Disclaimer: Resident Evil and Resident Evil characters are the property of Capcom. This is nonprofit fan fiction.

Warnings: M/M, M-rated.

Pairing: Chris/Piers

Last Stand

by Salysha

The warehouse was vast and hollow, standing on uneven foundation: a grumbling old structure that was coming down around them, crumbling blast stone and rubble. The bolted doors on the other side of the hall were taking a batter, still holding out miraculously in a losing battle. They had only minutes left.

Chris and Piers were resting on the ground, their backs to the farthest wall. They were down to the last of their ammunition, and contact with HQ had failed repeatedly. The partners were locked at a dead end. They had no backup, no team. The only exit was holding back hostile forces.

The hall had barred windows, thick with steel they had no way to cut through. Even if they had had plastics, the structures might have come down in a rolling progression and ended up taking them out.

"What's the count, Piers?"

Piers inspected his gun and couldn't help the tightness in his throat. "Five bullets."

Chris nodded and pulled out his magazine.

"Take these."

"Captain, what are you—" Piers started, but Chris stopped him. He detached from the wall and reached behind his back.

"I have a knife," he said and pulled out his Goliath. The blade shone a dark, dull shine back to his eyes. "You take care of the shooting. I know how to use this."

Piers bit back a protest, fighting back infinite sadness, and nodded quickly. He accepted the magazine and switched the rounds to his own handgun. Between them, they had fifteen bullets left.

"I didn't think I was going to die like this," Piers said.

Chris looked at him sharply, but he didn't say anything. His head dropped.

Piers felt happy at that, for some reason, irrationally satisfied that Chris hadn't lied to him. He also felt the leashes of concern; Chris looked impervious, but he had to be exhausted to take a break.

"Any last wishes, Piers?" Chris asked.

He could say it, or he could forever hold his peace. What difference was it going to make now?

"Kiss me."

"What?"

Chris whirled around and stared at Piers. Piers' face tightened as he felt the stunned disbelief Chris was giving him. Jaw dropped, he hadn't said anything, which infuriated Piers.

"At least I said it." Piers held his chin up high, felt the string of muscle next to his eye tighten to a breaking point. "The least you can do is give me an answer."

Chris now was looking at him, really looking at him, but he stood his ground. He didn't think for a minute Chris was considering it, but instead only trying to make sense of something thrust on him. Chris was looking at him, and must've thought, What the hell? What did he have to lose? He saw that small jolt when Chris changed his mind. He twisted his head, leaning in, and his lips were a perfect fit. Piers' heart descended from his mouth; Chris Redfield was kissing him.

Chris moved his lower lip against his.

Masculine, strong, loving. Reassuring. He felt treasured.

It was everything he had hoped for.

Chris looked at him, strong and inscrutable.

"We're fighting this to the end," he said.

The urge to fight was involuntary. It bubbled inside Piers, even though he hadn't for a second considered that giving up was an option. They were done for, but Piers felt oddly battle-happy. They'd have a hell of a time taking the last stand. Follow the leader to the pits of hell.

"We'll make it count, Captain," he confirmed. He didn't imagine it; the quick glimpse of a smile Chris gave him wasn't his imagination.

He wondered if Chris held any feeling for him, if he thought about Piers the same way at all as Piers did him, but he couldn't demand that now. Maybe Chris had just wanted to make it good for him before he died. Wanted to fulfill a dying man's last wish.

He'd ask Chris in the next life.

They stood up. Chris twirled the knife in his hand into a combat position. Piers tightened his hands around his gun. They took the last breath before the last dash, and the door holding back the hostiles reached breaking point, except the status quo changed abruptly: the chopper noises rammed through space at deafening proximity. Search lights cut through air, powerful enough to glare through the windows in bright streaks. Then a voice cracked over the loudspeakers, and Chris and Piers finally looked at each other, wordlessly confirming the same disbelief.

