Summary: The ordeals a the brave men and women in the BSAA face goes above and beyond what the average civilian might imagine: there are the biannual physical exams

Characters: Chris Redfield, an OC doctor

Notes: Originally the idea came to me after joking about the steroids Chris must have used to get so huge for RE5. I got a fair amount written, but couldn't get to a punchline. Then many months later there was a comment someone made on one of the forums I go to that fit this idea perfectly and I worked back into this fic, throwing that idea in as a minor detail.

o0o

Chris smiled nervously, trying to reassure himself as he waited. There were some situations where it was hard to feel brave. A mob of zombies heading his way when he was low on ammo and waiting for help that probably wouldn't be getting there anytime soon was a breeze. Massive B.O.W.s prowling in the darkness of an abandoned warehouse were nothing to worry about. Hell, he'd face a Tyrant unarmed if it came to that. Honestly, it would have been a relief if a Tyrant were to burst through the wall and into the room he was sitting it. It would have saved him a lot of worry.

Unfortunately, no rampaging B.O.W.s were going to appear and save him from this particular ordeal, the biannual BSAA physicals. This time was worse than normal, because, thanks to some sort of mistake, he had to go through it all again.

It was an open secret that he started worrying a month beforehand, going through great pains to see to it that his appointment was one of the very last to happen. There were times when he was tempted to see just how far he could push things and maybe just not show up, but he had a feeling that might be pushing things too far. So he endured the jokes about how the legendary Chris Redfield, was terrified of needles.

That wasn't true, not exactly. Just like how he hadn't fainted during that one blood test, his whole body had simply gone completely limp and he'd kind of started to slide off the table when the doctor came at him with a needle. He hadn't hit the floor that hard and didn't see what all the fuss was about, they'd just had to reschedule his appointment for a later date and Dr. Pintauro had been very understanding about that.

His reputation as a hero had its privileges and as such he was able to see to it that the infinitely understanding Dr. Pintauro handled all his mandatory medical exams. That meant that there were a number of times where he spent a bit longer in quarantine after a mission than he would have otherwise, but it was a small price to pay for peace of mind.

This time not even Dr. Pintauro could reassure him though, nothing could.

He'd already gone through the physical a week ago and he'd been called back for a second, more comprehensive follow up. That was something that just didn't happen.

"Agent Redfield," a short, gray haired woman said gravely as she opened the door to the exam room, "Let's get this done with."

"Do you really need to sound so cheerful about this?" he laughed despite himself. Her dry sense of humor was part of why he preferred her for these exams. She at least had a sense of humor, unlike most of the other doctors, "I mean some intern probably just lost the paperwork."

She didn't smile back, "It's not paperwork that the intern managed to misplace and that, combined with certain discrepancies, mean either I've made a serious mistake or we've got a serious problem on our hands so I'm not in a good mood right now. We're going to start from the beginning and treat this like it's your first exam and hope that the issue resolves itself."

"Right," he fought back the urge to stand up as she came into the exam room. For such a small woman she carried herself with a sense of authority that you could actually feel. There were times when it was hard to believe that she was just a civilian doctor who happened to be working for the BSAA.

"Of course," taking a pen out of her pocket she flipped through the papers on her clipboard, "Everything's supposed to be in order so let's get the questions out of the way first."

"Can we just say that everything's the same as it was last time?" he asked hopefully.

"No, because I want to believe that the mistake was mine and that what the intern did is just an unfortunate coincidence," her tone made it clear that she liked asking the ever growing list of questions as much as everyone in the BSAA liked answering them, "Now first question, have you received any injuries while on active duty since the date of the previous exam?"

"No," he answered quickly then corrected himself, "None that broke the skin."

Dr. Pintauro looked up from the clipboard, her lips pressed into a thin, angry line. He knew exactly why too, last week he'd answered no and left it at that. Her expression became carefully, coolly, neutral as she waited for him to continue.

