the morning after the Mansion Incident now coming in at a distant second place.
As fabulous as the idea of a shower was, Jill found brushing her teeth ridiculously difficult. She settled on re-applying her deodorant before unsteadily shuffling back into the bedroom. The thought of curling up in bed was incredibly appealing, but the immense pain in her head, accompanied by the absolute need to know what the hell had occurred during the patches of lost time would prevent her from relaxing on any level. With a frustrated moan, Jill decided that she should at least change her clothes: the pin-up style dress she was wearing suddenly seemed like it was the most excruciating article of clothing in the entire world. She struggled to remove the garment, first fumbling with the back tie behind her neck before completely forgetting the whereabouts of the zipper that was clearly on the side, all the while trying not to fall flat on her face. It was clear that she was still a little drunk.
The sluggish woman felt foolish as she pulled on a knit top and battered pajama pants: Irresponsibly drinking herself to the point of sickness and memory loss were never a part of her birthday plans by any means. Sure, celebrating the fact that she had survived some absolutely crazy shit was going to involve drinks, but it was of the utmost importance to always be ready for a shootout or a zombie apocalypse. She sighed and picked up her phone: it was time for a little Q&A with Chris.
Jill quickly grew impatient as she tried to dial the familiar number: the buttons on the receiver were strangely difficult to push and she couldn't remember if the seven came before the two, or if said seven was actually a four. Suddenly, the distinct sound of the toaster popping froze her in place: She was briefly terrified that she had stupidly brought some hapless stranger home in a drunken attempt to put an end to an embarrassingly long period of celibacy, but the fuzzy memory of a vomit-stained Chris helping her into bed quickly eased her mind. Setting the phone down, she raked her hands through her hair and slowly walked out of the bedroom: she immediately spotted her friend – clad in his undershirt and boxers – diligently working on something in the kitchen. He turned around and flashed a brilliant grin that directly conflicted with her sour disposition.
"'Morning, partner!"
Chris made his way across the room in several easy strides: He took Jill's arm above the elbow and carefully helped sit her at the table, where three painkillers and a large glass of water were waiting. She thanked him as he retreated to the kitchen. Moments later he reappeared with a plate of toast, the grin on his face capable of putting the Cheshire Cat to shame. The wary woman eyed him carefully as he sat down across from her: The man wasn't really much of a morning person; this level of cheeriness was as bizarre as it was overkill. Something was obviously amiss, and not knowing any of it was making Jill even grumpier by the minute.
"Skip the preamble. What happened last night?"
Chris made a face. "Alright then. What do you remember? Anything?"
It took great effort, but Jill mustered up the energy to successfully swallow her pills, take a sip of water, and haphazardly play with her toast. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to recall something – anything other than the car thing or the throwing up – but, other than a few short, nonsensical fragments, she drew a complete blank.
"Only bits and pieces. Like… I remember yelling at a car? And I remember throwing up on you," she took a small bite of toast and instantly felt like she was going to die. "Sorry about that, by the way."
"Don't worry about it. And you didn't yell at the car. You sort of shrieked about it, really."
Jill raised her eyebrows, giving Chris the go-ahead to elaborate: He relayed a comical tale of an inebriated woman who had forgotten how to count, fallen out of her chair in the middle of the bar, and set off the alarm on a vintage Chevelle by trying to climb on top of it during a spur of the moment photo shoot – all the while wearing a lazy smile that screamed "FADED."
"Wait, where are those pictures?" Jill inquired.
"They're on Claire's camera. Don't worry; you looked marvelous, darling. Speaking of Claire…"
Chris' tone quickly shifted from mildly amused to stern. The disapproving look on his face told Jill that she must have said or done something that was incredibly inappropriate. She braced herself for an angry tirade.
"I don't know the specifics of what you said, but before we left the bar you were dancing together, and you were a little too close for my liking, and based on what she mentioned you were hitting on her. You were HITTING on her and she's OFF-LIMITS, Valentine! We've talked about this! That's my baby sister, Jill, and I swear – "
"Oh my God," Jill cut across her annoyed mate and rubbed at her temples. "First off, I was drunk and your sister's hot! Second off – I KNOW and I'm sorry! Third – did I upset her? Did she - ?"
"No, no – nothing extreme. But you're lucky she's such a good sport… and that she's so goddamn oblivious."
"She really is…"
The two shared a brief chuckle before falling into silence. Despite being completely out of it Jill picked up on a subtle change in Chris's demeanor, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She studied him as she nibbled on her toast: his face had become completely unreadable and he was starting to get fidgety. She knew all too well that a fidgety Chris Redfield was never a good sign.
"You're holding out on me."
"Not at all," Chris replied. "It's just… can I have a drink of your water?"
"Yeah, sure thing."
A puzzled Jill slid the half-full glass across the table and watched as Chris swallowed most of it in one gulp. Setting the drink down, he furrowed his brow and absently drummed his fingers on the table. The pair sat in silence, the only sounds in the apartment being Chris's odd drum solo and the soft hum of the dryer coming from the small laundry room.
"Chris," Jill took a small sip of what remained of her water. "You're kind of freaking me out over here."
"Yeah, well… you really freaked me out last night. I mean, really freaked me out…"
"Why did I freak you out?"
Chris took a deep breath and sighed.
"You tried to convince me to have sex with you. I know, I know – it sounds utterly ridiculous, but it wasn't. It was SCARY because there was straddling, and molestation and a really, really unneeded tangent about your shower massager –"
"Wait – what?!"
