.*Normally Abnormal*.
Keys jingled over the not-so-distant howling of neighborhood Dobermans, and the front door swung open into darkness with an elongated creak.
"Ugh." Chris liked dogs just fine, but that particular pair never shut the hell up, especially in recent weeks. As the performance of canine opera endured, he flipped a yellowing wall switch and shrugged off his heavy shoulder bag. It hit the worn hardwood floors with a thud, while a simple bowl-shaped light suspended from the ceiling crackled and flickered to life.
Kicking the door shut behind him, Chris tossed his miscellaneous belongings—the keys, his wallet—onto a side table overflowing with advertisements and unopened mail, and ventured forth into his living space where he did very little living these days.
The boards creaked under the weight of his combat boots, as he walked by an empty pizza box and a few bottles of beer just as vacant sitting on the small kitchen table. A usual night would find him in the refrigerator for another refreshing cold fix before washing up and hitting the bed with the full burden of his bones.
This particular evening, however, diverged from the stale monotony that his all-work and no-play life had become. An old cabinet sat on the border of linoleum kitchen tiles and the living room: a piece of furniture he'd nabbed upon the death of his grandfather a few years ago that had lovingly been repurposed from housing fine china to perhaps even finer alcohol.
Whiskey, scotch, bourbon. Tequila, for those nights Chris was feeling stupidly overconfident. The bottom shelf held the vodkas, cognacs, and other ideas just as terrible. So many choices to enjoy, so little time to imbibe. His hand fell on old faithful, the half-empty bottle of Glenfiddich 12, and with a stacked pair of tumblers in his other palm, his next destination became the coffee table.
He didn't stop there, though, for what was a good scotch without rocks?
Two stark raps rang at the usual impeccable timing—despite her actually being tardy—and while Chris was pulling an ice tray from the freezer, he called, "Hey. It's open."
The entryway creaked its greeting again, revealing his partner at the threshold.
"Sorry I'm late," Jill said, stepping through and closing the door behind her, this time with the lock engaged—something Chris found mildly humorous, considering the nature of her specialties. "I had to drop my shit off and then figured I'd stop by Moon's." A knowing smile pulled into her cheeks as she raised a paper bag and her voice went nearly sing-song. "It's Boston Cream."
Well, damn. "Now if that ain't the real value of partnership…"
"Uh, we're cops." Jill tossed the bag atop the pizza box, unfazed by the mess because her place was just as disheveled. "According to Hollywood, not knowing your favorite doughnut is blasphemy."
Chris chuckled. "And here I thought I was just special or something."
"You?" She nudged his shoulder as they went to the couch. "Nah."
The cushions were old and worn in, another Redfield family hand-me-down, but neither seemed to care upon sinking into them. Chris leaned forward, twisting the tray to free the ice, and then dropped three cubes in each glass.
"Glenfiddich, nice," Jill breathed, freeing herself from the messenger-style bag slung about her shoulders as amber liquid spilled from the bottle.
"It's been that kinda day." Chris corked the scotch and set it aside.
Her head cocked in agreement as she took her drink. "That kinda night."
Clink. Cheers and down the hatch.
Chris had always been a fan of scotch, how the first sip that burned the back of his throat and permeated his nostrils suddenly became a smooth indulgence. He studied the gleaming ice in his liquor and gave it a shake before speaking up. "Thanks. For the doughnuts, I mean."
Jill sucked her teeth softly. "What, you think I'm some kind of pushy guest who shows up with nothing?"
He looked to her, a little incredulously. "Hey, I know it's been awhile but a guest? Really?"
"I leave presumption at the office." The reply came with one eye slowly falling into a wink. "But if you insist." Jill lifted one foot and rested it on the table. Her lips pressed to the glass and she drank deep, the lesser alcoholic that she was—that they'd all more or less become by now.
Everything that needed to be known was in this fact: they each still wore their uniforms. Jill had stopped by her own apartment to free herself of physical work burdens, but the mental ones seemed to never leave, like that second skin of RPD blue. The beret wasn't present now though, and perhaps that constituted some kind of improvement. Probably not.
