Every terrible thing is a relief
Even months on end buried in grief
Are easy light times which have to end
With the coming of your death friend

Chris is tired of sitting in waiting rooms. He's tired of sitting. He needs to do something, something physical, before he crawls right out of his own skin. A trip to the shooting range would be nice maybe, something he's good at that requires concentration. He hates this forced idleness, this endless, pointless waiting while other people get their shit together. He always has.

Over at the front desk one of the more junior agents is flirting with the pretty young secretary the Captain hired to look nice up front and organize his daybook. Her laugh is sweet and bubbly and the kid seems pretty pleased with himself – apparently he doesn't know that it's the same laugh she gives the mailman and the guy who comes to change the water cooler. That's how long Chris has been waiting, flipping through the same cut up magazines and old newspapers – someone's kid must have gone through a real motorcycle phase about a year and a half ago. It's not that he's early; this is just the Captain letting him know he's none too pleased about his little transgression in the interview room.

Chris could care less what that old man thinks. He's not a legitimate captain of anything; he just likes the title. And he's not the one out in the field watching nineteen year old kids and best friends ripped get to shreds or shot to hell – or worse. Instead, he sits behind his paneled oak doors with his bubbly blonde secretary and signs paycheques and acts like he has the nerve to tell people like Chris what is and what is not appropriate. Jill had always been better at dealing with him; there's just something about captains that rubs Chris the wrong way.

His mood isn't improved by the fact that he spent the majority of yesterday cooped up in an office as well. William T. Hunt – Counselor-at-Law's secretary was a lot less nice to look at though; William T. Hunt himself even less so. Chris leans his head over to one shoulder and then the other, cracking his neck with a series of small pops. The secretary gives him a sympathetic smile and then turns her attention back to the younger man leaning his arms over her desk. There's a stiffness all along Chris' back and neck from pouring over legal documents for an afternoon; he wasn't built for that kind of life.

Of course Jill had known that, had written her will so that its sole benefactor – evidently himself – wouldn't have to spend too much time with the small print. They were both realists; that something like this might eventually happen was no surprise given their history, their chosen line of work. So most of the significant purchases – the house, the vehicles, a handful of investments – were done so that title might pass easily from one co-signer to the other. But Chris had had no idea about her personal accounts – why should he? – and the dollar amount listed on the documents had nearly made his jaw drop. Evidently Dick Valentine was a better jewel thief than anyone had ever given him credit, or prosecuted him, for. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to send a tremor of guilt through him. It was too much to gain from having lost so much; it doesn't feel right.

He's just about to tell El Captiano to go fuck himself when the phone chirps on the secretary's desk. She looks up and smiles at him, broader this time, more inviting, and motions him over to the door. Inside, the room is a barrage of richly stained wood paneling, soft, black leather furniture, and a vast assortment of mariner's memorabilia. Supposititious or not, the man took his title very seriously. Chris settles himself into the plush seat of the chair across from the Captain behind his unnecessarily large desk.

"That was quite a lovely…installation… you left for us in T204, son."

"You liked that one, did you?"

"I wasn't especially enthralled by it, no. Although it's strange that no one seems to know where that particular young man came from, or where he was headed to, before you beat his brains right out of his skull."

On that particular day, no one had dared to question Chris' actions, to tell him to take a breath and think about what he was about to do. The one person who might have lay at the very heart of the issue itself. Seeking the bloody vengeance they knew he would bring, his teammates had followed his orders without hesitation.

"I don't suppose he was headed anywhere in particular then."

"Funny, and I was sure you were aware of the proper protocols for placing suspects under arrest."

"I don't seem to recall arresting anyone within the past three months, my reports clearly state that."

"So you killed a man, and now you're going to pretend like he never existed, is that it?"

Chris shrugs, the tension knotting his shoulders back in tenfold. That scum had hardly qualified as a human being. "Who never existed?"

"I could have you suspended – indefinitely. Or arrested."

"You're not going to have me arrested, or suspended."

"You're damn right I'm not. I can't – you'd take half this agency with you and I'd be left up shit creek without a paddle."

"Then I don't see a problem here."

"What I can do on the other hand, is order you for a mandatory psych evaluation-"

"I don't need a psych evaluation," Chris interjects, his mismatched eyes narrowed and blazing. The words are clipped to keep his voice at a reasonable volume. "What I need is an assignment."

"I already gave you one," The Captain throws his hands up, exasperated.

A manila file folder scatters across the polished wood of the desk, the edges of the papers and glossy-print photos within splaying out beyond the edges.

"I don't want it."

"What the fuck is this? Since when are you so bloody picky?" The folder is shoved back across the desk towards Chris who has his arms crossed, his jaw set. It's this type of attitude that put him on thin ice with the Air Force.

"No more partners. No more teams. I don't want any of that shit." He's tired of being the only one to make it out, tired of all the deaths that hang on his shoulders like a weighted yoke, heavier and heavier each year. If he has to see respect and admiration in another set of eyes that are soon to be squeezed shut in a final agony he's going to lose it. Completely.

The Captain looks across the desk at the other man, one of the founding members of this organization. A man that, until now, has always been beyond reproach. Chris looks like hell – his clothes are rumpled and his powerful limbs are restless. In all his time with the BSAA he's never balked at a single assignment, regardless of length or severity or risk to himself.

"Fine," he relents, pulling the folder back to his side of the desk. "I'll give you a six month reprieve – twelve at the most."

"That's not good enough."

"Look, Redfield, I'll level with you," the Captain's tone is low, conspiratorial. "You're one of the best commanders we've got – your teams have the highest success rate of anyone."

"They have the highest mortality rate too."

"You're only one man, son. How much do you really think you can accomplish on your own?"

