The men cut marble to mark our graves
Said we'll need something to remind us of
All the sweetness that has passed through us

It was so dark he could barely fit his keys into the motel room door, a problem made all the worse by a slight case of inebriation. He wasn't drunk, he maintained, just a little more cheerful than usual. But alcohol didn't make Jill cheerful - it made her impatient. She grabbed the key ring out of his inept hand and slammed the offending piece home on the first try.

"Niiiiiiiice," he leaned up against the doorjamb, highly impressed. "You are the master, Jill. You are the master of unlocking."

Jill rolled her eyes at him and sighed, slipping they key out of the lock and into his shirt pocket. She patted the hard little misshape of fabric lightly and pulled the lapel of his jacket securely over top.

"Now don't lose that – I want the deposit back in full," she opened the door, brushing past him into the even darker room beyond. "C'mon, I think it's time for you to start sleeping it off."

"Not so fast," he grabbed her arm, turning their bodies until her back came up against the door, forcing it shut with an audible click behind them. His body pinned hers against the wood, one forearm pressed leaning on the door beside her head, the other arm wrapped around her waist. It was a bold gesture, and potentially a dangerous one. The darkness of the room obscured everything in the moments before his eyes could adjust. Everything but the feel of her underneath him, silky and soft in that sweet little blue dress that had slipped down her shoulder all night, wearing his resistance so thin that it snapped. She kept her hands pressed against the door behind her, her chin tilted up to look at him.

"Hey," he said, watching her features slowly come into view as his eyes adjusted.

"Hey."

"Are you mad?"

"No, I'm not mad," he could feel her words against his cheek, feather-light.

"Are you drunk?"

"You're drunk."

"I'm not drunk," he rested his forehead against hers, their noses touching on opposite sides. He closed his eyes; he didn't need to see her to know her. "I'm just happy."

There had been a time when they blurred the lines between friends and lovers. There had been a time, when the world was on the brink of collapsing in on itself, that it seemed like a good idea. But when the immediacy of the threat of had receded, when urgency returned to routine, it was more important to work together than to sleep together; to have her by his side rather than in his bed.

Still, she was his partner; he knew her every move, every sound, every inch of her. He could predict her movements, her reactions – just as she could his. Together, they functioned, flowed, as a single unit.

Her arms finally came up around his shoulders, pulling their bodies a little tighter together and shifting more of her weight onto him. Leaning down a little he kissed her cheek…

The corner of her mouth…

Her jaw…

Her neck…

All the way down to that pale curve of her shoulder that had been calling his name all night.

"What you are," he ran his tongue along the parallel of her collarbone, "is good enough to eat."

His teeth nipped a little roughly at her shoulder, laving the mark with his tongue. Her reply was a murmur, her fingers burrowing through the thickness of his hair to hold his lips against her pulse. The taste of her was familiar but still exhilarating, still a treat. He trailed his mouth slowly back up to her lips, capturing them in a hot, wet, messy kiss. As in all things, he held nothing back from her in his desire, pushing his hips into hers, letting her feel the effect she had on him.

Firm hands gripped the toned muscle of her thighs, lifting her up to wrap her legs snugly around his hips, the satiny material of her dress riding up high. The softness of her hair hung down to graze his cheek, shielding his vision from anything but her. Her weight balanced between his hips and the door, she cupped his face in her palms, letting him slide his tongue along hers. The sweetness of anniversary cake still lingered on someone's breath, but there was something different too, something known but out of place. It tasted hot and metallic…

Blood.

He pulled back slightly, his mouth already coated in the tang of it.

"Jill?" He looked up at her, her mute lips stained a deep, glossy black with blood. She put a hand up to her mouth to catch some of the effusion, but the flow was too heavy, it ran out between her fingers to stain her dress and the front of his shirt.

With shaky, panic-stricken movements he gently lowered her legs back down to the floor, but her knees were too weak to support her weight and he felt himself pulled farther down onto the cheap, rough carpeting. He leaned back against the door, tucking her head into the crook of his arm, high enough that she wouldn't choke on the thick, black blood that poured out from between her lips to cover them both. His heart rate, already raised from before, skyrocketed. She coughed and sputtered for air, every successful breath only an agonizing wheeze followed by a wet gargle. Helplessness forced his own breaths in quick, terrified gasps; all he could do is tuck her under his chin and wait for her shudders to stop.

