Second Chances - 1
(a Resident Evil fan fic)
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If there was one thing Chris Redfield hated more than a viral outbreak – which included but was not limited to the travel time and expenses, the physical and emotional strain of pounding adrenaline, exhaustion, insomnia, hunger, fear, stress, pain (cramps, cuts, burns, asphyxiation, frost bite, headaches, etc. etc.) and all the infectees (human and otherwise) – it was the prevention and treatment tactics to combat such infections. A.K.A. needles.
"Ow!" Chris pulled his arm away with such force that the momentum sent his other shoulder directly into an aluminum tray covered in syringes, Petri dishes, scissors and test tubes. The tray clanged as it fell over, the contents spilling and shattering on the floor, and turned the heads of several staff and patients in nearby beds.
The nurse – Lisa, her nametag said – tapped her foot impatiently against the white, specked, vinyl floor. She expelled a deep breath, closing her eyes as she did so. "I didn't even touch you that time, Mr. Redfield."
Chris scrutinized his shoulder, scratching gently at the unbroken skin in search of a pinprick or spot of welling, wet blood. "Are you sure?"
Lisa rounded the bed and knelt to pick the pieces of glass and plastic off the floor. She gathered everything onto the tray and rolled it across the room. "I'd bet my life on it. Now, let's try this one more time. And try not to flinch or I'll have the orderlies tie you to the bed."
Chris chuckled. Lisa's face was pinched coolly. He coughed once and leaned towards her again. He turned his face as she prepared the syringe, flicking her nail softly against the tip to release air bubbles. He smothered a grunt as the needle punctured his skin and slid deep into the muscle, releasing millions of dead Uroboros agents into his blood stream. The needle came out with a pop and Lisa quickly patched the microscopic hole with a pinch of cotton and a Spider-Man Band-Aid.
She smiled with sarcastic delight. "You're all set, Mr. Redfield. Would you like a sucker, since you were such a great patient and all?"
"Ha-ha." His nose crumpled and he glared vehemently at the Band-Aid. "I don't understand why I have to get vaccinated anyways."
Lisa released the needle into a box marked, "Biological Waste" and threw the plastic wrappings into a stainless steel trash bin. "It's standard procedure, you know that. All B.S.A.A. agents are to be vaccinated – if a vaccine is available – against every biological weapon. Uroboros is a new, combined strain of viruses. You and Sheva Alomar killed its developers – Albert Wesker, Excella Gionne and Ricardo Irving – but it's not impossible that those in Africa weren't the only samples. Besides, researchers involved in the project likely fled and Umbrella's executives haven't given up either. The B.S.A.A. is currently investigating Tricell's researchers, but any who knew about the project and Wesker's death likely turned tail – quite possibly with samples of their own to incubate or sell. Add in thousands of terrorist organizations who would love to get their hands on a biological weapon of Uroboros' power and the B.S.A.A. is taking all precautions possible to ensure its members' safety."
His temples throbbed painfully. Truth be told, he hadn't thought about it before. He'd allowed himself to foolishly believe that Wesker and bio-terrorism were one in the same. With Wesker dead, so too was the threat. But Wesker had only been a by-product of Umbrella's research. Terrorists and wannabe superheroes – or super villains – allowed Umbrella's viral legacy to thrive, and made Chris' job harder. Retirement was an ideal fantasy; if he was lucky enough to live to an old age, he'd continue to fight, though perhaps in a less intimate fashion.
Live...
Chris sat up and searched for Lisa beyond the plastic curtain. After finishing with the next patient's chart, she prepared a new syringe at the counter, measuring the vaccine and releasing air bubbles. He rose slowly from the bed, careful for creaks, and gnashed his teeth against the sudden pain in his shoulder. He quickly thumbed through the manila files stacked on the aluminum table until he found the one with a tag that read, "Valentine, Jill".
He glanced repeatedly over his shoulder, listening when his back was turned, trying to keep track of Lisa. Jill was in room 312 and since they'd returned to the United States two days ago, underwent a series of tests in the wake of the experimentation Wesker performed on her body. The results were due back at the end of the week.
Fifteen minutes later, after he'd carefully replaced the file, Lisa returned to make sure he was all right. "Everything looks good. You're free to go, but I'd advise taking it easy for the next twenty-four hours. If you start feeling strange, contact your physician as soon as possible."
Because the last thing we need is Uroboros spreading across North America, continued her threatening stare. Chris nodded uncomfortably and gathered his wallet, coat and keys before leaving. He followed the hall to an elevator and rode it to the lobby. Doctors, nurses and visitors stood outside in groups along the sidewalk with cigarettes and brown paper bags filled with fruit, plastic-wrapped sandwiches and cans of soda.
He crossed the street at the stop light and darted through traffic on the way back. On the third floor of the hospital, he avoided nurses with their faces buried in charts and elderly patients dragging wheeled IV units. When he found room 312, he paused before entering, drawing a long, deep breath and subconsciously adjusting his hair and smoothing his t-shirt.