He slumped down, not wanting to elaborate, but knowing that he had to, "I slammed my hand in a car door during what was technically a mission."

"Ah yes, the infamous Black Buoy incident," Dr. Pintauro gave him a knowing smile, "Quite the impressive interagency effort if I recall correctly. How many different anti-bioweapons organizations were represented there that week?"

"How do you know about –" Chris started then considered what she had said, "Actually, no, I don't want to know. But, yeah, that was where it happened."

Helping oversee the closing of a bioresearch facility near a seaside resort town, best known for its beaches and bars hadn't exactly been the BSAA's finest moment. He'd been the one stuck filling out paperwork and issuing official reprimands after several agents had gotten the bright idea to go bar hopping after the old lab was shut down without incident. The paperwork had been even more of a nightmare because of the fact that it was a joint effort between several different organizations and because he'd been 'assisting' a DSO operative at the time he'd been injured there had been two organizations worth the paperwork for him to fill out. Said operative had been too drunk to stand and the assistance had been loading him into the back seat of a taxi so one of his slightly more sober companions could get him safely back to the hotel they were staying at. Knowing that the effort was known by the name of the bar where most of the real 'action' had taken place wasn't exactly something he was proud of. It could have been worse though, the bar across the street was named 'Halfast Eddy's' and on the other side town there was a third called 'Murphy's Back Alley Tavern' all of which could have just as easily been where it had happened..

She nodded, "Did the injury heal normally? Remember, healing more quickly than expected counts as an abnormality."

"It healed normally," Chis said, not sure why that last part was necessary. It didn't break the skin and there hadn't been any B.O.W.s or biological agents present at the lab, much less any of the bars and hotels where the real excitement had been. Everything had been taken care of during the first four days and the rest of the week had turned into one big party, drinking, swapping stories of missions over the years and generally having a good time. It was the closest thing to a vacation that he'd had in years and the best part had been that Jill been part of the team that arrived after the lab was cleared out, just in time for the 'action'. The two of them had taken advantage of those few days off and their respective teams had been very understanding of their desire for time alone. There had been jokes of course, but that was to be expected given that it was an open secret that their relationship wasn't strictly professional.

"Alright, since I don't want to be here all night I'm going to just list off the biological agents known to have been used during incidents you were present for. All I want you to do is tell me if it's incomplete when I get done," without waiting for a response she began naming a series of different strains of virus that the BSAA had dealt with over the years.

He knew that there were a lot, but hearing it all spelled out was a stark reminder of all the different ways he could have died. There was hardly a thing out there that he hadn't been at risk of exposure to over the years. As she went through the list he didn't interrupt her.

It was complete, as far as he could tell.

Dr. Pintauro didn't seem quite ready to believe him. Instead of moving on to the general health questions she looked back down at her clipboard, "Do you want me to repeat it just to be sure?"

"No," he shook his head, wanting things to be over so whatever mistake had been made could be corrected. Then he could get an explanation of what this was all about and the two of them could probably have a good laugh about it.

She nodded and continued with the questions, moving onto medical history, where he once again repeated a list of injuries that got longer and longer every year.

Dr. Pintauro watched him carefully the whole time, nodding every so often in the kind of route, mechanical way people did when they weren't really interested in what was being said, but still had to pay attention.

So old injuries weren't a concern, newer ones were.

What exactly was the discrepancy?

When he was done she moved on to the next set of questions, an odd mix of mundane things that wouldn't be out of place on any ordinary physical and questions highly specific to his job in the BSAA.

It was just like every other time and he gave the answers by route, knowing exactly what was expected for each one. The questions never changed, the order never changed, he didn't even have to listen. Yes, no, no, no, yes, yes, occasionally, no, once, never, yes, only one, no, no, no, and so on and so forth until she reached the last few. There her tone grew more emphatic, as though those questions were what was important and everything prior had been a waste of time for both of them.

