A/N: Shoutout and thanks to illyrilex for continuing to read and review each chapter. You're awesome and I'm glad you're enjoying Ada's presence.

This chapter refers specifically to two of the 'Viral Campaign' advertisements for Resident Evil 5.

There are also a few references to Queen in here. The scene in J's bar is in part inspired by Shaun of the Dead.

Again, talking about the fluidity of sexuality and attraction/differences between romantic and sexual relationships. Part of this talk is inspired by a few real friends who, while otherwise attracted to the same sex, have fallen in love with a member of the opposite sex.

Now go watch Cabaret and you'll get what I'm talking about.

Trigger warnings for mentions off suicide.

No answer. No message. No idea why she'd want to pick up in the first place. Your palm brushes past the long whiskers on your face. The usual rugged stubble has given you a full beard. Hell, you've gotten sloppy on all of your shaving. Soon you'll be full on bear gay.

You're toeing a fine line here.

Said line is actually the railing of a bridge. There's a telephone next to you. The kind that instantly connect to a crisis line. There'll be a reassuring voice telling you that it's okay and all worth it.

Just not the voice you want to hear.

You need your safety chute. Only, you've already cut the lines of it. You're free falling toward the ground and it's your own damn fault.

You step off the ledge and sit down near the railing.

"Sir, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just thought I saw someone fall in."

You wonder what it felt like to fall from that window. Having the glass shards slice open your arms and face before the percussion of the impact turned your organs to jelly.

You take the bus home, because honestly, you're a fucking mess.

The chair is deceptively comfortable. You feel it conforming to your contour and worry about leaving a butt-shaped print on its leather surface. You psychiatrist is a woman with unnaturally blonde hair and glasses that block her eyebrows.

You exchange pleasantries. She's your second doctor, a referral paid for by the BSAA. Very pricey.

"Any time you're ready. It's your hour."

The part of you that bucks authority and all semblance of 'the system' hates her immediately. The part of you that tries to be reasonable and rational takes a deep breath.

"Have you ever heard of Sisyphus?"

"The titan?"

"He was a mortal king, actually. But, like the titan Prometheus, he was given an eternal sentence in Tartarus for the sins he committed. Sisyphus was given this massive boulder to push up to the top of a hill. Only, it would roll back down the other side of the mountain and he'd have to do it all over again."

"Do you see yourself as Sisyphus?"

"I do push a lot of boulders."

Her look cuts through your affable mask like a knife.

"I thought it would be over when we took down Umbrella. But it wasn't. It's like no matter how many cities get destroyed or lives lost, some asshole will think 'he lets release a virus! I bet it'll be different this time!'. And usually that asshole is Albert Wesker. Only he's dead now."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Relieved."

"And...?"

"Mournful? I don't fucking know. It's like there's this big empty space in my life where meaning and purpose used to be."

"Do you miss him as your mentor."

That has you tensing your shoulders. You tuck your chin into your chest. Jill calls this your 'turtle mode'. Thousands of lies and denials coat your tongue. They threaten to spill over your cracked lips. What's that they say about the first step toward recovery? Admitting the problem.

"I miss Albert Wesker every day."

Raccoon City, 1997

You stare at the clearest blue eyes across the table. Jill has her chin resting on her hand. She's half looking at you and half looking out the window. J's bar is dead this time of day, with the exception of a few regulars. The two of you come here on breaks to escape the overcrowded office. And to play with the free drinking straws.

You shoot a spitball at her. She wrinkles her nose and kicks your shin lightly.

"Don't be gross."

Jill has this habit of pushing her hair behind her ears. However, it's longer on one side than the other, so it always falls forward into an asymmetrical bob. You want to tell her that it makes her look elfin, but she'd take it at a height dig.

The door creaks as another patron enters the bar. Your eyes wander to the sports game on the tiny TV above the bar. You don't keep up with basketball, but it's less boring than golf. Both are less boring than the report you're working on.

A hand claps you on the back and you choke on your beer.

"Nice to see you two are hard at work."

Jill hands you a napkin to mop up yourself.

"Nose to the grindstone, Captain." She gives a sarcastic salute.

You both grin at him like the bad kids in school. The others complain that you get away with being such brats because of favouritism. You wish Wesker would just favour you a little more... privately.

Wesker slides into the seat beside you. He pushes his sunglasses up to his hairline. Blue-green eyes survey the bar for the waitress. He spots her and raises his index finger. She nods.

"Do you both have your accounts of the Tennyson attack straight?" He asks.

"In the spirit of objectivity, Sir, Chris and I have not discussed our separate reports."

"It's best to find the truth between the lines. Memory can be influenced easily and all that." You add.

Wesker nods and brushes a palm over his gelled straw-coloured hair. His eyes are fixed on a portly trucker flipping through the choices on the juke box.

"If he chooses Springsteen again, I swear to god..." Jill says.

"No love of the boss." You laugh.

The music disturbs the air of the previously quiet bar. The piano keys are all too familiar.

"Oh fuck yeah."

Jill groans and burrows her face further into her palm.

The record crackles with the needle before sound hits the speakers. Tonight you're gonna have yourself a good time. You feel al-iiiiiiive. And the world is turning inside out.

You're floating around in ecstasy.

The music joins Freddie's voice and you hop to properly gyrate your hips to the rhythm. Maybe if you listen to music about having a good time, you'll start having a good time.

Also, your sister is coming over and you need to hide the razors, beer empties, and generally clean and childproof the house.