Piers accepted the hand of the BSAA operative who pulled him into a rescue chopper with a wide grin and congratulations. Chris mounted after him and luckily handled the communication and formalities while Piers still reeled and took the back seat for once. The chopper took off, and he and Chris settled on opposing sides. He couldn't tell what Chris was thinking, but Chris was still talking over the com and barely paid attention to him except to confirm he was uninjured. Piers sunk into despondent silence. Chris was uncomfortable around him, didn't look at him.

Even as Chris stopped talking and left them in a space to converse, the awkward tension lingered heavily between them. They had faced certain death—only that had prompted him to take action. The ride didn't ease them, and the other operatives left them alone, thinking they were shaken up. It was an easy misconception Piers didn't want to break. He didn't dare look at Chris.

They were taken to headquarters and managed to report the incident quickly and submit a written account, but even when it was just two of them typing in the same room, things never returned to normal. They danced around each other awkwardly, making trips to the coffee machine and circumventing each other's desks so they wouldn't have to come into contact.

Reports submitted, medical checks cleared, congratulations on their narrow rescue received, they had barely exchanged a word. Piers hoped that a new week would settle things and felt so angry at himself.

"Hey, Piers?"

Piers returned to consciousness. He was in the parking lot, and Chris was beside him. "Yes?" he said, startled.

Chris looked at him. Finally, he managed a small smile. "Are you a drinking man, Piers?"

Piers measured him, thought it through. "When the occasion calls for it."

"Let's go sit down somewhere. I'm buying. And... maybe we could chat a little?"

Piers breathed freely for the first time that day. His relief was so immense, he barely managed a nod and agreed without objection when Chris suggested taking his car and promised to drop him back later.

Anything.

Piers went after Chris curiously and took in the bar. Dark exterior, fairly unassuming clientele. No one was brawling yet. Smoky place, which wasn't an impression created by actual cigarette smoke but by the stained light bulbs that drowned out the light they were supposed to provide.

Chris went to the counter and nodded a greeting. "Tall one, from the tap. And you?"

Only when Chris turned to look at him did Piers realize he was being addressed, and he pulled himself together. "Uh, the same. Thanks."

As the bartender went to draw out the brew, the owner of the bar stepped up and took over the job himself.

"Chris. Haven't seen you in ages."

Chris gave a quick smile and dug into his pocket, raising a brow. "How's business, Carter?"

"Slow and steady. The economy's not so great for anyone, so I guess anything that keeps the shop open counts for a victory."

"Hear hear," Chris agreed.

"Still the same?" Anything new in your work?

"The job's never done," Chris settled on saying as he handed over a couple of folded bills. "Keep the change." He pushed a pint glass to Piers and then headed to the tables with his own.

Piers was still standing with the beer in hand when the interest turned to him.

"Same trade?" the barkeep asked.

"The BSAA," Piers confirmed. He raised his glass in salute. "Thanks."

"Have a good one."

Piers eyed around, but Chris wasn't at the tables. Chris had taken him to a public place, and Piers' stomach sank at the thought. One he had friends at and where he knew the barkeep by name. This wasn't a date thing after all.

Except Chris had gone ahead to a private booth, out of sight and out of the hearing range of others. Which meant...? Piers had no idea. His heart went pit-a-pat as he sat opposite Chris.

"He's ex- Air Force. Got out two years before I did," Chris explained. "We talk sometimes."

Piers took a moment to realize Chris was talking about the owner. He nodded and took a gulp from his beer. "Thanks for this."

"Don't mention it," Chris dismissed. He took a taste, too. Almost inadvertently, they seemed to huddle to themselves, as far away from the rest of the bar as they could. The ripple of talk and the knocking of pool balls kept a steady background noise that left them in a world of their own. "Have you felt this way for long?" he asked quietly, measuring the table with his eyes. "It wasn't just a spur of the moment thing, was it?"

Own up, Piers. "You're uncomfortable," he said monotonously. Defeat stung hard.

