IV. BSAA West African Branch HQ, 2009
The aftermath of the Kijuju Incident finds Chris and Jill separated again.
It's not by choice, but Chris can grudgingly understand the reasons for it. Jill has been in the "possession" of Wesker and Tricell for almost two and a half years at this point, and that means she needs a thorough medical inspection and possibly an even more thorough debrief. Chris and Sheva have their own debrief as well, but that's standard, and at this point, he's been through so many of them he could do it in his sleep. Jill isn't going to be so lucky.
As much as he understands it, though, it's still frustrating. He doesn't voice it, but there's this obsessive desire building in his head to get her home. He wants her safe and secure and away from any and all fighting, and while the US HQ has its own share of problems, zombie hordes have never been one of them.
He thinks that it's a pretty understandable urge, given that up until recently, Jill was dead. He had helped look for her body. He had attended her funeral and watched her name get added to the BSAA Memorial to the Fallen. He had put flowers on her grave. It is only by a twist of fate and Wesker's madness that his partner survived to be found again. The sooner she gets out of this area, the better, in his mind.
But his mind is not the one making the decisions, and so for the time being, Jill stays in Africa.
He stays, too, even when the usual quarantine and debrief are finished. He joins the clean-up team, working with Josh and Sheva again on the front, making sure that as many infected and worse are neutralized across the region. Along the way, they pick up more info on what Tricell and Umbrella have been doing in the Africa, and find out that the problems here extend back farther than any of them had any clue about. He writes memos to HQ that they're going to have to re-examine all their findings from the Spencer Estate, not to mention the information they picked up from the Kennedy mission in 2004. The research division of the BSAA is going to be up to their butts in paperwork after this case, checking carefully to make sure that they didn't miss anything else important in the last six years.
Jill isn't allowed on those missions; she's kept separate from the rest of the agents. From him. And that's starting to get to him, too. He hasn't had an actual conversation with her since she contacted him by PDA during the mission itself, and that was all too brief. He wants to know how she's doing. He wants to know if she's okay. But all he has are the occasional brief status updates and the little bits of rumor he can pick up around their base. It's not enough - it won't be enough until he talks to her again - but it's all he has for now, and he can hold onto that.
She's alive. That's the important thing.
Then he comes back from a clean-up mission one evening, a shower and a hot meal on his mind, to find a message waiting for him at HQ's desk. CR 2 is all it says, but it says it in Jill's looping, graceful writing. In a snap, he's not so run down tired anymore, and all other concerns vanish.
Okay, not all of them. Not entirely. He has no clue what she would be summoning him for. But he'll be damned if he doesn't get there as soon as he can.
He takes the stairs two at a time up to the third floor where the conference rooms are. They're more like briefing rooms than the official, sterile conference rooms he's used to: plenty of seating, a board to give details, and a cozy feeling of use. But it's an interesting place for Jill to choose to meet him, one that twists his stomach a little. Shouldn't be too bad, though - it's Jill, after all.
Maybe that's the problem, though; it is Jill, but in a way, it's not. There's a thirty month gulf between them, and though who she had been in those halls with Wesker had felt very much the same...he didn't know. He hadn't had a chance to know.
Not to mention the elephant in the room no one was talking about: Jill's work as Wesker's accomplice. Mostly, he was positive the BSAA wasn't going to be able to do anything about it; there was too much evidence that it was work done under coercion. Part of him wondered, though. Jill was one of the Eleven Founders, and she had worked her butt off for them, but the BSAA had kept changing after she was gone. He'd taken so many missions that he'd seen more of its exposed core, and some of it bothered him.
Especially since that core had been funded in part by Tricell. The same Tricell that had been in bed with Wesker for, from all appearances, a very long time.
That was another thing he was going to have to talk to his superiors about, and not by memo, either.
But that was for later. Jill...Jill is now
There's a little star on the door of the conference room, and he pulls it off and tucks it in his pocket before going in. S.T.A.R.S. had been where it started, and stars had played a big role in their codes when they still worked underground. Its presence unkinks something in his chest.
