AN - I can't believe it's only been a week since I updated. It feels like I've been working on this chapter forever! After this chapter there is only one more left and then the epilogue. There is an extra chapter (a second epilogue), but I think it works out better if I post it as a oneshot to sort of bridge the gap between this and the next story, because keeping it here would mean ending this story on a tone I don't think fits it anymore. Chapter title is from a song by Nightwish.
Thank you to everyone who reviewed. I was truly thrilled with the response to the last chapter, so thank you so much! It motivated me enough to get this chapter finished so quickly (it would have been up much earlier but computer issues held me back). Thank you to Ninja-Gnome, Black Metalmark, Kenshin13, Chaed, Razial, Ivilith, xSummonerYunax and Supermodel Sandwich. Your continued support means more to me than I can put into words.
Blindside
Chapter Twelve - While Your Lips Are Still Red
'It's often just enough to be with someone.
I don't need to touch them. Not even talk.
A feeling passes between you both. You're not alone.'
~Marilyn Monroe~
August 23, 2003. 1:45am. Verisanda Technologies, Inner Sanctum.
At the current extremes he pushed his body to, Chris was sure that his energy would soon fail. His legs ached, though it was to be expected. He had never ran quite so fast in his life.
The control room lay ahead, he knew it, and DeChant knew it too. Perhaps this was why the older man ran at a speed to match his, hoping to hold him back if the worst possibility turned out to be a reality. Chris did not blame him, did not know himself just what he would do if all they found was her body.
Surprisingly, there was no resistance to their progress and security features did not activate as they progressed through the administrative offices, bearing down on their target destination. It was mere metres away, every step bringing them closer to...
To what?
DeChant sprinted ahead of him, almost slipping in the doorway as his boots touched upon a spreading pool of blood. Tessa Newburn lay motionless on the floor; he knew that she was dead before Connolly felt for a pulse. The traitor had perished, but where was Jill?
There was more blood beside the body, a pool formed separate from that which had spread around the deceased medic. A small amount was painted on the wall, that which coated the floor spread around evidently by an individual who no longer remained in the vicinity. There was little doubt that the blood belonged to Jill; a small pool of vomit mingled with the crimson at one side, an open pair of handcuffs lying by Tessa's thigh.
Immediately, he believed that she had been taken. All of that hope and optimism for nothing. The blood was substantial; wherever she was, she would be in desperate need of a transfusion.
"Next room!" DeChant hollered suddenly, scrutinising the security monitors. "Go! Go! Go!"
Though all six soldiers filed out, Chris pushed forward into the lead, weapon held tightly to his shoulder. Bloody handprints were smeared up one wall, droplets of crimson seeping into the cracks of the floor tiles; how had they not noticed this before?
His hopes rose as he turned into the room, eyes trained straight ahead. But it was Carlos that he saw, his back to the doorway, arms holding a bloody form to his body.
"Jill?" he gasped, lowering his weapon to drop to his knees in front of Carlos, finding that his initial assumption had been correct. At least, he assumed so.
He barely recognised the face that was lost in what he hoped and pleaded was merely sleep. Rage mingled with disgust, heartache and fear. Her left eye had swollen shut, lips plumper than usual. Several cuts were visible against her skin and he was sure that the thin layer of blood that painted her complexion red disguised severe bruising.
Slowly, he allowed Carlos to pass her into his arms, careful that he did not aggravate obvious wounds.
"What happened?" he asked, barely able to croak the question.
"I-I don't know," Carlos breathed. Panic afflicted every word, previously shed tears glistening on his cheeks. "I heard...screams, but they were so far away. She was barely awake when I found her. I tried...I tried to keep her conscious but she just...slipped away."
Chris could not offer a single thought to him, as cruel as he knew this to be. His only concern was the woman in his arms.