Chris shifted on his seat, stuffing a hand into his pocket like he was trying to find something, and finally forced himself to stay still, cricking a brow, making a face. "No, I'm not mad. I just want to . . . understand. We should talk about this, not let it brew and become something huge that it's not."

Piers felt he was being scolded. Chris' disappointment hurt the most. Yet Chris sounded so gentle, hesitant—not mad, just dealing with something he really didn't know what to do with.

"Pretty long," Piers admitted. "I've thought about it pretty long."

Chris grimaced, but didn't move away, didn't do a judgmental stare. He smiled to himself, kind of plaintive. "I figured so."

"You knew?"

Chris laughed, short and crisp. "I'm antiquated, not dead."

"You're hardly old," Piers scowled.

Chris accepted the compliment with a lopsided grin and took another gulp. "It feels like it. I've been waging this war too long."

Neither knew how to continue from that. Piers sank to the dim sanctity of the booth and let the high backs keep him safe from the world and human interaction. Pool balls cracking together and the steady ripple of discussion reached them only muffled and distant, quite negligible. It was just them, in a world of their own, dealing with this and wondering how to go on once the best-kept secrets were out. Except you make your own destiny.

"Have you thought about it?" Piers said. The table stilled suddenly. Chris squirmed uncomfortably.

"Piers, I can't think things like that that. There's a chain of command, you're my subordinate..."

"I'm the one who came on to you; you're not the one who came on to me," Piers cut in, feeling bold for putting it the open.

Chris halted, visibly thrown. Piers watched the play of conflict on his face and waited. When Chris didn't seem to come up with an answer except the distress, Piers asked again, "Have you?"

His voice had dropped. He awaited the answer with a bated breath.

"I may have thought about it, on occasion," Chris said finally.

Piers' heart thumped. Maybe this wasn't the end yet; maybe he wasn't doomed to a bad outcome. At least Chris hadn't blown him off. They had only sunk to a crescent, still quietude.

Chris' leg brushed against his under the table, and Piers felt something different stirring. Piers' hands rested on the table, but they were no longer alone. Chris' fingers wrapped around his wrist. He ran a thumb over the back of his hand, rubbing repeatedly. He looked Piers in the eye.

"What are you doing after this?"

"No plans," Piers breathed out.

Chris kept his hand wrapped around Piers' wrist, gazes locked. He let go with a squeeze. "Maybe you'd like to come over?"

The weight dropped off Piers' chest and made way for another kind of a curl, something warm and excited. "Yes."

They stayed only long enough to finish up. Piers couldn't have cared less about emptying his pint; Chris took a couple of swigs, and he was done. They wove from the secluded booth to the open floor, past the bar with friendly greetings over it, and out toward exit. Piers went through first, but he felt Chris' hand on his back, over his shoulder blades, just as he passed the doorstep.

"My car, still?" Chris confirmed, and Piers was down with that.

They barely made it to the bedroom.

They stopped in front of the bed. Chris held Piers' gaze, eyes firmly on Piers' before they dropped to his lips, just briefly. He took a step closer as Piers tilted his head to the gentle pressure on his lips. Chris drew his mouth along Piers', and Piers closed the last steps, pressing up against Chris, being enveloped into his arms. Chris drew back just long enough to run his arms along his sides, then closed his lips briefly over Piers', and Piers sucked back eagerly.

Piers threw a look at the bed and started pulling his jacket off. He was glad to be rid of the thing; the jacket stunk of cigarettes. The stink stuck even though the ban on smoking indoors had probably been in place for a good ten years, but any visit to a bar still managed to stink up the clothes.

Chris had also gotten rid of his jacket and shoes, and Piers followed suit. Chris was about to sit on the bed, except Piers pushed him on his back and threw a leg over him, straddling him with a grin. Chris only looked back up at him and didn't protest. As Piers leaned over, Chris brought a hand behind his neck, caressing the nape as they met for a kiss. His hand went to Piers' thigh, gripped, held in place. His thumb pressed into the inner thigh, dangerously close to his crotch.

Piers' pants creased at his crotch. Chris was having similar problems.