At thought of the station, Chris felt a familiar pang of need and reached to his breast pocket.
"Hang on." Putting her scotch down, Jill opened the messenger bag and pulled out a small wooden box that housed a pair of cigars. "If you're gonna smoke, at least make it count."
"Always on top of your game, Valentine."
"You're still the team's sharpshooter." Her eyes found his as he stood to open a window, another smirk gracing her features. "For now." Chris laughed with a shake of his head, and she went to work cutting the tips over the ashtray.
There were no curtains hanging to dance in the gentle spring breeze that blew in when he pushed the window up from the sill. "It's gonna be getting hot soon." On cue, a howl followed and Chris scowled. "Damn dogs."
"I feel like they're noisier than usual." Jill swiped her thumb over the freshly exposed edge of the cigar, brushing it clean from the cut. "Wonder what's got them spooked."
"Don't know, maybe they've been reading the news."
The recent string of bizarre murders occurring had been reporter paradise, and why not? After all, what could make for a more interesting story than unsolved homicide cases of entire families living on the city outskirts, their bodies found in horrific states—and not just from the decay of going unnoticed for too long. It was like a scene straight out of a sci-fi horror flick involving cannibals: the victims had appeared to be eaten. Even Chris had almost vomited the first time S.T.A.R.S. arrived on scene.
Jill said nothing in reply, simply placed one cigar in her mouth and struck a match. She puffed and turned it over the flame until the tobacco smoldered and the edge was properly toasted. After handing it off to Chris, did the same for her own.
Lazy blotches of smoke rose toward the ceiling and Chris watched as the melting ice in his glass shifted. Jill's was already much emptier than his, a sign that he was doing too much thinking and not enough drinking.
"I did some target shooting with Marvin and a couple of the guys on Wednesday."
The shift in conversation was welcome and Chris leaned back. "Yeah? How did it go?"
Jill took a drag and was silent for a moment, allowing the flavor of the smoke to roll inside her mouth before expelling it. "Good. Handguns are always gonna be my go-to, but I'd be lying if I said I don't like the feeling of Uzis." Her shoulders rose. "Doubt we'll ever need that kind of firepower for the job though, so…"
"Heh." And the topic went right back to work. "I wonder what Barry would think of that?"
Was a Colt Python really necessary? Really?
Jill snorted and reached for the bottle, refilling her glass and topping off Chris'. "Barry, huh. Speaking of him, have you noticed anything strange recently? I feel like, I don't know…" She pursed her lips in thought. "Something is off. He's not his usual self. I know we're all under enormous stress, but…"
"Ah, Wesker's been on his ass too much these last few weeks, that's all." Chris studied the buildup of white at the tip of his cigar, wondering how long he could go this time before having to ash it. "I think he's been working late into the night most days too."
The squint of Jill's eyes expressed her doubt, but all she repeated was, "I don't know."
Comfortable silence ensued from there, thoughtful and companionable. Chris couldn't deny it; it felt amazing to simply be for once, to not have to stand on ceremony or try to fill every moment with tidbits of mundane conversation. That effortlessness was one of many things he loved about spending time with Jill, both on and off the clock.
"I'm really glad you came over tonight," he confessed, deciding to tell her at least partially what was on his mind.
The corner of her lip twitched up into a smile. "I'm always down. Oh, hey!" Jill had been slouched against the sofa back but now straightened her spine a little. "I almost forgot. I got an invitation to my cousin's wedding in August. Considering that the world doesn't end before then, are you interested in going with me?"
"Is this Jane we're talking about?"
"Yeah…" When Chris raised his brows and blew a breath out, Jill punched his arm. "You're gonna just abandon me?!"
"She's got some personality issues," Chris countered. "Which also sorta runs in the family, present company excluded. Just say you have to work." A sudden realization had his head tilting. "Hell, it probably won't even be a lie."
Groaning, Jill fell against the couch again, her eyes rolling to the heavens. Breathily, she sighed, "I can't believe you're making me endure this on my own." Her lashes fell halfway then, and she peered over through the corner of her eye, murmuring, "You're totally coming with me."