Her T-shirt was torn, though he could see no visible wounds beneath the fabric. Arms that were stained with blood remained unblemished; it was possible that the blood was not hers. Gently, he brushed his fingertips against the skin of her arms, gliding down to her wrists before he carefully took her hands in his. Fresh blood trickled onto his thumb and he turned her right hand carefully, bile rising in his throat as he observed the torn skin of her middle finger.
'Who could do this?' he seethed inwardly.
A weak pulse was felt beneath his touch, and blood no longer flowed from a surface wound to her abdomen. But suddenly, his blood ran cold. Anger that he could barely contain wracked his body as his eyes traced the incision, revealing fabric that had been brutally ripped apart. A tendril of her cotton underwear snaked between the tears in her fatigues, severed roughly by a sharpened blade. The skin beneath had started to bruise, her belt suspiciously absent. Breath caught in his throat, panic rising within.
"What the fuck-" he began, jaw set as he demanded answers from Carlos. But movement against his abdomen distracted him, a shaky intake of breath drawing his eyes back to the woman he clung to in gentle desperation.
"Jill," he spoke softly, failing to hide his smile as her eyelids fluttered open momentarily.
"Chris?" she gasped. "Is that-"
"It's me, baby," he laughed quietly. He brought his hand to her cheek, gently caressing skin that appeared to bear no injury. "It's okay, you're safe now."
Her eyelids drooped, and her head rolled willingly against his arm. He could almost feel her fatigue, sympathy preying on him.
"Is it...over?" she wanted to know.
"Yes," he assured her. "It's over. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. But you have to stay with me, you hear? Hold on."
The rumble of the wheels of the stretcher Connolly had insisted be brought drew closer, and suddenly Chris and Carlos were not alone at her side.
"Jill!" Connolly called as he shone a light into her eyes. "Can you hear me?"
She nodded weakly; evidently the only response she was able to give.
"Good," he sighed in obvious relief. "I need to know, have you suffered any blows to the head?"
Chris clutched her tightly, possessively as she winced in pain, turning away from the medic's probing hands.
"A...few," she informed him.
"She was unconscious when I found her," Carlos pointed out, distracting Connolly for a few seconds.
"Alright," the medic concluded. "Pupils are responsive, but the possibility of TBI rules out sedation. Jill, I'm going to give you a shot of morphine for the pain. If you would prefer something a little weaker, I can-"
"No!" she pleaded. "M-morphine sounds...good."
Connolly chuckled and reached for an ampoule handed to him by another agent. Chris had remained oblivious to the others, to the buzz of activity that now surrounded them.
"Alright," Connolly soothed as he gently pulled out her arm. "This is just a low dose, enough to tide you over until we get you to a hospital."
She flinched as the needle pierced her arm, skin obviously tender. But Chris continued to hold her; nothing short of hellfire could tear her from his arms. As painful as it was to consider, he knew that her condition looked bleak. Her skin had never adopted such a pale pallor, not even in times of illness.
"How does it look?" he asked, unable to remain silent a moment longer. Connolly's expression was grave but he offered a hopeful smile nonetheless.
"She has lost a lot of blood," he explained. "It looks as though she walked here herself from the other room, and succeeded in tackling a man twice her size into that cage."
Chris glanced over his shoulder, nothing but hatred in his heart for the man behind the bars. It seemed as though he were in a fair amount of pain himself, blood flowing freely over his hands. But Chris did not care. Whatever the bastard was going through, it was nowhere near what he deserved. Had the decision been his, he would have chosen to let him rot in his makeshift prison.
"If the bullet had hit bone I highly doubt that would have been possible," Connolly continued, carefully wrapping a fresh bandage around Jill's wounded hand. "But we don't know what kind of damage it has done and we won't until we get her to a more appropriate facility. The fingernail should grow back, but she's going to be in a lot of pain for a while."
His hands drifted to the skin of her stomach, pushing up her black, standard-issue T-shirt to reveal considerable bruising.
