Life After You

"I can't keep running away. I have to face the truth, accept responsibility. That's the only way I'll ever remember. The only way I'll get my life back."

— Chris Redfield

Flat Rock Creek Minnesota- Winter 2019

Rebecca had faced a hunter in the mansion that first time and not been, nearly, as afraid as she was facing off with the man who'd spent the night rutting like a stallion between her legs.

Why?

It was almost funny.

She shifted, a little nervous.

Claire mused, "…it's arisen, B. It's alive. Get a muffin in case it's angry. Sometimes if you throw food at it, it won't attack."

Rebecca laughed. She readied a muffin and tossed it to Claire. She sipped her coffee and poured a cup for Chris. Curiously? Her hands trembled a little.

And it made her smile.

Chris made his way into the kitchen in a pair of sleeping pants and a sweatshirt so old and faded it was hard to tell if it had once been blue, gray, or not had a dozen holes in it. The neck was gaping in different places, the logo on the front likely read whatever alma mater he might have attended, but it was hard to tell.

Claire threw the muffin at him the second she saw him.

Without missing a beat?

He caught it and took a bite. "Thanks, kid."

She didn't look up from her paper and gave him a peace sign.

He moved to the counter. Rebecca was staring really hard at the sliding glass door and the snow falling outside. The sun had gilded it white and pretty.

At the table Claire remarked, "Is it weird to dump a guy for being too accessible?"

Rebecca shifted a little as Chris came up behind her and reached for his coffee. She felt his arm brush her back and her face flushed a little. Her voice squeaked, and the corner of her eye caught his amused smile.

"Ohhh I don't think so. Devon?"

"Yeah." Claire laid the paper down, eyeing her, "You know – I like him. But it's…too easy? Is that stupid? I've been out dating for so long, maybe I just don't know how to be happy."

Rebecca nodded a little, wondering if anyone could smell her nervousness like perfume. Chris leaned on the counter behind her, sipping his coffee. Was it necessary for him to stand RIGHT THERE? He was fucking with her, clearly. His hip kept brushing her butt at the stove.

"Um…that's pretty wise insight actually. Do you love him?"

Claire shifted, pursing her lips in consideration, "Maybe? I don't know. I feel like if I did? I'd just know it."

"I agree with that."

Claire tapped her foot, "Two cents on this, grumpy guy?"

Chris' voice startled Rebecca, and had her bobbling the spatula she was using to turn her eggs.

And his voice was superbly amused. Yep, definitely fucking with her. "I think you can't help who you want. If you're sitting here thinking this hard about it? Pull the plug and be done with it."

Claire rose, nodding sharply, "Right. It's love, not rocket science. I'm gonna go call him and let him down easy."

She moved down the hallway into her room. Rebecca called, "What's the reason for the big change of heart?"

Claire gave her a narrow look. Rebecca grinned happily.

And the redhead mused, "You are not as smart as you think you are, science nerd."

Rebecca laughed and kissed at her while Claire chuckled and went into her room.

And now?

She was alone with Chris Redfield. Her science nerd brain said again: Eeek.

Rebecca felt her pulse speed up and her mouth go dry. But she said, "Eggs?"

He set the coffee down beside his hip. Faith squealed with delight as Swiper stole once more that which didn't belong to him. And Chris leaned over.

Her breath was a little choppy. She could lean an inch to her right and touch him.

He said, quietly, "Those eggs are dead, kid. You slaughtered them."

They were, indeed, burnt. She laughed, shakily, and turned off the burner. "Good with science, bad with cooking. Brains over common sense huh?"

"Hmm."

Face burning, head light – she set the pan in the sink of bubbles and went again for polite conversation, "Busy day?"

"Nope."

"No?"

"Nope. All done here. Just a matter of shutting down the site and moving on."

Oh.

Lord.

Her heart hitched a little. "Ah. On to the next?"

"Looks that way."

