AN - Still not happy with this. I should have gotten it up a lot sooner but...the block...the dreaded block. I am trying to power through it but I think in this case deciding not to write down my plan before I started is affecting it. Looking back, I feel like I have made so many mistakes with this, but...argh hopefully it's not to late to fix them. Losing inspiration sucks but we all go through this from time to time.
Hopefully the next chapter will be up soon! Thank you to all who are reading and reviewing!
Host
Chapter Five - The Death of Chris Redfield
May 4, 2009.
Veronica was not there that morning. Lisa claimed that she was tired, had chosen an extra few hours in bed over breakfast. No stranger to such a feeling, Jill did not question it. Bad dreams had plagued her once again that night, though this time they were perhaps not quite as horrific. The line between reality and dream still blurred in her mind. The memories of her time in Africa were still somewhat hazy, but she remembered steel and blood, not white walls and clinical trials.
She was a little more jittery that morning too. No matter how many hours of sleep she logged, she woke feeling completely drained. The urge to simply remain in bed all day was overwhelming, but she had appointments to attend and a recovery to focus on.
Recovery. That was a laugh.
"This gets more and more depressing every day," Lisa sighed, eyes glued to the television screen. Jill did not like to watch the news. It only reminded her of how much she had missed in the time she was gone.
"Not exactly inspiring stuff, you know?" Lisa said. "Hardly puts you in any hurry to get back out there."
It was a familiar emblem that caught Jill's attention, caused her to raise a hand to silently shush her friend, stole words that she was about to share. The BSAA did not make the news often these days. The investigation had largely stayed out of the media, with updates here and there as to the progress of the court case.
"-more tragedy to face the BSAA, following the death of one of its longest-serving agents, as well as the disappearance of two more senior members."
She felt the eyes of her friend flick to her face, though she did not turn. The information that found its way to her through Leon was hardly substantial; something fishy was going on here, as much as he tried to deny it (or shield her from it). The BSAA selected the best agents the world had to offer. They did not vanish into thin air so often.
"The body of founding member Christopher Redfield was found in his apartment in the early hours of this morning. The victim of an apparent home invasion, Agent Redfield-"
The buzzing returned, escalating to a whine this time. The newscaster's words faded into nothing, a familiar photograph replacing the logo in the corner of the screen. Darkness crept into the edges of her vision, lungs seeming to forget how to function.
"Jill?"
"-investigation into the events surrounding the Kijuju Incident-"
Where was it? The needle in the arm, the blackness that would fade into light? Where was the end of this nightmare? Where was the comfort?
"-treated as suspicious-"
"Girl, you don't look so good."
It started as a trembling in the pit of her stomach; a cramp that took on a mind of its own. Shoulders shook in silent trauma, before her body bent in half, breakfast finding its way onto the carpet.
"-reeling from the death of one of its most prominent agents."
Shadows approached, reached out towards her. But what did it matter? What did any of it matter? They could come, they could take her. Beneath the surface, she wished that they would.
"Good afternoon, Agent Kennedy," the receptionist greeted with a wink. Leon smiled back politely as she dialled the usual line, spoke his name into the receiver. "Dr. Hendricks will be with you in just a moment."
He settled into his usual spot in a black armchair, too preoccupied to flick through the dated magazines. It had taken him two hours longer than he had hoped to finally get away from his duties. In the end, he had told Hunnigan in no uncertain terms that he was leaving and anyone with something to say about the matter could take it up with his voicemail.
It was pure determination that drove him, and the need to reach her before the media did. It was laughable, really. Chris's death had been all over the news that morning. Just as they had planned. Sometimes he wished that his department was not so fast-acting.
Dr. Hendricks appeared tired and dishevelled when she reached him, her blonde hair breaking free from its neat ponytail, bottom lip a little pinker than usual.
"Thank God you're here," she said wearily, beckoning at him to follow. "I'm afraid you may be wasting your time, but...I'm willing to try anything at this stage."
"Is she okay?"
Her words hardly inspired him with confidence.
"She has been in a stupor for the last few hours," the doctor explained, her pace a little too quick for his casual one. "She's virtually catatonic. We've tried everything we can, but she is completely unresponsive. It wasn't unprecedented, but...she was doing so well!"
In those words, he knew that he was too late.
"What happened?"
"I don't know." A wild shrug accompanied the words as they approached Jill's room. "One minute she was watching TV with the other patients, the next she's...well, you can see for yourself."
She opened the door, but did not walk through it with him. Truthfully, he barely even noticed her depart. Jill was awake, and upright on her bed, arms around knees that were tucked in to her chest. But the eyes that stared ahead of her were blank, lips barely parted as she breathed.