"Look, I'm just being real." Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, Chris pointed toward the window. "I'd rather hang out with the dogs. Remember when your grandmother wouldn't stop grilling me about virginal marriage? Yeah. No thanks."
Jill rocked her foot back and forth at the heel and she said, just as quietly as before, "So do it for me, then."
Now Chris was the one who felt like groaning. Over a sigh, he droned, "I'll think it over."
"You know…" She spoke up, still without looking to him. "Everyone tells me I'm weird because I don't regret having the ability to make plans for the future. My school friends, some of my family. Jane." Jill trailed off for a beat and then finally did seek Chris' gaze. "And now when I finally have the opportunity, I'm not even grateful for it."
He huffed. "Believe me. I think it's just because of your family."
There was a shift in her eyes now, a minor change in expression that even Chris might have failed to catch. "I just…don't want normal." She'd set the scotch down a while ago and with her free hand, she touched his arm. "I like weird."
An exhale through his nose had Chris' chest falling at that moment, and he offered the hinting of smile. "Well, that explains a lot."
"You know what? Fuck Jane," Jill suddenly said. "Fuck her wedding and fuck her holier than thou judgy attitude. I'm officially reclaiming August 8th and just coming here after work." With a defiant nod, she declared, "August 8th is officially Valenfield day." …and took a cigar hit for good measure.
"Valenfield?!" Chris started in exasperation, but got no further than repeating the mashup of their names. He outright laughed—threw his head back and just laughed himself to tears, at the portmanteau, at Jill's ability to just tell society to fuck itself at the drop of a dime, at the thought of both of them sitting there in their uniforms. And that led him to laughing away the stress of the day that had been haunting him all this time, the lingering sense of unease from the mystery plaguing their team about these unexplained and gruesome murders. Laughed off Wesker being exceptionally dickish lately, Brad's new hobby of blasting Never Gonna Give You Up on the boom box when their fearless captain left for a meeting and Rebecca humming it at her desk for hours after.
"Hey." The word was spoken pointedly and brought him back. "If you tell me you're not joining me then too, I'm gonna riot."
Wiping at his eyes, Chris breathed out loudly and reached to shake Jill's hand. "You got yourself a deal, partner. August 8th."
"August 8th."
Their hands remained locked, remained shaking in agreement over and over as they talked with their eyes. Jill broke the silent exchange by leaning in, her mouth pursed to the side of Chris' and she whispered, "We can always get a head start on that holiday, though."
He merely turned his face at that, their breaths intermingling for only a moment before he caught her lips in a kiss.
He loved this woman. He loved her and he'd never told her and maybe he never would even have to say it out loud. He could see himself marrying her someday, see them both spending time like this every night after hours too long on the grind, and growing old—growing ever happier with the years—in this normally abnormal life together.
Cigars and scotch remained neglected, stowed on the coffee table as Chris kissed her, as Jill kissed back, as they slid down so her back pressed to the cushions and hands went feverishly rogue.
And then the phone rang.
It was an ugly noise, jarring and antagonizing, and it took Chris some time to bring himself to the reality that it was in need of his attention.
"Go answer it," Jill urged, her voice soft but not filled with the disappointment or annoyance anyone else would feel rightly entitled to.
He slowly peeled himself from atop her and walked with sudden purpose to the cacophonic menace.
"Redfield." The instant change in his voice alone would have had Jill sitting up tall, but just then, her pager chirped. "Understood. I'll be right there."
The receiver fell to the cradle and their eyes met in a chilling gaze.
It happened again.
The window was shut. The cigars were put out. The scotch was left abandoned with the final remnants of ice dying within.
Chris and Jill rushed out, each silently grateful for never changing from uniform, and the switch was flipped back off before the door slammed shut. The overhead light dimmed and the doughnuts left untouched in their folded paper bag with a big moon on it were swallowed in darkness, all while agitated dogs cried to the stars and no one knew why.
Yet.