Something hard nudged him in the stomach. He looked down to find the handle of his own gun pressed into his gut.

"Jill, no," he said firmly, putting his fingers over hers on the metal, her digits still slick with blood. She looked up at him, illuminated by the one patch of light that broke into the room through the gap between the curtains and the windowsill, unable to speak but not really needing to. There was blood, fresh and wet, covering her chin, her neck, plastering the ends of her hair; he could smell it.

"I can't," her fingers worked his through the motions of cocking back the hammer to chamber a round. "Please don't make me do this."

She choked for air, managing to force out one breathless, broken word before another rush of black coursed out through her teeth.

"Please…"

Chris looked up towards a nonexistent heaven, finding only the water-stained, stuccoed ceiling of a motel room in place of paradise. His eyes squeezed tightly shut as she pulled the muzzle of the gun up to her chin. He kept them closed as he lowered his head, biting into his lower lip until the remnants of her claret poured into the open wound.

"Forgive me," he whispered, and pulled the trigger.

-

Hours later, standing up at the edge of her open grave, he can still feel the ghost of her hands on his skin, still taste her blood at the back of his throat. It's too nice a day for a funeral, the sun too bright and warm to put someone underground. It should be raining and miserable and so awful that they have to postpone the entire event. A cold wind rustles the dried leaves in the trees, but the day is clear and glaringly bright.

It would be a shame to put all of the arrangements to waste. Whoever the Alliance hired was good at what they did – they certainly had enough practice at it. New recruits filled out a questionnaire about the kind of ceremony they would prefer – Roman Catholic, non-religious, private. Chris can remember absentmindedly skimming over the pages covered in little tick-boxes, dismissing it as some corporate policy bullshit. Since joining up with the BSAA Chris has attended his fair share of understated, nondenominational, closed-casket services. This graveyard is filled with their relics.

He can still hear the echoing, damning finality of her casket slamming shut, as affronting as a door slamming in his face. Inside that closed, airless little box her body will degrade and rot away in a manner that he prays her memory won't. He doesn't want the traces of her smile or the flutter of her hand on his arm to distort and fade away like so much rotted skin and muscle.

Somewhere in the crowd someone is openly, apparently uncontrollably, weeping. The sobs sound female, but Chris can't pinpoint the source without turning around. The small gathering of people is an even split between the reddened, bleary eyes of the overly-emotional and the cold, steely glares that are too reserved, to together on the surface to let it show.

There's one young rookie in particular that's having a tough time keeping it all under wraps. Chris remembers the kid from the interview process – young, skilled, but with a chip on his shoulder heavy enough to bring him down. Jill's endorsement had been the only thing to keep his foot in the door and she'd had to fight tooth and nail for it. At first he had been skeptical of his partner's decision, but the kid had proven himself more than once in a tight spot. The rookie idolized her, and with his blazing eyes it's obvious he feels his grief much more deeply than the flesh-and-blood relatives who hadn't even bothered to show up. Her work had been her family, her life - much more so than the aunt and uncle who had raised her alongside, but separately, from their own children after her father's incarceration. Their absence isn't felt, or missed.

The casket is slowly lowered into the freshly hewn grave, little flecks of damp, dark earth scattering over the petals of the heaped mound of flowers that cover the polished wood. Amidst the subdued white of roses and carnations, nearly engulfed by their neutrality, is one small, bright bouquet of marigolds. He is the only one who chose a symbol of grief and sorrow over reverence and loveliness.

The sound of the first shovelful of soil hitting wood makes him flinch. It's a small motion, one that his sister, standing right beside him, can barely see. But it's there all the same, in the twitch and clench of his jaw and a slight jerk of his shoulders. Claire can remember how it was at their father's funeral, years before. How he'd stood in the same, stiff manner, all kitted out in his crisp, smart-looking Air Force uniform. That day had been gray and miserable and the cold mist of rain had been refreshing against her hot, tear-stained cheeks. Then, like now, he had been strong and stoic – the immovable object ready to meet the unstoppable force.