It's a feeble attempt at making yourself appear normal. Claire won't be fooled. She's a bloodhound for your bullshit. Every sleepless night and lonely fuck will be written all over your friendly face.

It'll be just like every other visit. Claire does the hours long car ride to show up at your door with groceries. She'll cook the groceries while you make a salad. Kevin will watch dumb toddler shows with Allie and then you'll all eat around the TV before they leave.

For now you pretend to be okay and scoot around the apartment with a vacuum cleaner and bottle of air freshener. You use the broom as an air guitar while screaming along to 'Killer Queen'. That is, until you hear a hammering on the door.

"Sup?"

"This is a best-of album, you poser."

Your sister looks like she's trying hard not to be amused with a green bundle of child stuck to her chest and a grocery bag on each arm. She pushes past you and makes a bee-line for the kitchen. Kevin steps forward and you close the door on him.

"Chris."

You open it.

Kevin flips you off. You go to the kitchen to hover behind the people you actually like.

Allie is gumming a plastic doughnut and gurgling as her mother packs away vegetables.

"You know I have a job and food right?"

"Which is why the only thing in your fridge is condiments and iceberg lettuce."

"I was making burgers."

She rolls her eyes, clearly seeing through your bullshit.

"I heard you started seeing a headshrinker. BSAA prescribed."

You go into turtle mode and whirl around in defensive anger.

"Yeah, well that shit's supposed to be private."

"Not when you're on fucking suicide watch. Jesus, Chris, what happened back there?"

She grabs for your face and you back away. Your back hits the cupboard and Claire has you pinned. Allie sways between you. Her blue-green eyes stare up at you with a quiet intensity.

"It's not just Africa... is it? This is a long time coming." You flinch.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Chris. You used to volunteer at homeless and animal shelters. You're a nurturer, not a killer."

"He killed them all. He hurt you..." Your eyes drop to the strawberry blonde toddler clinging to her mother like a koala.

Claire's pale fingers go to Allie's hair and her mouth tugs into a lopsided frown. Now she's the one evading. You tuck a finger under her chin.

"I am seeing a shrink. It's a required thing after each mission anyway. She seems like the no-nonsense type. Kinda like a woman I know. Maybe she'll be able to pound me back into shape."

"If this is your roundabout way of asking how Jill's doing... I didn't want that mental image of whatever it is you two did to unwind after missions."

"Wait... what?"

"Pound back into shape."

She's got this bright look in her eye that looks like pain, so you take her deflection with a chuckle.

"You're filthy. How is she?"

"Doing better than you. And that's saying something because she looks half-dead and highly medicated. Also, you should turn on your TV more if you wanna find out."

Kevin's made his way into the kitchen in search of beer. You hand him one without being asked. He sense the personal nature of the conversation and takes Allie with him as he leaves.

"Come on Kiddo, let's go watch Dora."

The moment has passed and Claire goes back to peeling potatoes. You feel the tension roll off her in waves. It coils around you like a snake and begins to squeeze.

"I'm sorry." You sigh.

"Why sorry?"

"About Jill. Not being good enough. Not being there for either of you. I'm pretty sure the only thing I am good at it is killing monsters."

She turns to you and jabs the peeler in your direction.

"Christopher Redfield. Don't you dare talk about my brother that way. Don't you ever make yourself sound worthless while still being a self-obsessed ass. You're going through post-traumatic stress. There's a difference between being mentally and emotionally sick and being no good."

"I'm getting mixed messages from this rant. It's okay but I'm still being an asshole?"

"Yep." And she peels potatoes furiously.

You hug her from behind. She stiffens a little, but leans back into the embrace. Your lips and jaw scratch along her crown as you kiss her temple.

"Thanks Sis."

"Shut up you big jerk."

"Love you too."

"I'm gay."

Your psychiatrist, to her credit, doesn't bat an eyelash.

"Me too." She says.

The tight feeling in your lungs seems to deflate like the pressure in the room.

"Why do you think I was referred as your psychiatrist?"

"Because I have weird daddy issues and try to fuck male authority figures?"

"Er. It was suggested that you have a person with similar experiences with whom you could talk to." She fiddles with her pen.

You sit up with your knees on your elbows and your back bowed.

"My sister knows. No one else in my family does."

"Why?"

"Parents are dead. Car crash. Dad was drunk. Grandparents're heavy duty Catholics."

"You think they wouldn't accept you?" It sounds like a stupid question, but she's getting paid to make you talk.

"No, they wouldn't. It's not like I've met a man worth marrying anyway. Not that I could if I wanted to."

A dark look crosses both of your faces. There's a pause before she speaks.

"Have you met a woman worth marrying?"

"Kinda defeats the purpose of being gay."

"It takes away your 'gay cred' for sure, but I know a few people who call themselves 'homoexceptional'."

"Are they exceptional homos?"

"They're gay with one exception. Their spouses."

"Like Freddie Mercury."

"Hmn?"

"Lead singer of Queen. He liked boys and girls, but his life partner was a woman. She was... his only true friend."

"So you have met a woman worth marrying?"

You look at her from below your eyebrows and blow out a deep sigh.

"Everyone always wants to know about me and Jill."

"So, no?"

"We were married for years. Not like, legally, or anything. But, she was my other half, yeah."

"And when she died?"

"It was like the living half of myself had to work twice as hard to function."

"It sounds like you still feel this way. Even though Jill is alive."

"How do you stick two halfs of a whole back together? Especially when one side's more worn down and the other's jagged?"

"With a lot of glue, I'd imagine."

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