Chris stands up – he's had enough. To reduce the lives he's seen lost into numbers and percents is more than he's capable of putting up with at this point. This is exactly why he doesn't like Captains – they want everyone to be a statistic.

"Are we done here?"

"For now, yes. I want you back here Monday morning – 9 am. I'll have something for you by then. And I promise not to keep you waiting this time."

Pausing with his hand on the doorknob Chris snorts.

"We'll see," he says, and slams the door behind him.

-

It's dark by the time he gets home, but the little row of solar lights that line the walk guides him up to the door. Jill's idea – of course – after stubbing her toe one too many times on the steps after one or other of them had forgotten to leave the light on. Jill was practical like that. He's going to miss that. If someone forgets to leave the light on now, he'll know exactly who to blame.

His keys hit the coffee table in the living room with a clatter, followed by the duller thud of his cellphone. Grabbing the remote he sinks down onto the couch, still wearing his boots and jacket. He should eat, and shower, and sleep, but now all he wants to do is sit, his earlier impatience entirely drained away. The trip to the shooting range was a total bust, leaving him more frustrated than anything. He can't remember the last time his aim was so bad, so amateur. He can't remember the last time it took him so long to reload.

Jill would have loved to have lorded it over him. His shaking hands fumbling with the rounds; Forest would have had a field day.

It will come back, he knows it will. It's more than a just task for him, more than a skill – it's a lifeline, an instinct. Some have even called it a talent. Personally, he doesn't think that killing people should be a talent. But it's all that he has, all that he's had for a long time. All he ever wanted to do was protect people, and it's the people closest to him that have suffered the most for it. Guilt, and shame, and utter uselessness fill him up like air rushing into a vacuum.

The television flickers to life, filling the room with staccato bursts of light. Larger than life on the screen Gary Sinise is about to break some unsolvable case wide open. Chris hates crime dramas – they're unrealistic and formulaic. And they remind him of work, or what used to be work, back when he planned his life out by months and years instead of weeks and days. Or hours. Back before he even knew what a Bio Organic Weapon was. And yet, despite the irritation, there's something comforting about the inevitable happy ending.

It's the type of ending he will never have. He's old enough to admit that now.

His whole body feels heavy, the worn couch cushions enveloping more and more of him as he slides down into them. He shouldn't feel this exhausted after days on end spent doing nothing. He shouldn't let this paralyze him, but he is anyway; he just can't seem to help it when his limbs feel as heavy as lead. His eyes lose focus, the screen blurring as they drift shut.

-

He didn't have to open them again to feel her in the room nearby, the soft padding of bare feet on the wood floor giving her presence away. Her weight sunk into the cushion next to him, and he knew that when he opened his eyes she would be sitting with her legs tucked up beside her, her elbow propped up on the arm of the couch, chin resting on her palm. He turned his head and cracked open his grainy lids - it was exactly as he pictured; her curled up next to him wearing her favourite old t-shirt and jeans. His blinked quickly a few times to clear the sudden pricking feeling behind his eyes.

She turned to look at him and smiled a little with one corner of her mouth. He wanted to reach out and touch her so badly it made his chest burn. Just to reach out and curl his fingers around the bare skin of one thin ankle and hold on forever. But he was afraid to; afraid that just by touching her he could hurt her in unimaginable ways, could make her scream in pain and spit blood and hate him.

"This is a dream, isn't it?" His voice was low and raspy with sleep and emotion.

Jill didn't say anything, just gave him a sweet, sad little smile along with a slight nod.

"It's always going to be a dream, isn't it?" The words felt thick and heavy in his throat, dragging out more of what's in his chest than he would have liked.

Again, she didn't say anything. Her eyes were incredibly sad for him, shining in the snowy static of the television screen.

"I miss you, Jill," his fingers clenched into fists on his lap; he didn't trust himself not to reach out for her. Her eyes caught sight of the motion and she shifted over slightly to be closer to him, pulling one fist out of his lap, gently working the fingers open. "I miss you so much and I'm so sorry. I never wanted you to get hurt, but you did it's my fault and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I let you down."

Her hands lifted his palm up to the softness of her cheek, holding it in place as she shook her head. He couldn't take his eyes off of her, even if it meant watching something bad happen. He needed to see her. He had to swallow hard between sentences, but the tightness of his throat didn't ease.

"I'm so tired. I'm just so tired now."

Something warm and wet rolled over his fingers where they lay against her cheek.

"Help me, Jill. Please help me," he finally dared to move his thumb, brushing away the flow of tears, wanting more than anything in the world to crush her against his chest and curl himself around her and never let go, even if it meant never waking up. Especially if it meant never waking up. "Give me your strength Jill, please. I can't do this. Please."

She looked at him for a long moment, then pulled his hand away slightly to press her lips to the base of his palm where the veins are near to the surface. A golden, glowing warmth spread into his arm from that spot, up through his shoulder and into his chest. It made his skin seem brighter wherever it touched, bringing colour back into the grayscale world of his dream. When it reached his heart he felt something good surge through him, something strong and brave – something beautiful and kind. Something like her. And with every pulse beat his limbs felt lighter, his joints easier to move.

But she was fading away from him, her hands ghostly and increasingly translucent where they touched his arm.

"No, don't go," he begged, his voice raw despite the warmth that filled him. "Please just stay with me a little while. Just a little while longer."

The spectre of Jill pulled his hand to her chest, her skin tingling against his palm like static electricity. But here was no heartbeat under his fingertips, no comforting, steady rhythm to match his own. She placed her other hand at the back of his neck, pulling him closer to press a kiss against his forehead.

-

But her lips never touch his skin, and he wakes up alone again with a dampness at the corners of his eyes and a frustrated, silent scream hissing out through his clenched teeth.