"Have you experienced any recent changes in appetite or pica?" Just like last week she then went on to elaborate, following the script the same as she always did, "Pica means nonfood cravings, things like eating paper or chewing ice. And just so you know, if you decide to give a witty answer I will record it and recommend you receive either iron supplements or sensitivity training. I' not in a good mood after the chewing out I received for my 'sloppy record keeping'. Depending on how this goes I'm going to be in just as much trouble as the intern in the labs who managed to…"

The last bit was a departure from the script, not that he could blame her.

"That bad?" he winced, able to guess what some of the answers given likely were.

"Since I'm not naming names I'm not violating confidentiality," she said, "I'm tied for third place in our little tally of 'number of times pussy or some variation thereof was given as an answer'. The winner doesn't have to pay for drinks when we go out after this is all over and I'm certainly going to need a drink after this."

"You and the rest of the medical staff swap stories about this stuff over drinks?" he'd never thought about that before, but it made sense.

"Of course," she laughed, "I'm sure you swap war stories as well."

"Yeah," he then, on a whim, he added, "You must have some pretty wild ones to tell then."

"No," her expression grew hard, "Mine are all singularly uninteresting and utterly typical. I had a very boring time of things before I decided to start working for the BSAA and since then everything's been just as boring, or at least it will be once we finish this and figure out what went wrong."

"Sure," he smiled, "So, about that question…"

His smile fell at the look she was giving him.

"No, nothing unusual," he said quickly.

They moved onto the questions about intrusive thoughts, impulse control issues, mood swings and similar nonsense. And it was nonsense because when the doctors first started asking those questions he'd been curious and asked why. The answer turned out to be that it was to help screen for individuals who might be infected with something, stupid since if someone was infected they would have died or turned well before they had a chance to go in for their physical.

With the questions over they moved onto the actual, physical part of the exam. She took his temperature, checked blood pressure, reflexes, listened to his heart and lungs. While she was shining a light into his eyes to check them, he asked the all-important question.

"Are we going to need to redo the blood test?"

"Yes."

She sounded furious.

More than that though, she sounded afraid.

How badly did you have to mess up paperwork to be in that much trouble? It was just a lost blood sample, right?

"Alright," she took a step back, shook herself like she was limbering up before preforming some difficult task, "Let's get you on the scale, weigh you, get your height, fix the problem and then we can…"

Yeah, the blood test. She didn't want to think about it either, because in the unlikely event that he fainted she'd probably need to call in help to get him back on his feet. Imposing as she could be, she was still a small woman.

She spent longer than strictly necessary fiddling with the scale, staring at it well after the numbers had come up.

"You are putting on weight."

He flexed, "I've been working out a lot, you know."

She frowned, "And that would be relevant if I was measuring the circumference of your arms, but I'm not."

A joke, so maybe things weren't that bad. She'd just lost the paperwork, or written something down wrong and had gotten yelled at and told she needed to redo it all. The missing blood sample made it worse, but that wasn't her fault, she'd said as much, that an intern had misplaced it, but maybe they didn't know which intern so she was being held responsible. That felt like the right explanation.

She measured his height, looked down at her clipboard, shook her head, went over to the computer sitting on the desk, digital records were supposed to have made things easier, but clearly they hadn't, scrolled through something, walked back over to him, measured his height and frowned. Then she repeated the whole process, flipping through notes, scrolling through pages on the computer and growing more upset by the second.

"Alright, let's talk about your workout regimen then," she practically slammed the clipboard down on the table, "What the hell kind of steroids have you been using?"

The accusation was so outlandish that it took him several seconds to respond.

"I don't! Never would, that stuff can –"

"You're lying," Dr. Pintauro cut him off, "Either about the steroids or about something else and this exam isn't over until I find out which. I didn't mess up and the intern in the labs clearly didn't switch samples, so the situation is that you're two inches taller than you were six months ago and there are traces of an unknown strain of Progenitor derived virus, possessing more than a passing resemblance to the T-virus, in your blood. There's no arguing that at this point, so what we need to do is figure out how you were exposed."