"Shit," he swore, hands beginning to shake. He pressed his fingertips to her hairline, briefly observing the pallor of her skin before he held the fingers of her left hand, turning next to abnormally pale lips. "She's in hypovolemic shock, bleeding could be internal. We have to get her out of here. Chris, can you lift her onto the stretcher?"
Chris wasted no time, and carefully lifted her as he rose to his feet. He felt the blood that dripped down his own leg, and moved as fast as he could with her weight in his arms. She was suddenly unresponsive, seemingly asleep in his arms. But he knew better than to trust initial impressions.
"Alright people, move out!" Connolly demanded. And then, she was gone, all that remained of her the blood that stained his clothes.
He found that his hands shook, though from unease or fatigue he did not know. Though he had found her, had even held her in his arms, his mind simply refused to be at ease. What condition had they found her in? She held the appearance of one at death's door, and the scene she had been plucked from was a positive bloodbath.
'I can't lose her,' he pleaded to whoever may be listening. 'Please help her pull through this.'
"Shit, we're going to need a specialist to get this open," fumed a voice behind him. Of course...Nicholai.
The adversary was not entirely what Chris had been expecting. Those who displayed intelligence in their speech patterns were often physically disadvantaged somehow, but there was nothing physically lacking about Nicholai Ginovaef. Though he remained on the floor of the restrictive cage, he was evidently taller than Chris, and much heavier. Muscular and broad, Chris acknowledged that he would prove a tough opponent even to him. To Jill's measly 120lbs he was practically a tyrant.
Chris swallowed his anger as reached down to collect a bloody knife by his feet, wondering just how much of the stain had been caused by actions against his lover. It would have been so easy to overpower her, especially in her weakened state. She would likely have been unable to fight back, even to scream as-
'There's no proof,' a sane voice reminded him.
He brandished the knife as he stepped up to the cage, DeChant stepping warily aside to otherwise occupy himself with the radio.
"Is this your knife?" he asked calmly, staring down at the wounded man. He could see clearly now that the hand he cradled had been harshly mutilated, the pinky of his left hand held to the knuckle by little more than a sliver of flesh. "I think she cut off the wrong appendage."
Nicholai chuckled, deep laughter unsettling every soldier within earshot.
"What the fuck did you do to her?" Chris demanded. Of course, he had nothing with which to threaten the man. Revelation would be mere courtesy.
"Nothing you haven't done, I'm sure," Nicholai smiled. He seemed not to even feel the pain within his hand. Or perhaps taunting him was a far more appealing use of energy? "Now I know what you see in her. So tight, so...supple."
The cage rattled as Chris pounced at the bars, though his actions only seemed to please the prisoner. His vision ran red, heart urging him to reach for his weapon, to fill that body with bullets for what it did to her.
'And how would that make you any better than him?'
Chris froze. It truly wouldn't, and Nicholai knew that as well as he did.
"You see, 'fuck' is the operant word," Nicholai teased. He raised himself to his knees, crawled towards the bars until Chris would be able to reach through and inflict whatever physical damage he pleased. "Don't worry; I made sure she had a good time. Does that make you angry? You could kill me right now...just take that knife to my throat. You know I'll win if you do. Because deep down, we're all the same. I am sure that you want nothing more than to rip me limb from limb right now. Why deny yourself the inevitable pleasure? You know it will feel good...and therein lies my point."
There may have been truth in his words, but Chris knew that he had restraint, however weak it may have felt in that moment. Nicholai did not attempt to excuse his actions or to cease from carrying them out. It was action, not desire that was the measure of evil. Love may make a man crazy, but Chris felt that it reinforced his values, not shattered them completely. And so, he discarded the knife, listening to it clatter behind him as Nicholai sighed in disappointment.
"Tell me, Chris, does she always cry when she comes? Because I found it somewhat of a buzzkill."