Eventually the other mourners drift away, leaving the two siblings side by side at the edge of the abyss. All except for one older gentleman in an impeccably cut suit who had lingered the entire service at the edge of the crowd. His hair is pure white and thinning, lifted up in snowy puffs by the wind. Claire leaves her brother's side for a moment and the other man, leaning heavily on a cane, slowly approaches with his hitching gait.

"Excuse me son, but are you Christopher Redfield?"

Chris doesn't take his eyes off of the casket now six feet below him, the flowers deeply sullied by shovelfuls of dirt. "Yes."

"You're not a very easy man to get in touch with."

"There are several excellent reasons for that, I can assure you."

"My name is William Hunt," one bony hand fishes into the pocket of his trench coat to produce a nicely embossed business card on thick cardstock. It reads William T. Hunt – Counselor-at-Law. Chris can read it from where he's standing – he doesn't bother to take it from the other man's extended grip.

"That's fascinating."

There is a deep, brief silence that passes. Chris finds his words often have that effect now.

"I'm sorry – I hate to interrupt," his sister breezes between the two men, a distraction that breaks some of the tension that has spawned. She takes the card and glances at it. "I'm Claire Redfield – is there something I can help you with Mister Hunt?"

Equipped with her cheery, radiant smile and outwardly sweet disposition, Claire is used to getting people to tell her, or give her, what she wants. It's part of what she does for a living. Behind her, she can feel her brother's anger and compressed emotions actively seeking an outlet.

"Why yes dear, maybe you can," Mister Hunt shot a look over her shoulder. Standing next to each other the similarities between siblings reveal themselves – the shape of the jaw and nose, the determined set of the lips. Their eyes are the same shade of piercing gray-blue, although Chris' right iris is marred by a sector of brown that appears to bleed out of his pupil. It's a distinguishing, almost magnetic feature. "I'm the executor of Miss Valentine's will – as such I need to notify all of the beneficiaries of the assets they stand to inherit."

Claire looks back at her brother but he doesn't meet her eye, just looks down and away. Probate was long and painful after their father died – the last thing anyone needs now is a long, prolonged round of legal proceedings. Neither of them does well in a courtroom setting; too passionate, too outspoken. It is something the Umbrella Corporation defense lawyers had done their best to capitalize on.

"I'll have someone call your office as soon as our schedules get back to normal," she flashes a bright, genuine smile that shows her even, white teeth. "Thank you so much for coming out and waiting in the cold."

"For you my dear, it's not a problem." He gives a little bow of the head before placing his felted wool fedora back on. "I'll be expecting your call."

Claire waves a little at him as he limps off towards the parking lot, then turns back to her brother. He's still looking down into the great, dark maw of the earth that is waiting for him to turn his back so it can devour an entire part of his soul.

"You ready to go?"

It's done now – they'll cover her up with dirt and in 100 years, with her name eroded off the gravestone, it'll be like she never existed. Just like all of the other friends he wasn't capable of saving. But he still exists, for now, and so does his sister, who has been so strong and brave and who he can see he's slowly pushing to the breaking point each day. It shouldn't have to be this way – he's the older brother, he's supposed to be the one to take care of things, to be the one in charge – the one in control. The least he can do is make an attempt.

"Sure. Let's go," he looks her in the eye for the first time in a long time. The first time since he had to rely on somebody else to take care of his own kid sister. "We can take the shortcut and get home first."

"We're too nicely dressed to take the shortcut – it's sketchy bro."

"Not even half as sketchy as that guy you used to go out with in high school. You didn't seem to mind so much then."

"Craig? You only didn't like him because he had a mohawk."

"A green mohawk…"

"Yes, a green mohawk. And it was very flattering on him."

"And a rap-sheet longer than my arm…"

"He did not," Claire rolled her eyes dramatically at him, happy to put up with the jibes; happy to put up with anything more human than infinite, forced silence. She reaches over and gives his arm a shove, her fingers barely able to penetrate the tightly wound muscle of his bicep. "Fine, we can take your stupid shortcut, but you owe me a coffee for making me freeze my butt off out here arguing."

He shoves her back, albeit more gently than she'd leaned on him. Tottering on high heels that sink their way into the grass it would be too easy to send her sprawling.

"Deal."