As does the Jill on the other side of the door.
"Hey Chris," she says as he shuts the door. She turns from the window on the other side of the room to offer him a hesitant smile. No skintight suit for her now, just a pair of regulation pants and blue uniform jacket over it, both slightly too big for her. She'd even found a cap; Jill always seemed to find a hat. She moves to stand near the briefing table in front of the board, and he mirrors her on the other side of it.
"Wait long?"
"Not really," she says, and the inflection on her words tells him that's not entirely true.
"Just got back from clean-up," he explains.
"It's fine," she says. "Need a seat?"
"I'll stand."
She gives a little nod, and for a moment, it seems like neither of them know what to say.
"I heard you cut your hair," he blurts out.
Well, it's one way to start a conversation.
She smiles a little and pulls her cap off, showing off a short - really short - mess of blonde underneath. "Easier than dyeing it," she says. "The doc says it'll won't start growing back in the old color for another coupla months - he's not even sure why it turned blonde, really - so I figured I'd get it out of the way." She clamps her cap back on her head with a little twist.
He wants to tell her that the blonde isn't all bad, but he doesn't think she'd take that well. He fiddles with his belt loops and tries to think of another topic of small talk. Jill has a message for him, yes, but he - he really just wants to talk to his partner again. And he can see, in the way her fingers twist against the table top, that she'd like to do the same.
"How's the recovery of data going?" she asks.
"Better," he says. "We've found some of their back-up sites, and some of the docs we picked up along the way are starting to fit together. It's not a pretty picture." He glances at her. "You've been putting together some of the situation info, haven't you?"
She nods slowly. "My memory is touch and go in some places," she says, her voice the same bland tone she uses to report to HQ, "but I've been checking it against some of the info you guys have come up with and putting together what I can. I know there's plans in other places, but - "
"We don't have access to those yet."
Her mouth tightens at the corners. "The Travis-Gionne family is not impressed with your report, Chris. Or mine. They're gonna fight us on this one." She touches the center of her chest, right over her scars, and her eyes take on a feral look. "I hope they do, too."
"Jill - "
She shakes her head a little. "Sorry. I've - " A bitter smile flits over her mouth, and he has a feeling that their attempt at light-hearted opening conversation has just failed.
She confirms that with her next words: "Chris, they're sending me back to the 'States. They're sending me home."
FINALLY! his mind cheers, but there's something about the way she says it that throws him off. "Isn't that great?" he asks. "You get to go home."
She gives a little nod and smile, but it doesn't touch her eyes. "I know. Part of me is happy about it." She flattens her hands against the table.
"And the other part of you?"
"Is worried." Her eyes don't quite meet his. "Chris, one of the reasons they're recalling me is because they want to run a higher grade of medical testing on me."
His eyes narrow. He'd known she'd need to be cleared here in Africa, but after seeing those containers - "Just to make sure you're clear of the t-virus, right?" he asks.
She shakes her head slowly. "No, I think there's more to it than that," she says, voice quiet. "I think they want to be very sure that I'm Jill Valentine. Still the same Jill Valentine."
A part of him freezes.
She sighs. "And looking for traces of P-30." She looks at him and cracks a smile. "I'm not gonna be able to pee anywhere but a cup for weeks."
She's trying to make light, and he's not sure if she's doing it for his sake or for hers. Maybe both. Good thing, too, because he's starting to see red.
"And let me guess," he says, "samples from here aren't good enough."
"For this kind of inquiry?" She shakes her head. "Oh no." Her mouth quirks. "You know that, Chris. You'd want the same kind of testing, the same kind of thoroughness, if we found Wesker's body."
A muscle twitches in his jaw. "I hope we never do."
Her mouth tightens. "Me, too," she says, voice soft. "I'd prefer it if he burned."
He meets her eyes then, and she lets him, lets that pain shine out in them. "Jill - " he starts.