He did not know exactly what powered his arm, but something forced it to recoil and to send his fist furiously between the bars and into the smug awaiting face. Pain radiated from the point of impact and he gritted his teeth as he shook the tension from his hand, the supportive chuckles of his comrades echoing around him.
"That was just the beginning," he warned, leaning in close to the bars. "Justice will take care of you but if you ever find yourself alone with me, expect so much more."
Nicholai laughed as Chris turned from the cage to catch Carlos's eye with a wry smile.
"It's a date," he called joyfully, overcome with hysterical laughter. "We can compare notes!"
Carlos shook his head, stepping around Chris to address the agent who attempted to release the cage's rather escape-proof lock.
"Do you mind if I...?" he asked. The agent chuckled as a smile twisted his lips.
"Be my guest," he acquiesced.
The second blow sent Nicholai painfully onto his backside, finally rendering him Chris's arm and guided him towards the door, meeting no protest from the man himself.
"Get him out of there," Chris growled to the remaining officers. "I suppose you should make sure he gets to a hospital too...just not the same one as our men."
He could not bear the thought of Jill facing her captor after this. She would likely wake a broken woman, scarred from actions that appeared to have been committed quite cheerfully...if she ever woke at all. But no matter what the outcome, he would stand by her side. Whether recovery spanned days, weeks or even years, he would be there in whatever capacity she needed him.
'She should never have been put in this position in the first place,' he fumed, though anger had subsided to make way for something incredibly woeful.
"Come on," Carlos urged, taking him away from the scene as quickly as was possible. "We need to get to the hospital; they can handle the rest."
August 23, 2:10am. St. Bernadette Hospital. El Paso, Texas.
"Where the hell are you going?" Claire demanded, following Leon with what now amounted to little more than impatience. His casual stroll had led them around the majority of the hospital, and she began to fear for his state of mind, unsure of exactly what he hoped to achieve.
"I don't want to stay in that room," he insisted angrily. "I'm fine, I just need to keep moving."
Claire raised an eyebrow, grateful at least that he had finally come to a stop. She glanced over his shoulder, frowning at the electronic doors of the emergency room. How had they even gotten this far? Would they be able to find their way back? More to the point, why had nobody attempted to stop them?
"Well, this looks like an escape attempt to me," she pointed out. "And since Bartley trusted me with you I'm going to have to intervene."
Leon smirked deviously, and she balked unexpectedly. The initial drowsiness and weakness that had conquered him appeared to have dissipated, leaving behind the man who often irritated her to the back teeth. With added oomph, courtesy of a strong dosage of painkillers.
Slowly and uneasily, he lowered himself onto a vacant chair, drawing the suspicious gazes of the residents of the emergency room waiting area. Various injuries were on display, though he remained alone in his hospital-issue garb. Claire thanked her lucky stars that his gown did not happen to be backless.
"Does this make you feel any better?" he asked.
She unfolded her arms from across her chest and sneered silently at him before sinking into the seat at his side. If for no other purpose than to distract her from external events, she admittedly enjoyed their friendly argument. He was in the mood to wind her up and she was in the mood to entertain him; both sides won.
"What's on your mind, Red?" he asked. For a moment he considered winding his arm around her shoulders, but then realised that it remained solidly in a sling that he had been warned on pain of death not to remove.
Claire remained silent in her thoughts, attempting to discern the answer for herself. There was for too much to concern him with.
"Chris," she sighed. It was the simplest answer; Redfields valued family above all else, and so family was always on the mind. "My brother needs me."
"He needs Jill," he corrected her, a little too harshly for her liking.
"In case you hadn't heard, she's preoccupied," Claire snapped. "Damn it, why am I even talking to you? I should be-"
"Right here with me," Leon pointed out. "Even if you somehow managed to find your way to the base, what would you do? Chris would be otherwise occupied; you would be alone with nothing to do and nobody to distract you...and quite possibly in handcuffs."
Though his point was valid, she fumed nonetheless. Regardless of her options, she should at least try to help.