-

By the end of the day he's not sure how many more attempts he has left in him. He can't bear to stand around rehashing old memories, pretending like it's just that easy to get on with it. His entire life has lots its momentum. Inertia has taken over.

"Mind if I join you?"

Chris takes his head out of his hands and looks up over his shoulder. Wrapped up in an oversized scarf, illuminated by the lit doorframe around her is Kathy Burton. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and snubs it out under the toe of his boot.

"Not at all," he slides over a little on the step to make room. "Feeling a little claustrophobic in there?"

"You could say that again," she settles herself down beside him, tucking the ends of the shawl snugly around herself. She's been angling to get him alone like this all day. Although Kathy isn't really old enough to be his mother, she's never been able to quell her maternal instincts in regards to the tortured soul that is, and maybe always has been, Chris Redfield. The loss of so many close friends is hard to deal with for someone who dedicated their life to protecting people. "I didn't think it was possible to squeeze that many people into this tiny little house."

"Me either. Although I think half of the guys from work only showed up for the food – you really outdid yourself this time Kathy."

"It's nothing," she waves a dismissive hand. "I restocked your freezer while I was at it too. How you got so big on freezer-burned Eggos I'll never know."

"Those were my nuclear winter emergency rations I'll have you know."

This is a conversation they could have had three months ago, or three years in the future. It's joking and noncommittal, and yet Kathy can see he's visibly drained by having had to force a façade of strength and recovery all day.

"It was a beautiful eulogy – very eloquent."

"Thank you."

There is another bout of silence.

The way he is now reminds her of the way he used to be, back when he called her "Mrs. Burton" and they'd both had a lot fewer gray hairs. He had been a young man then, freshly discharged from the Air Force, struggling to cope with both the loss of a father he clearly cared dearly for and the resentment of a teenage sister who dealt with her own grief by lashing out at authority figures. And then, like now, there was a stillness to him that seemed unnatural on his frame, on his eternally-boyish features; a lack of direction, of focus, that turned him against himself. He hides his pain so that it's easy to dismiss if you don't really give a damn. But Kathy gives a great deal of a damn about the friend who always made sure her husband came home to her.

"I miss her so much," Chris looks down at his hands – they have finally stopped shaking. They have always been able to be frank with each other - the worst she can do is tell Barry; the worst he can do now is tell it to a gravestone. And yet, as far as he knows, she's never betrayed his confidences. He knows he's never betrayed hers. "There is no part of me that doesn't ache for some part of her."

"I'm so sorry, honey."

"Don't apologize – you haven't done anything wrong."

There is a quiet pause – just a pause - briefly interrupted by a peal of laughter from inside.

"It's just…" he struggles to find the right words to confess what has been eating viciously away at the parts of his heart that aren't blackened by rage. When the words come they are slow, measured, and tight. "It's just… I loved her, you know? I really did. But I never told her – I don't know what I was so afraid of, but I just… never said anything. And," he sighs, "and the thought of her dying without ever knowing it…I feel like I haven't taken a full breath in days."

"I think she knew," Kathy says quietly after taking a moment to find her composure. Her cheeks are wet for the hundredth time that day.

"How?" When he turns to face her his cheeks aren't tear-stained like hers are; his eyes don't even water - they never do anymore. But his voice is a little gruff, a little desperate for an answer.

"Oh sweetheart, everybody knew. Two people don't stay together the way you two did - they don't look at each other the way you two did – without something more than just a passing affection there. Your partnership lasted longer than most marriages these days. She cared very deeply for you, but I think somewhere, deep down, you already knew that."

"I suppose so, yeah."

"You don't always have to say things to mean them. Actions almost always speak louder than words."

The acknowledgment helps, but the guilt of his own cowardice still weighs heavily on his shoulders.

"Does that make it any easier?"

"I don't know yet."

"Will you at least come inside and have something to eat? It might make you feel better."

"Would it make you feel better?"

"Yes."

"Well, at least that makes one of us." He offers her his arm to help her up, a joint or two cracking in the chilly night air.

He feels robotic, which isn't necessarily better; it's only slightly different. It's more efficient to be mechanical, to find one task to focus on and to work at it endlessly until all the moving parts grind down and fall apart. He's functional, and for now, it's enough - barely.