Slowly, he peered around the doorframe, then back over his shoulder, and when he was sure there were no doctors or nurses about to shoo him away, stepped inside.
It looked like every other hospital room: blindingly white, sterile, Spartan. Besides the bed, there was a round table with two chairs and a television mounted on the wall above. A curtain parted one bed from the other, each with its own collection of monitors, pumps and tangled array of wires and plastic tubing. Beyond the window stretched a parking lot and towering structures – office buildings, churches, multi-level shopping malls – to the horizon.
Only half conscious of the attractive – but overweight – celebrity chef on the television stirring spaghetti sauce in a pot, Jill rolled her head in his direction and blinked back a film of ennui from her pale blue eyes. Her skin was ashen with grey bags, grey lips and protruding cheekbones. Her hair, a matted mess of wiry, greasy, bleached blonde, spread across the pillows.
"Chris..." she said with more effort than necessary.
"Hey," he responded and discovered – beyond his control – that he was whispering. Somehow, being with her again felt like a dream; but unlike the nightmares that had plagued him since his days in S.T.A.R.S., this one he didn't want to wake from. "How're you feeling?"
"Years of cryostasis and mental comatose and all I want to do is sleep. Ironic." She blinked slowly and tilted her head, as though the new angle would provide her a better view of whatever was behind his back. "What's that?"
Chris' brows rose and fell in a failed attempt at innocence. He grinned and raised the bag like a crown. "I give you: the Jill sandwich!"
Jill laughed shortly, hearing Barry's voice in her head. "Jill sandwich, huh?"
"Made exactly as you like it courtesy of the deli down the street. The food here's shit, so I thought it'd be a nice treat."
"You're a prince," she said and pointed to the table across the room. "Put it over there; I'll eat it later."
As he turned and set the bag just right that the sauces wouldn't drip, he realized the subconscious aversion of his gaze. She'd never made him...nervous before. After a long moment of silence, he cleared his throat and thumbed through a stack of outdated magazines.
"So, how long are you here for?"
From the bed, Jill drew a long, deep, tired breath. "I don't know to be honest. The B.S.A.A.'s investigation into Tricell's connection with Umbrella uncovered all sorts of frightening data. Aside from that, Wesker's research files were hacked and decoded.
"Apparently, the only reason he rescued me after what happened at Spencer's estate was because my exposure to the NE-T virus allowed my body to develop antibodies against the virus. On top of wanting to research the potency of these anti-bodies, the doctors want to ensure that the NE-T virus hasn't relapsed and that the P30 Wesker administered to keep me in his control hasn't done any permanent damage."
Chris glanced over his shoulder briefly, fighting his surprise. The pinpricks between her breasts crept out from beneath the plastic fabric of her gown; an ugly reminder of her years of servitude in Africa. He set his jaw. "Sometimes sacrifices must be made. I'm sure you understand that more than anyone."
She glanced away, as though suddenly ashamed. He made her actions in Spencer's mansion seem so noble, so selfless, when the truth was they were the complete opposite. She couldn't bear the thought of losing him to Wesker. She couldn't bear the thought of his life ending by a quick thrust of their former leader's – friend's – hand. She couldn't bear the thought of being alone, without him there to support her, to protect her, to...
"It was my fault," Chris said, prompting a startled stare and parted lips. "I was weak and arrogant and I thought I could take Wesker on myself."
"You weren't weak, Chris."
He smiled meekly, appreciating the gesture. "Yes I was. But I swore by your grave that I wouldn't let you down again, that I wouldn't let anyone down. I made my promise to Claire not to die, and I made a promise to you. I would become stronger, and wipe Umbrella's mess right off the planet. Why else do you think I trained so hard?"
And he flexed his bicep until she could see the veins bulge beneath his skin. She laughed and patted his arm gently. But instead of pulling back, her fingertips started moving in slow, small circles over the tough, sun-touched skin. Jill felt her heart throb in her chest and listened to the flux in her vitals on the monitors. If Chris noticed, he said nothing, and was as fixed on the sudden sensuality of her touch as she was.
They'd always touched before as friends, as partners; a palm-numbing high five, a pat on the shoulder, a last minute yank out of a sticky situation. There was new emotion in her fingers this time, a tenderness that reminded her of his arms in the ancient African ruins. It was a sense of comfort; a safe haven.
"Jill..." Chris' skin burned, his normally concrete thoughts a jumble of flashbacks emphasized by sensation: fear, loss, relief, surprise, love.
He wanted to tell her – but how could he describe – the heart-stopping shock and equally lifting jubilation he'd felt when Wesker drew back the patterned hood to reveal her expressionless face? It didn't matter that she tried to kill him; every thrust of her elbow into his solar plexus, every crunch of her fist against his jaw, every Pascal of pressure she'd put around his throat reminded him that she was alive; she was more than a memory or hopeful delusion. And how could he admit to the blood-warming stirring in his belly as she'd wriggled against his strength like a captured bird? Or the brief thoughts that filtered through his mind when he straddled her hips and pulled the device on her chest?