'And get yourself hurt in the process? Remember what happened the last time you tried to help Chris?'
Despite the goodness of her intentions, they very often landed her in trouble. If the figure of speech was correct, she would be at the gates of hell by the age of thirty.
But if her resolve was so absolute, why did she remain with Leon?
Tentatively, she reached for his unbound hand, relishing the feel of his warm skin against hers. At first he did not respond, but his fingers soon wound around hers, bruised badly from the day's events. There was little doubting her motive for remaining; Leon had meant more to her than a mere friend should for quite some time now. But what exactly those feelings were, she did not know. She had never been involved to a greater degree than simple fooling around, had never allowed herself to fall in love. Was that truly what she felt? Because it presented itself as a dull ache in the pit of her stomach, and she knew that anything capable of causing discomfort could not be good.
"I envy you," Leon whispered. "I wish I could drop everything and just...well, be more of a pacifist. In my line of work you are surrounded by violence and death; one day it is bound to strike close to home."
Claire did not view her position in the same way as Leon; there was nothing advantageous about pacifism. While her friends were out on the field, she sat behind a desk, hoping for the best, praying that they would all come back. It was never her life on the line, she did not fight the way they did.
She remained silent, choosing not to reply. But still, he held onto her hand, his smile breaking through her pessimism. It was amazing what a little kindness could do.
There was a sudden commotion at the door, the ominous rattle of a hospital trolley steadily approaching the waiting area. Claire glanced over her shoulder only out of habit; the emergency room was no stranger to such events. Medical staff rushed from an unseen direction, game faces firmly in place as they reached the stretcher, taking over from...
"That's the BSAA," Claire muttered, her hand slipping from Leon's as she pushed herself to her feet. The uniform was hauntingly familiar, though she recognised not one of the faces.
"Female, twenty-eight-years-old," called a relatively young agent, tall with dark cropped hair and a face she never would have associated with such a violent profession. "Ballistic trauma possibly to the vastus lateralus; no exit wound but artefact has been removed. She is extremely tachycardic, weak pulse; suspected stage four hypovolemic shock."
Though she willed her legs not to move, she found that they moved of their own volition.
"Systolic pressure?"
"Insufficient and still falling," the black-clad agent responded. "Suspected repeated blunt trauma to head and abdomen, possible internal bleeding. She lost consciousness approximately five minutes ago."
The stretcher rolled past her, orders barked into the heavy atmosphere as the face that rested against thin pillows slowly slid into view.
"Oh my God," she whispered, legs trembling beneath her. "Jill?"
A thin sheet concealed all that lay below neck-line but fresh blood seeped through the material, painting morbid flowers against the grey. Her skin was a deathly shade of pale, her left eye lost beneath considerable bruising. Her friend was there somewhere, she knew that, but she did not recognise this face.
Leon was still beside her, her expression as blank as her emotional state. He blamed himself; she could sense it. But what could he have done? What could any of them have done?
'It's too late to find out,' she realised with a solemn heart.
Chris wandered close to the trolley, Carlos hot on his heels. Her eyes lingered on them both, not sure if she wanted to believe anything her sight revealed to her. He was a mess, though all things considered, he was in almost perfect shape. Light reflected off damp patches on his clothing; shed blood, and she doubted that it was his.
She tried to offer words of support as she approached him, still now that Jill had been taken elsewhere, but no words left her throat. His cold blue eyes lingered on the swaying doors, almost a minute passing before they snapped to her, seemingly surprised to find her suddenly at his side.
Truly, she had expected an embrace, comfort sought amidst tragedy. But he turned, nodding to Carlos before they both took their leave.
"W-What?" she gasped incredulously. He could not be doing this! "You're just walking away?"
And so he was.