She steps back, arms crossing over her chest. "They're sending me out tomorrow," she says. "Tomorrow morning. Early in the morning." She makes a face; Jill is only a part-time member of the morning tribe. "More like tonight, really. So I wanted to tell you in person. I know you've been keeping discreet tabs on me, Chris."
He looks away. "Not that discreet, apparently," he mutters.
She makes a sound, sort of like a laugh, sort of like a sigh. "No, you did pretty well. It's just what I'd knew you'd do." Her voice softens. "Because it's what I'd do, too. What I have been doing, as much as I can. How's your chest?"
For a moment, he's not sure what she means, and then he recalls: she'd jumped on it. In heels. "Bruised but getting better," he says, rubbing a self-conscious hand over it. "Not so tough to breathe anymore." He glances at her. "How's yours?"
Her eyebrows go up, then waggle for a second, and it makes him want to laugh and cry at the same time because that's his Jill, that's her gesture, that's how she always takes innuendo, and he can't understand why the BSAA has to put her through such shit to see it. "It's healing," she says. "Though the Doctor says next time, he's going to make sure you guys carry wire cutters."
"It wouldn't have helped," he replies, voice dry.
"I told him that, but I think he needed to complain about something." The levity in her face fades. "Chris, I didn't say it then, but - thank you."
He shakes his head. "You don't have to - "
"Yes," she says, moving around to his side of the table. "Yes, I do." She holds out her hand. "Thank you, Chris, for coming after me."
He looks down at her hand for a moment, then back up at her. "No, Jill," he says quietly.
She looks at him for a moment, eyes wide, like she can't believe what he's offering her. Then she's there, against him, her arms wrapped tightly around his chest and her head buried beneath his chin. He clamps down on her just as tight, and he wants to pull her against him so hard she squeaks, but he refrains. It wouldn't do any of their injuries any good right now.
Just the same, he wishes he could.
The wish fades away under the feeling of Jill next to him, against him. They'd had their own sort of casual affection before she'd - before what'd happened - but there's a hug and there's a hug. This is starting to feel very much like the latter, and he can't say he's regretting it. Words are one thing, and he wants them back - all their long and stupid conversations, or the short and pithy ones, the quips and the familiar in-jokes, the random and the ridiculous that they had both become so good with around each other - but this is good, too. This makes up, a little, for all the time they've been made to spend apart one way or another.
He used to dream about holding Jill in a more intimate way, but his dreams for the past two years have been full of glancing attempts at moments like this. The reality, as it turns out, is so much better. It's not just the press of her body against his, or the way her hands rub his spine. It's the feel of her breath against his shirt, warm and a little damp; it's the slight shuffle of her feet as she holds herself there; it's the scent of her, mostly the cheap shampoo and soap they used here, but changed just enough to be her own, to be Jill.
Christ. It's really Jill.
He's really holding Jill.
And just as he has that realization, her body shifts against his, and her breathing changes. Where before it had a soft, smooth edge, a comforted edge, there's a hitch in it now. He listens a little longer, and - there it is again. On his back, her fingers shift from pressing into his muscles to suddenly digging in.
But what really gets him is the slight tremor he can suddenly feel against him.
He shifts his head a little, enough so he can whisper "Jill?" a little closer to her ear. "Jill...you all right?"
He gets no vocal response. But her fingers suddenly clutch at him harder, and the catch in her next breath is worse. The breaths after that are stuttered and quick, with an edge to them that being an older brother had made him long familiar with.
She's not crying. Not yet. But she's close, closer than she wants to be. It's a response that would've upset the Jill Valentine he'd known.
He suspects it's the same for the Jill Valentine he's holding now.
"Shhh," he whispers, one hand slowly sliding up and down her back. "Shh, Jill, it's okay. It's okay now, it's - "
"No - " comes the soft whisper. "Chris, no - " Her head twists against his chest as if she can't breathe, and automatically he relaxes his hold on her. He doesn't want to let her go now, not when she's like this, but if she needs the space.