"Right." She caught a glimpse of herself in the toaster and nearly passed out. She looked like an utter hot mess. Who could blame him? She was all wild hair and ratty clothes. Awful. "The bioterror world awaits huh?"

"Yup."

"Not much happening here anyway but starting Faith in preschool and touring my campus for my new job…well…and six more weeks of winter. So who can blame you? More exciting out there than tits deep in snow in the middle of win-"

He put his mouth to her ear where she was washing dishes, "Rebecca?"

No B. Rebecca.

She whispered, "Yeah?"

"Ask me to stay."

She breathed, low and sharp. "I don't want to be that girl."

"What girl? Ask me to stay."

She turned her head. He touched his forehead to hers and stole her breath. "Will you stay for awhile?"

She nearly had to go up on tiptoe to feel him. His hands slid into the soapy water with hers. They blended around plates and cups.

And he said, softly, "Yes."

That was it.

Just yes.

No major drama. No freaking out. No fits or running. I'm not Leon Kennedy – he'd said. And he wasn't.

Their fingers slid together over a spoon. The warm water bubbled happily around their hands. His mouth pressed against the curve of her neck behind her ear. She tilted her head for it, shaking a little.

And breathed, "Stay because you want to. Because you want to. Not for me."

She turned in his arms, his hands stayed in the water. Hers curled in his sweatshirt.

He angled his mouth to her, rubbing a little. It made her breathless. And he answered her, in that gruff voice of his, "I'm staying for me."

She nodded, sharp, shaking a little, "On the couch?"

"….you're pretty dumb for a genius." She laughed and he swallowed it on a smooth spill of mouth. The dishes clattered, his soapy hands shifted to her head to tilt her back to him. Hers went up under his sweatshirt to touch his back. She got two handfuls of muscle on him and a grunt for her efforts.

He lifted her to sit on the edge of the sink and slid against her.

Oh, she thought, oh oh-oh.

That's what it looked like to just…live it.

Ten seconds of kissing Chris Redfield in your kitchen.

Her legs curled over his flanks and the arches of her feet slid against his calves. Even sitting, she wasn't as tall.

Ten seconds of truth.

There was a clatter of noise from the hallway.

Rebecca slid her mouth away, breathless.

And there was Claire with owl eyes.

It was almost comic.

She mused, laughing, "How good were those muffins!?"

And Rebecca put her face against Chris' neck to laugh.

Things shifted slightly over the six weeks of winter the groundhog brought them. Rebecca added a few goats to her property for maintenance of the land without effort. Chris could be found, on any given day, fortifying the barn and the chicken coop against the severe weather.

The cold didn't deter him. Ever. It didn't stop him.

The Human Tank indeed. He could be found in the middle of the blizzard outside securing Pattycake, which was agreed was the worst name for a horse, but Claire was adamant about it. Additionally? He was a helluva an equestrian.

In hindsight, she might have known it since he'd run the ranch and roped steer without any trouble. But she'd never seen him ride until the morning she was feeding the chickens and heard him coming in the snow. On the back of the pretty paint mare, he was something to see.

She stood in her parka and watched him ride into the barn like a cowboy or something.

Her mind telegraphed the image of Leon on one. A good image. And she never, ever shied away from thinking of him.

Denying what they'd been wasn't the point of moving on. Loving him was simply fact.

She was a scientist. Her life existed in facts.

There were pictures in her house of him. There were stories in her daughter's ears. There was a legacy that would live on in their lives that was him.

Love, by simply existing, had the ability to permeate everything it touched. It was here, in her house, for the man who'd given her Faith. It was here, in her heart, for the man who needed it.

She leaned on the barn door, watching him rub down Pattycake. "How's it look out there?"

Chris turned, smiling lightly. The heavy leather coat he wore suited him. It was his father's and had the smell and feel of good aged hide. She was discovering things about him that never failed to surprise.