His expression haunted her long after he disappeared into the next department; cold, empty. It may as well have been him that lay beneath the blood-soaked blanket. In his mind, Claire knew that in some way he was. The depth of his feelings for his partner had previously appeared to her as endearing, but now she saw that they were his Achilles' Heel. The tendon had been plucked, and she knew now that recovery was solely dependent on the potency of the poison. If she died, so too would the brother she knew and loved.
The tears fell before she was aware of the sensation, and the damage had been done by the time her hands rose to mop away the pesky leakage. But then, the strangest thing happened. Her vision fell dark, warmth surrounded her and something gentle yet strong rubbed her back, chasing away feelings that had finally gotten the better of her.
"It's okay," Leon hushed, his lips brushing against her scalp. The scent of battle still lingered on his skin, but she did not mind. All she felt was the softness of his embrace and the kindness that swept around her and willed her to a better state of mind.
"Come on," he urged, though maintained his hold. "We'll find out what's going on."
August 23, 2:00pm. St. Bernadette Hospital. El Paso, Texas.
Allowing his emotionally frazzled sister to persuade him into returning to the hotel for some much needed rest was not such a good idea, he realised. Allowing her to accompany him was his second mistake. Though she had left him to slumber in peace, she had deviously reset the alarm before exiting. While he recognised that her intentions were pure, he could not help but feel angry and annoyed. It was with great reluctance that he had left Jill's side, intending to return after the two hours of sleep he had hoped would satisfy his sister.
It was far past noon when he finally rose, aches and pains that had not been present the previous night setting in. Neglecting to shave and pleased that he had showered before retiring to bed, he threw on the nearest items of clothing he could find and rushed to the hospital, hoping and praying that her ordeal had come to a pleasant end. But all that met him upon arrival was the vague confirmation that she lived and several refusals to be taken to her side.
"She needs to rest," they had said. "Her physician has not yet cleared her for visitors."
Carlos was waiting outside her private room when he arrived but left soon after. There was a lot he felt that he needed to say to him, so much gratitude that he simply did not know how to express. It made no sense that they should not remain with in ten feet of one another. Hope forced him to believe that he left to provide him with much needed space.
The lack of information was beginning to terrify him. All he needed was to know that she was going to be alright.
"I'm sorry," Claire apologised, startling him with her sudden appearance. "But...you needed to rest."
He shook his head hastily, finding no harsh words to send her way.
"It's alright," he assured her. "All this waiting probably would have killed me."
As she set herself down at his side, she reached for his arm, right hand sliding against his back. It was a small comfort but in that moment it meant the world to him.
"She'll be okay," she whispered. "Have faith."
Faith? Chris scoffed at the word. There was very little left to have faith in anymore. No matter which team he had been placed in, or what his actions may have been, it would always be Jill that ended up in the hospital bed and not him. It was pure luck that had pulled him through life and seemed to follow him obsessively wherever he went. How else could he explain his miraculous escape from Spencer's mansion, his narrow miss of the Raccoon epidemic, his flight from right beneath Wesker's nose in the Antarctic...his recent escape from the depths of the Verisanda laboratories? How else could he explain his relationship with Jill?
He had never expected to settle down, had always believed that he would spend his life travelling from one short-lived relationship to another, never falling in love. But he had, and by some bizarre act of fate, she had returned that love. Jill could have been with any man she wanted, and yet she had chosen him.
Hoping upon all futile hope, he prayed that this was not the instance in which that luck failed.
The door to their right opened slowly, a middle-aged doctor stepping through as he continued to scribble on the clipboard that balanced precariously on his arm. Without a second thought, Chris jumped to his feet, startling Claire with his sudden movement.
"How is she?" he asked, hoping that this physician was a little more talkative than the nurses.
To his utmost delight, the doctor's smile at least seemed genuine.
"Much better this afternoon," he explained, smile not once faltering. "It's amazing what a little transfusion can do."
And the weight that had been pressing down on his chest lifted, allowing him to draw his first true breath in over twelve hours.
"What happened?" he pressed. "Is she going to be okay?"