He cleared his throat, not wanting to remember and feeling dirty for doing so, and drew back feet away. Jill blinked rapidly, waking from the daze she'd fallen into and glanced away with slight colour in her cheeks. Silence stretched between them. Chris scratched the back of his neck. Jill tugged at a loose thread in the sheets. They both prayed for divine intervention, a convenient interruption to distract their running thoughts.
Then Jill yawned and he suppressed a sigh of relief as he turned towards the door. "I...I just stopped by to see how you're doing. I should probably let you get some rest though."
She shook her head. "You don't have to leave though; I like the company."
He wanted to say no, but she looked so lonely, so...broken that he nodded stiffly. "Okay."
She smiled. "Pull up a chair."
So he did, and sat by the bed and faced the TV. Jill reached for his hand, twining her thin fingers between his short, bulky ones. "Thanks Chris, for everything."
He smiled in return and they spoke no more. Within ten minutes, Jill was asleep. A nurse came in and out twice, surprised at first when she saw him there, but didn't escort him out as he expected she would. When she noticed their hands and the look in his eyes, she smiled and checked Jill's vitals before slipping out again unnoticed.
Chris watched her go the second time, waiting until her shadow vanished down the hall. He turned away from the TV, no longer interested – or perhaps never – in the program and rocked his hand slightly. "Jill?"
She lay still, her breathing steady, her lashes fluttering in dream.
"You're wrong about me, Jill," he whispered, knowing she couldn't hear, but satisfied with it that way. "I'm not strong. I'm not a superhero, no matter what Sheva says. Every victory I've ever won has been by luck, and by the help of others. First, the Tyrant 'killing' Wesker – He probably would have shot us otherwise – and then the facility in Antarctica exploding. Hell, it was a fortunate accident Excella dropped Wesker's drug and I'm sure I wouldn't have even had the opportunity to use it had Sheva not been there, or had you not told us what it was for.
"And God, in Spencer's manor... I could have died, had it not been for you." He chewed on the corner of his lip. "But, you know, as hard as it was losing you, all I could think about these last few years was that you'd died and I never told you how I really felt about you.
"I thought about it a lot. I always have, ever since we met. When I was a kid – well, you know. I was an adult, but a kid compared to now. But anyways, that's not important – What's important is that back then, I tried to psyche myself into asking you out. You were this pretty, young woman who knew how to kick some serious ass. But, you knew how to play the piano like some kind of Victorian noblewoman and you got scared easily. I figured it was the best of both worlds: your tomboy attitude made you like Claire, someone I could be friends with, while you were still a woman, still someone who might need me.
"But I was scared of rejection and then all of this happened. In the back of my mind, I wondered where we could have ended up if I just said something. If I told you I loved you, and if you loved me too, would our lives be different? Would we have gotten married and had a family? Would we have given up this heroic lifestyle?
"And that's the problem. I'm sure, even if you love me, nothing would change. We do what we do because we're free of personal attachments. You threw yourself out a window because no one would mourn your passing, but praise it as martyrdom. We can fight because it's our only reason for living. If we die, we won't leave anyone behind. We don't fear making the world a better place."
He laughed once shortly. "It's ironic. For twelve years all I've ever wanted to do was tell you that I love you. And now that I have the chance to, I still can't. So you see, Jill, I'm nothing but a coward pretending to be a hero."
Finished, he watched her intently for a second, and collapsed against the back of the chair, a decade-long weight lifted off his shoulders. He didn't feel any different – he still wanted her as much as he always had; he still hated himself for not being strong enough – but perhaps now that he'd finally gotten everything out, even to an unconscious Jill, he could start to move on. He could begin to accept that partners was the closest they've ever come to an intimate relationship. He could begin to let her go, to regard her as he did Sheva: a good friend, a sister, whom he could fight for, could sacrifice for, but without the crippling side effects of loss.
He rose slowly from the chair, prying Jill's hand open as gently as he could, so not to wake her, and slipped out to let her rest. His scuffing footsteps lumbered down the hall and when the room was filled only with the periodic beating of technical equipment, Jill Valentine opened her eyes.
"Chris..."
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Disclaimer: Resident Evil and its related characters belong to Capcom and all respected creators.
Author's Note: The name "Lisa" and room number 312 are both from Silent Hill.
Chris x Jill is my new ship. It's actually the only pairing (cannon and non) that I support in the series. Okay, I'll joke about Wesker x Chris but I don't support it. I think Wesker x Excella is cute, but Wesker doesn't love anyone but himself. And Ada's a bitch to Leon; I feel bad for him.
An interesting tidbit: Chris' current voice actor (who portrayed him in Resident Evil 5, Darkside Chronicles and in both the upcoming Resident Evil Revelations and Marvel vs. Capcom 3) is also in the English dub of Code Geass as Guilford, who was in my previous fan fic.