He was heavily rooted in his history. The man with no roots. He had them. From the Dakotas where his family hailed, to the Irish countryside where his mother had come from. He had stories about them that told the tale of a boy who'd been loved.

She didn't push on the cabin but part of her wanted him to ask her there. She knew what it would mean if he did.

She was making her peace with him returning to work. It would happen, when the world needed Chris Redfield, he'd go. He was a hero. It was what he did. She was ok with it, at the core. She'd known, in her heart, that loving Leon Kennedy would have come with a risk that was similar.

Some men were made to fight. Some men were made to farm. Some men were made to do both.

He laid the saddle over the barn door and turned to close Pattycake in for the day. "Like a white wasteland of death."

Rebecca laughed lightly.

Amused, he came toward her with his hands tucked in his pockets.

In the weeks since he'd stopped fighting, the bruises were healing. The scientist in her said the body did that, it healed when we hurt. The woman in her knew that some wounds were deeper than any medicine could touch.

The struggle on him was painful.

What was it? The want to stay here with her and be happy? The want to fight on and never look back?

Both. He was a complex creature.

She'd never seen anyone more loving. With Faith, he was so in love it was redeeming. He taught her, books and music and words. He was always laughing. Always.

And in all the years she'd known him, she tried to think of when she'd ever seen him so happy. Faith made him happy. Rebecca was glad for it.

She always wondered if he was happy with Faith's mother too.

In one hand, she never went to bed alone. Some nights, she'd sit in her room reading and grading papers and she'd glance up to find him leaning in the frame watching her. There were no words than, never any words, just the shift of papers and his hands.

He was an incredibly passionate man. He left her breathless with it. It found her at times when she least expected it.

She'd come home on lunch one day to find him in the kitchen cleaning his guns. With Faith in daycare, he worked from home a lot on reports or via video chat when needed. He didn't seem interested in going in to the office.

Rebecca had set down her briefcase and found him behind her as she turned. "Surprised you're not out riding the fence again."

Silent, he was so silent when it suited him. For a big man, he could move stealthily without blinking.

She'd put her hand to her chest in surprise and laughed breathy, "Lord – what?"

Not a word, which was his thing entirely, the lack of words. He'd simply hiked up her skirt, taken her panties, and put his mouth on her. Her hands on the door frame behind her, one leg over his shoulder, and his tongue in her.

Lord.

It was good. It just was. There was no bad there.

He always had his hands on her and he wasn't shy about it. He always fell asleep on her, in her, with her. He was an incredibly physical man. He just showed how he felt through actions and not words.

She wanted the words. She knew it was girly. She knew it was silly almost. She wanted the words.

The heavy spill of a five o'clock shadow was scratchy on her. She liked it. She liked all of it.

Her eyes found his and held.

And there were no words there. Because he could smell the want on her or something. Like an animal.

Her tummy quivered.

He pressed her against the warm barn door now and dipped his face. There was that, Rebecca mused, that as well. A possessive man, he simply invaded the hell out of your personal space until you either let him in or pushed him away.

She never pushed him away.

Her hands came up to catch his face and pull him down. His arms shifted and looped around her to lift her off her feet against him. The blood rushed to her face, it rushed to her loins, it rushed to her heart. It was cold in the barn but you wouldn't know it.

Because there was no cold here.

He had a reputation for it. For being a cold man. There was nothing cold in him.

His hands were under her parka and on her jeans. Oh, she thought madly, here? Here. HERE.

Hers shifted to find him under the heavy coat he wore. She desperately toed off her boots. His hands jerked on her pants and took her panties with it.

Yep. Here.

And that was him too.

Everywhere. Anywhere. It was like knowing once you opened that door for him, he simply didn't stop. He took what he wanted like he kicked in doors, no bullshit.

A shift of denim. He lifted her like she was nothing. Her hands scrambled at his shoulders and grabbed his face. She stuck her tongue in his mouth and her body took him in a single thrust that shoved her roughly into the barn door.