"You can go up," Piers said, almost anxious.

Chris snorted somewhere, a dry, amused wisp of a laugh, pressing small kisses to Piers' mouth. Chris was running hands along the outer edges of his pants until he pressed the heel of his hand to the base of his cock and massaged. He grinned when Piers' train of thought wrecked and Piers froze into position, without much realizing he had muscles to move. Chris drew his hand back and looped a finger below Piers' belt, tugging.

Thought caught up with Piers. Piers was fumbling with his belt and pants, somewhere between Chris' warm fingers. He got both open and kicked his pants off painstakingly, and then Chris' hand was back on him. His fingers skimmed down his belly, past the waist, along the crease between his legs and torso, until they slid down his length, fingertips first, all the way down, and squeezed.

"It's nice." Praise from Chris heated Piers.

Especially because it came from Chris. His camos bundled attractively at the bulge, and aroused, he was even a more desirable. Chris was packing.

Chris got up to rid himself of his pants, and Piers plopped down onto the bed. Piers sank on the bed, breathing deeply. The sheets smelled like Chris.

Side by side, Chris had crawled for a better position. His leg fell neatly between Piers' thighs: a somewhat heavy pressure on his upper thigh, and a fleeting, sinuous contact on his privates. Chris scooped again into his underwear, massaging his crotch.

"Is this okay?"

"God, yes."

Little by little, Chris inched his underwear off and brought his shaft into full view, running his palm along the underside.

It wasn't fair to be the only recipient. Piers was fumbling for Chris, but Chris had to guide his hand between his legs, and he finally made contact, after ineffectively groping somewhere south of his thigh.

Piers' hand found the front of Chris' underwear. Chris was filling them up. Piers stroked over his pole and touched their tongues lightly together, flirting. Once he had convinced himself that Chris wouldn't mind, he dared sneak a hand in. Chris' shaft filled up his fist, thick and pulsing. He took a better grip and grinned to himself when it distracted Chris, who was stroking him wonders, mouthing slow kisses.

The bed creaked and the sheets shuffled as they kept shifting for better positions, getting used to a mutual stroking and the shifting weight as they adjusted to each other. The pressure was building up; Piers had trouble concentrating on Chris' shaft as the steady hum was rushing closer, from the tip of his penis to the nerves of his spine, clogging his thinking.

"Close," he managed.

"Good." Chris' tone was low and intimate, close to his ear. Piers threw his head back when he came to a blinding orgasm. The overwhelming burst blocked his thinking and made him forget the stroking he was supposed to be doing back, but when he came to, Chris was grinning at him. Piers sought for his shaft and found it, tried to remind himself how he'd been palming it only moments ago. The hard glide in his hand reminded him itself, and he resumed.

Chris cupped his face and pressed his mouth on Piers, and Piers felt the way Chris tensed against him, only relaxing with a low sigh that rubbed his ego in a very nice way and made his heart beat a little faster.

Chris dropped next to him, legs still entwined. They lay back, just looking at each other. Chris scrubbed his fingers together, and that was their cue to get cleaned up. Piers got up and followed Chris' instructions to the washroom.

When he got back, Chris was already pondering the problem.

"I can change the sheets."

"No, don't," Piers said and scooted back into bed, still naked from the waist, not unaware that his style was getting him appreciative looks. The sheets had been slept in, but they weren't dirty: they were pliable and familiar, just like Chris. He felt Chris under him, in the sheets he slept in; behind him, as Chris pressed along his back, felt the glide of shaft that was half-hard still; he felt the stubble in his neck and the warm hand on his chest, holding him close.

Chris' eyes fluttered closed, but he opened them soon enough when Piers moved restlessly.

"Hey, hey," Chris said, pulling Piers against himself until Piers calmed down. "Will you stay for breakfast?" he asked.

Piers could only nod.

THE END

Cheerful thanks to Gypsie (Gypsie Rose) for the proofreading!

Published September 10, 2013. Edited Oct 11, 2013.