"Jill..."
The sound of his voice seemed to stir something within her. Breath hitched fearfully, arms slipping a little around her jeans.
She looked awful. It almost broke his heart. Pale skin seemed closer to the bone with every visit, eyes bearing dark circles, a light trembling to her fingers.
"I don't want to know, Leon." There were likely the first words she had spoken in hours, and her voice reflected this. She did not even turn to look at him, rather closed her eyes and seemed to wish him away. "Just leave me be."
"He's not dead."
She turned this time, a look of utter incredulity in her eyes. But her facial expression remained the same, and she said nothing. Perhaps he could have phrased it a little better, could have eased into it even, but it was obvious that it was something she needed to know, and she was in no mood for long-winded explanations and unnecessary build-up.
"Someone has been targeting the agents assigned to the Kijuju Investigation," he explained, moving closer to her, finding a perch on the edge of the bed so that his voice could drop as low as Chris needed it to. "Two are already dead, one is still missing. They sent someone after Chris but he managed to subdue them. Faking his death was the only way we could save his life. They won't be looking for him any more."
A pitiful laugh escaped her.
"And he couldn't tell me this himself..."
Leon reached out, placed a hand atop her knee and squeezed gently.
"He would if he could, but..."
The 'but' was a mistake, but he was not sure if it had been an unintentional one. He was under a lot of orders, and there were not many he agreed with. This one was from Claire, pleading with him not to worry her. But she would worry regardless; he knew her too well to believe otherwise.
"But what?"
"He was injured. He's gonna be okay, but he's sleeping it off in hospital at the moment."
And there it was, that glint he had both wanted to see and wanted to protect her from. But it was for the best that she knew.
"Can I see him?" Her timidity shattered the resistance within him.
"Yes. If you give me five minutes to speak to your doctor I can take you with me now."
She nodded with a grateful smile and he left her with one last squeeze of the knee.
Dr. Hendricks was waiting in the hall, hastily ending a phone call when she saw him. As if on cue, a vibration in his pocket momentarily stole his attention.
'If you care about her, you'll get her out of there.'
The doctor's words drifted past him, unheard. It was not the first strange message he had received over the past few days, but the number was always different. Untraceable. Casual greetings and words of encouragement, it seemed, had turned somewhat sour. He had thought nothing of it, especially when the tech guys could not trace the sender. But now...
Another buzz, another message flashing across the screen.
'Make your move, rookie. Or we'll make ours.'
The pressure at his neck almost choked the life out of him. Stars appeared in his periphery, fingers clawed uselessly at a gloved hand. His feet did not even touch the floor.
But it was not hand that would kill him, not even when it ripped his heart from his chest, just like it had the old man. It was her scream. She could see, would see, and knowing Jill she would never forget. If she survived this.
It was funny how his last thought pertained to her. How the life that flashed before his eyes was not his own, but rather the one he had shared with her. All those happy moments, all those regrets. The night her arms had held him like he meant something to her, like they were lovers and not merely friends fucking out their fears.
He would have given anything for her not to see this.
Strange, it was then that the pressure vanished, that his body crashed painfully to the ground. There was a sound like the shattering of glass, far away. When he looked up, Wesker was gone.
And so was Jill.
The window was broken, when it had not been before. And just like that, in the eye of his mind he saw her, saw the blue blur of her uniform. Barely a second had passed since his fall when he lunged towards the window, hand reaching out...
"Jill!" he cried. But the night and the ocean had already swallowed her.
He would have given anything...
...just not this.
Sleep came sporadically, and his dreams were strange. She haunted every one of them, but what was new? The grogginess that fell over him stung with the bite of a thousand hangovers. His body did not like whatever they had forced into it; dehydrated and weak, he knew that there was nothing to do but wait it out. If the doctors were telling the truth, it should all be over within twenty-four hours.
Claire had visited him that morning, complaining about St. Anne's and their refusal to let her visit Jill. It was not her first attempt, apparently, and she was becoming rather agitated, stating mockingly that she could not "call the President every time someone won't let [her] play" like a certain someone she knew. He couldn't even blame the pain medication any more; she had been off it for a while now.
When the door opened, he had expected her to walk through, ready with a list of his obituaries. It was strange enough to see his 'death' all over the news, let alone hear it from the mouth of his sister.
But it was not Claire, not even Leon (who had threatened to check up on him regularly, perhaps bound by some obligation). It was not anyone he had expected to see.