The way she clutches at him then immediately tells him that she doesn't need the space. His arms tighten back on her, a little glad for it. He hadn't wanted to let her go regardless, not when this was the only contact he'd had with her in years. The only contact he'd have with her for weeks. The only time -
"Chris," comes the rasp of her voice.
"I'm here, Jill."
Her hands soften a little on her back, and in a voice both soft and broken, she asks, "Are you?"
Oh hell.
Oh fuck and hell and shit and damn -
He squeezes her tight, tilting his head to be able to whisper more directly to her. "It's not a dream, Jill," he whispers. "Pinch me - I'm real."
She bites him.
His body tenses at the pain, wanting to shove her away, but he overrides the urge. There's shirt in the way to blunt a little of the impact, but damn, the woman continues to have some sharp fucking little teeth. She worries a little at fabric and skin, enough to get a grunt of pain out of him, and that seems to be enough for her to let go of him.
"Not a dream," he says softly. He slides a hand down her spine to the edge of her shirt, moves under it, and rubs a nail against her skin hard enough to leave a scratch. "Not a dream, Jill."
Her hands tighten, and her head shifts again, as if seeking to bury herself even deeper into his chest. He keeps his arms tight around her, keeps stroking her back and making soothing noises, keeps not letting it show how much she'd just rattled him. Not so much for the display of emotion - Jill was way overdue for one of those - but because of how aptly she'd reflected his thoughts back at him. He had been struck amazed by the fact that he held Jill, the real Jill, the living Jill, in his arms. Not some dream. Not some projection of an exhausted mind. Not a product of delirium. Flesh and blood, breathing, living Jill Valentine.
He'd never thought he'd be able to do that again.
He wishes he could tell her that he'd always believed she'd been alive out there. That not finding the body had kept a fragile hope awake in him. But hell, they hadn't found Wesker's body either, and he'd firmly believed the man was dead. No - he'd had to accept Jill's death as quickly as he could, accept the idea that the lack of body meant she was just part of the local food chain now, or had been washed to a place where the BSAA's searches would never find her. He'd had to: for his job, for his mission, for his sanity. If there had been any shred of hope of Jill being alive, he would've never left those mountains.
But he'd had to. He had to go back to Claire, to the BSAA, to the work that'd driven him for so many years. He couldn't die yet. There were things that needed to be done.
He just hadn't realized how fucking lonely it was to do those things without his partner. Without someone who had been in his life for over a decade, who had grown to know him better than nearly anyone else. It was like someone had washed out the color of his world; no longer was it as bright, as saturated, as it had been. Something had gone missing; even with time, it would always be missing.
He can't show that to Jill. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to show that to Jill, to tell her exactly how much of a struggle it was to exist in his greying world, or how terrible he'd felt when it'd started to become easier. That's not her burden, it's his. But even if he can't say that, there is something he needs to say to her before she goes. Before her color is gone again.
"I missed you, Jill," he whispers, brushing his cheek lightly against the top of her head. "More...more than I can say."
Except that's not what he wants to say, not at all, it doesn't tell her anything! He -
Her body softens against his, her fingers loosening on his back. "Thank you," she whispers again.
- is just going to have to accept that, somehow, that was exactly what she needed to hear.
Her hands drop from his back, and before he's truly ready, she moves out of his embrace. She brushes at her face, wiping away non-existent tears, then looks up at him and offers a tentative smile. "Thank you...partner," she says.
It'd probably be more professional to just nod at that. But her smile draws one from him, and he manages a rusty "You're welcome" along with it.
Her slip of a smile broadens, and for a moment, they just look at each other. For a moment, they take each other in, and the world subtly realigns to the two of them again. Different people, perhaps, but - still partners.
At which point, the spot where she bit him gives a twinge, and he winces. He touches it, and it twangs under that, a dull ache. He gives her a look, and is amused to note she's colored a bit. "You couldn't have left it on the last one?" he asks.