Jill sat straight up in her chair, the pain in her head increasing as she tried to make sense of her companion's words. "What do you mean by 'straddling and molestation'? The shower massager?! WHAT?!"
"You climbed on top of me, and you got a little touchy-feely, but – "
"'Touchy-feely,'" Jill echoed flatly. She tried to keep calm, however, she was certain she knew what Chris meant and it was freaking her the fuck out. Almost as if on cue, her confidant decided to come right out and say it.
"You grabbed my cock, dude."
Jill snort-laughed as Chris put his head down on the table. She was absolutely horrified by what she had just heard, but there was something rather comical about the delivery of such terribly distressing news. She continued to laugh as she watched her friend carefully; she waited for him to look up and say something about her being "moded" but his face remained hidden. Her laughter slowly tapered off: the man across from her was way too quiet.
"You're totally fucking with me right now! Right?"
Chris raised his head and gave Jill a pointed look.
"Don't be dumb."
"Your face is dumb!"
Jill wasn't even sure of how that was a legitimate retort – it just sounded like the right thing to say. She rubbed her temples again and bit her lip, a dull sense of confused revulsion setting in as she quickly recalled climbing on top of Chris. Struggling to come up with a coherent sentence, she pointed a finger at herself and weakly said, "Gay."
Chris pointed his finger at her.
"Desperate."
Jill shut her eyes and sighed. The thought of herself acting like a cat in heat was almost as awful as her residual nightmares about being stalked by the Nemesis-T Type. She suddenly had a very disturbing thought that, because of her inquisitive nature, turned into a very disturbing question.
"Did you get hard?"
"Buh – WHAT THE FUCK, JILL?!"
Chris, whose face instantly turned a violent shade of scarlet, rose from his seat and briskly made his way into the laundry room. Jill stood up with every intention of following him, but the room veered off at an odd angle and she had to steady herself on the table to keep from falling.
"Why the hell would you even ask me that?!" Chris called over the sounds of his shuffling around. "I mean, honestly, Jill! You're about as attractive to me as The Incredible Hulk! Factor in that you were drunk off your ass – and that you're, you know, you – and... FUCK! I don't even know what to say!"
"You can answer the question," Jill timidly replied, a sense of morbid curiosity getting the better of her.
"I thought – you know what? I'm done. I am SO done right now!"
Chris emerged from the small room fully dressed, all traces of any previous discomposure completely eradicated by his anger. Jill let go of the table, wiped her eyes - which were strangely itchy - and watched as her partner crossed the room to grab his wallet and keys from the kitchen counter.
"So… nothing... nothing weird?"
"The whole thing was – are you CRYING?"
"What? No. Yes? I mean..."
Jill hiccupped and suddenly burst into full-blown tears: She had no idea of why the hell she was crying - she just was, and even though forming sentences longer than four to five words at a time was hard she knew that a floodgate of verbal nonsense was about to open because vodka.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I fucked up, Chris! I crossed a line - one HELL of a line - and it was stupid, and uncalled for, and it never should have happened! It makes me sick! I feel sick, and everything hurts! My eyes hurt, and even my hair! Noise is pain, and I'm making a lot... a lot of noise, and that seven wasn't a four, and I... I don't want things between us to be all weird now! And - "
The mildly intoxicated woman stopped talking only because she was overtaken by a fit of assorted hiccups and sobs. Chris buried his face in his palm as he approached her; he took her arm, led her to the bedroom, and sat her down on her bed. Jill continued to cry as he placed his hands on her shoulders. He looked directly into her face and sighed.
"Nothing weird," he stated firmly. "Now do me a favor and sleep it off. I'll see you later."
# # #
It was several hours later when Jill sat up in her bed and stretched, feeling a little better than she had earlier in the day. As she walked out of her bedroom she mulled over her actions and resolved to avoid any more situations like the one she was currently in by sticking to beer – and maybe the occasional girly cocktail – when drinking. She also resolved to call Chris, apologize some more, and get back in his good graces with hamburgers and peanut butter cups. She rubbed her face and slowly shuffled to the kitchen where something on the counter caught her eye. Two twenty-dollar bills were paper-clipped to a note that read:
"For your new shower massager.
P.S. – Your face is dumb."
Jill let out a small laugh. She was never going to live this down.
Alright, anybody who read this, that's the end of that mess! A couple of notes:
* Jill's dress is what's called a "Daisy Dress," and they sell plenty of them at . Check out their site if you wish to see an example of one.
* In my universe Jill has The Gay.
* On the subject of Jill, she might come across as OOC, but one must remember that drunk people in general say or do things that are atypical of how they actually are. A hungover and slightly intoxicated Jill isn't going to be stoic and ready for action. Like most tipsy people she's prone to overreacting (she is human after all) - hence the weird, completely out of left field crying fit at the end there.
* The Incredible Hulk line is inspired by the rivalry between Chris's rivalry with him in the Marvel vs. Capcom 3 games.
* On Chris' use of the word "dude": This might seem OOC, but I write his speech (and Claire's) in a central California dialect; obviously the way one talks changes based on the situation, which is why "dude" and "faded" and "moded" and "so done" have made guest appearances here as opposed to the typical curt military terms and professional speak all parties spew during missions and whatnot. There's a method to my madness, I swear.
Alright, guys - Now I'm the one that's done. Hope you at least halfway enjoyed! Let me know, okay?