Jill paused, tentative, at the door, fingers still touching upon the handle. It was more a ghost that found its way before him, a remnant of what once was. Even as the door closed behind her, brought her closer to him, an expression of fearful concern upon her features, he barely believed it to be true. She was thinner than he remembered, and a little darker around the eyes. Her skin was an unnatural shade of white, hands that had once been so capable accommodating an uncharacteristic tremor. Even the way she breathed was different, as though the world around her was unsteady and it was uncertain if her next breath would be her last.
She breathed the same as he did.
"Jill..." The voice doctors had told him to rest sound neglected, but it brought her to his bedside, clammy hand slipping fingers into his. Those of the other hand pressed against his forehead with a tenderness that almost killed him.
"You look like hell," she said with a smile. He almost joked back, would have had it not been for the touch of porcelain to his skin.
"I'm so sorry." Strange how his words echoed hers, though they seemed like a lifetime ago now. And she had apologised for almost killing him, for being captured and enslaved, for a million things that were not her fault yet she had somehow convinced herself were. What did he have to apologise for? A thousand things of his own, and he was to blame for every single one.
There was silence on her part, and she averted her eyes for a moment. She was so close now, hair but inches from his face. He had never told her, but he liked this colour on her. And he knew that she did not. Too many memories, she had said. Every time she looked in the mirror, she saw 'him', saw what he had turned her into; his own image in chains.
"I'm so glad you're okay," she said with a soft voice. And then, another pause. "I know I'm probably the last person you want to see right now, but-"
"I don't want to see anyone else. Just you." The truth, for once. And though every word seemed to take more strength than he had left in him to say, he forced them out anyway. Everything he had wanted to tell her that morning, before the damn sedatives made a mess of things. "I hope you're okay?"
It was a silly way to phrase such an important question.
"No," she sighed. "I can't do this any more, Chris. I need to get out of that place. Something is-"
She released his hand, shook her head, missed the way his fingers reached for hers even after they were gone.
"Forget it."
The pain in his chest sharpened. She no longer trusted him. Not that he blamed her. After everything, after the fear and the ignorance...
"I'm sorry I questioned you," he said. His throat felt like sandpaper now. But reaching for water would steal precious seconds, and he did not know how many they had left. "I never meant to... I was scared, Jill. I didn't know what to do, I didn't..."
With a sigh, less loaded this time, she reached a hand out, smoothed his hair back in one gentle move before pressing her lips to his forehead.
Glimpses. That was all he got. But it was enough to show that this was not her, this was not his partner. A mask had fallen over her, one she had been unable to remove as easily as the one he had shot from her face. It tinted her world a foreign colour, made it seem different to her, and her to it. He did not understand it, and he somehow knew that neither did she. There was enough normality, enough familiarity to strike suspicion. How could someone seem so familiar yet so different at the same time? This did not feel like schizophrenia, did not feel like any emotional disturbance he knew. Schizophrenia was not so selective. No mental illness was.
"It's okay," she told him. He was about to protest, but she shushed him further, concern he had always teased shining in her eyes. "After...after my mom passed away, my father became...he became deeply depressed. It was difficult to deal with, I'm not going to lie. I would stay in the library after school, would stop by friends' houses on the way home just so I didn't have to face that, to see what he had become. The only thing harder than dealing with this shit yourself is watching someone you care about go through it."
But she had taken care of her father, he knew that much. She had realised her error and righted it while there was still time.
"I'm going to get you out of there," he promised. "Jill, I'm going to take care of you, the way I promised I would."
She smiled sadly. There was a painful lack of faith in her eyes.
"Yeah."
And just like that, the mask slid back in place, locked her away from him. So pessimistic, so resigned to a fate neither of them, seemed to truly understand.
There was no energy left in him for words.
The door opened, the tunes of hospital ambience seeping through the open space. Jill's eyes snapped up before his, and she recoiled, holding her hands to her chest. Sheva remained at the door, bouquet held before her. Both girls were speechless, but that seemed to be enough. Jill's eyes found his and she averted them quickly, rising to her feet.
Jill was never one to make mountains out of molehills, to invent suspicions or to jump to conclusions. But he was sure that the briefest flicker of hurt passed behind her eyes. She raised a hand to them, twitched and shook her head gently, as though willing something away.
"Sheva..." she whispered. Perhaps it was the guilt in his eyes. Guilt which had no reason, no foundation. But somehow, she saw the kiss upon his lips, sensed the change in the air between the former partners. She had always been good at picking up the little things.
He did not know why it affected her so, why she headed straight for the door, stumbling into the wall on her way.
"Get well soon," she said, her words slurred. "I-I'll be fine."
Then, she was gone.
AN - Please review :).