She blinks at at him a moment, and then lets out a half-laugh. "Didn't want to scar your pretty skin," she replies, voice still not entirely steady.
"You're a little late for that," he replies.
"By about thirty years, I know," she sighs, her voice a little smoother. She reaches up to brush at the wet mark on his shirt, and somehow, her touch only makes it warm, not hurt. Because his body is a bastard like that. "Mm...Redfield?"
"Yeah?"
"You should really wash this shirt. It tastes terrible."
She makes a face, as if he needed to know exactly how bad it is.
"Probably, yeah," he says. "I did spend all day in the field - "
She makes another face, and this one is a little more genuine. It fades after a second into something a little more concerned.
"You must be starving," she says.
"And dirty," he agrees. "Yeah to both. But - "
He wants to touch her. He wants to let his warmth mingle with hers again, wants to feel the subtle give of her skin to go along with the rush of her breath. Doesn't matter that he just got done doing that, he wants to - one more time - before she goes.
But he doesn't. His hand rises a little, but he pulls it back. Little steps, for now.
Her expression shifts to something a little more serious, and the way her eyes move across him, he knows she caught the gesture. He also knows she won't say anything about it. Not just yet.
"It was good to see you, Jill," he finally says. "And I hope you have a safe flight back."
Why yes, he, Chris Redfield, really is a mass of lame.
It does make her start to smile. "Yeah, thanks," she says, and then the smile fades. "You take care of yourself, all right, Chris?"
"Count on it," he says. "Can't really see the cherries from a hospital bed, after all."
Her mouth curves a hair. "Still never made it, huh?"
"No," he sighs. DC was known for its flowering cherries, and despite the fact that Claire has invited him for years to see them with her, he's never be able to. Always too busy with work.
She regards him for a second. "I don't know about that," she says. "I'm sure there's a decent view of the Basin from some - "
"Are you trying to jinx me, Valentine?"
"Never," she says, the hint of a smile growing into a true one. "Claire would have my head if I did that."
"Oh, trust me, it'd be my fault," Chris replies dryly. "Somehow. Besides, she'll be too happy to see you to be mad about anything."
Jill face blanks for a second, but before he can ask, she gives a little nod. "I look forward to it," she says. "But for now - I really should -
"Yeah. Me too."
Another one of those looks.
To hell with it, he can't resist touching her. He's been as good a boy as he can be ever since she pulled him into that helicopter; he's followed all the BSAA's rules and instructions about her, even if all he wanted to was share her space again. Be by her again.
He touches her cheek. It's meant to be a gentle brush, but she leans into it. For a moment, they hold, eyes on each other along the line of his outstretched arm.
"Have a safe trip, Jill," he says, his voice lower than he intended.
She nods, then strokes her fingers along the back of his hand. "Come home soon, Chris," she replies.
He nods, and lets his hand drop. For a second it seems like their fingers will twine, but she pulls away. She gives a little nod back, then turns and, with deliberate steps, leaves the conference room.
He lets out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. For a long moment, he just lets the encounter wash over him: her look, her sound, her feel. The bite twinges at him, but it feels less like a poke and more like a hum, like a part of her warmth vibrating his skin.
He knows, by this point, that it'll be a hickey-ish bruise when he looks at in the mirror. He also knows that it won't last nearly long enough, that by the time he boards his plane for the 'States, it'll have lightened to a trace of yellow on his skin. Nor will it scar. It'll be sensitive, sure, but it won't stick.
Before, it was sort of a halfhearted hope. This time, he actively wishes. It's the only piece of Jill he'll have for a while, and he wishes that he could keep it around just by force of will.
But he's right: it fades. In fact, it fades faster than he expected, and by the time he gets cleared to go back to the US, there's no trace of it left on him whatsoever.
We've all got our version of what happens post-RE 5. Or in my case, a half-dozen variations on a theme. ;)
Four parts down, two to go (through a massive amount of editing). See yall in a coupla weeks.