It slapped with a jingle of keys and change in his pocket. She gasped. Soundless, save for heavy panting, he lifted her and lowered her and shoved into her while she keened.

That, she thought, that was what he was.

Cold?

She'd never been hotter.

And here? HERE he had the words. Her mouth broke away, gasping for air. Their foreheads ground together and he murmured, "Say it."

Jesus. HERE he had the words. She twisted her fingers in his hair and got a grunt for it. "Harder. Please."

He liked the please. Always. He liked her noises.

He liked her.

It was that simple.

His arm looped around her waist and dropped her to the floor. She grabbed the empty stall door beside her and turned. He curled against her back to mount her like a bitch in heat.

A sweet little thing?

She was the hottest thing he'd ever had his hands on. She couldn't get enough. She begged for it, like some kind of addict or something. She was all dirty talk and sounds. She submitted to him and rolled on him in the middle of the night with her little hands on his to hold him down.

It made him insane.

When it wasn't good enough. There was the jerk and give of cloth. She pedaled her arms desperately so he could take her coat and throw it aside. His joined it and he chucked his sweater off to get it out of the way.

Hers stayed on, pleasing him as he threw her to all fours in the fragrant hay.

She made sounds of need and excitement. He mounted her madly, wetly, and she was took it and begged and bucked on him like she'd die. No question, the best sex he'd ever had.

He was a wise enough man to know he was trying to fuck his way into her heart.

He knew it even as he rolled her over on the floor and pinned her arms over her head to see her face. She opened her legs wide and gave his name to him. She cried it out. She knew who he was.

He plowed her belly while she nearly wept with need under him.

He knew who she was. He knew what was happening here. You didn't get to be his age and not know. He was in love with her.

He did things to see her smile. He did things out of character for him that he'd never done in forty years to please her. It was flowers she liked in the kitchen and painting her bedroom without her asking in her favorite shade of yellow. It was showing up at the campus unexpectedly to have lunch with her and getting a babysitter on a Tuesday night just to take her to dinner.

Maybe it wasn't Leon Kennedy sweeping her onto a jet or something to take her to Paris at a moments notice, but it was how he knew to show her.

She dragged him down to kiss him. And there was that, she thought wildly, that opened eyed kissing of his. It was incredible. He never, ever, closed his eyes. Like he wanted to see her every time he touched her. Like he wanted to see what he did to her, what he made her feel.

Incredible.

His hand shifted, it slid against their bodies where they were smashing together madly, and it found her at the apex of their joining. A single flick of his thumb against her bucking need and she went, wild, screaming. He scented her release like a predator and plowed her through it, watching her while she died in his arms.

His hand shifted, it gripped her throat, it pinned her there and he finished roughly, bringing her body bucking under his as he held her down to take each rough stroke of him.

Passion, she thought, there was that. That was everywhere. Cold? There was no cold here.

He collapsed onto her and her arms looped around him, shaking, thighs quaking. She laughed, gasping, "Hi."

His muffled laugh against her neck delighted her, "Hi."

She figured maybe it was ok to say some semblance of what she was feeling here. Maybe he didn't say it. Maybe not. But he was still there. He seemed happy. Ask me to stay, he'd said. She was kinda afraid he was using her as an excuse.

As if he'd turn to her one day and say, "You asked me to. That's why I stayed."

So, she breathed, hoarsely, "If you stay here, I'm going to want to keep you."

Oh.

His head came up, his breathing heavy and panting. A helluva thing to say to a guy when he was buried in you up to the hilt, admittedly. He dropped his mouth to kiss her, testing.

She opened her mouth to him. Yeah, he thought, she was that. She simply gave him everything she had.

They separated, gasping. And he answered, gruffly, "So keep me."

Lord. LORD. She wanted to.

She wasn't sure how you held on to a tank.

But she tried.