"Absolutely," the doctor assured him, finally lowering his clipboard to his side to address the anxious two properly. "She was extremely lucky that the bullet impacted where it did. She suffered tissue damage, but fortunately bone remained intact and no major nerves or arteries were hit. She should be back on her feet in seven to ten days, assuming she rests her leg well, keeps the wound clean and sticks with the course of antibiotics we have prescribed her. The severed fingernail should grow back, so no permanent damage there."
Every assurance brightened his spirits, until he was unable to keep the smile from his lips. But was it premature? He found it difficult to accept that she was, indeed, alright. There had been so much blood, and she sure did not look alright. And then there were Connolly's words...
"Our medic thought she may have internal bleeding," he told the doctor. "He also said something about TBI, and...hypovolemic shock?"
"Oh, I wouldn't worry," the doctor smiled. Chris decided that he liked this man. "The bruising on her abdomen was indicative of internal bleeding but as it turned it, it was simply surface bruising, likely from blunt trauma. It's painful, but not life threatening. Hypovolemic shock is not uncommon in cases of blood loss; basically, the heart cannot supply enough oxygenated blood to the body. Despite the volume of blood that Miss Valentine lost, treatment proved highly successful. Of course, we'll have to keep her here for the next few days in case she takes a turn for the worse, but I see no reason why she should not make a full, swift recovery. Scans showed no signs of traumatic brain injury or damage to the skull or spine, which was one of our greatest concerns. All in all, she is extremely lucky. She will likely be in a lot of pain for the next few days, but we'll make sure she is taken care of."
Claire gripped his hand and he could sense her smile, knowing that it rivalled his own. But there was still one worry that lingered, one that sickened him to consider. Just how long would her ordeal remain with her? How fatal could it prove?
"Is she-" He paused involuntarily. To even consider the thought was sickening, but it was a likely outcome of her ordeal and one that must be considered and rectified before it caused her further harm. "She's not pregnant, is she?"
The doctor glanced at his chart, shaking his head a moment later.
"There were no signs of pregnancy," he answered. "Unfortunately, the blows to her abdomen would have been enough to cause miscarriage if- Oh!"
His eyes widened, Chris's true meaning suddenly sinking in.
"Our examination was quite thorough," he assured him, meeting his gaze intensely. "There was no evidence of forced intercourse; I hope that puts your mind at ease."
Though it was the answer he had hoped to hear, he had convinced himself that it simply was not possible. He had witnessed the torn fabric of her underwear with his own eyes, had seen the bruising on her hips. She had been heavily injured, suffering from a considerable loss of blood. According to Connolly, the bruising on her hips was quite recent at the time of her discovery. Evidently, the effects of blood loss and the multiple injuries she had already suffered at that point would have weakened her considerably. He pieced the evidence together in his mind, as though he were working a case and not considering the events that had landed the woman he loved in hospital.
Nicholai was a big man. While Jill was strong in her own right, it was her speed and agility that gave her an edge. Wounded, she was disadvantaged in both areas and her captor appeared to be the type of man who would exploit that. He also appeared to by the type of man to follow through on such an act. He would not have simply let her go.
'The bastard was lying,' he realised.
"There was considerable bruising to her knuckles," the doctor revealed slowly. "She held her own, otherwise her assailant would be in a prison cell, not in a hospital."
Of course. She would not be the Jill Valentine he knew and loved without that fiery spirit. But even so, to fight back after all she had already been through? He appeared to have underestimated her resilience. Did she know how proud of her he was right now?
"Can I...Can I see her?" he asked.
"Of course," the doctor nodded. "We gave her something for the pain so she is a little out of it at the moment, but she is conscious. I assume you are Chris?"
A quick nod confirmed his suspicion.
"She has actually been asking for you. Just make sure that she doesn't try to get out of bed. But that shouldn't be a problem. Like I said, she's...a little out of it."
The doctor's expression turned to one of unease as he walked away, playing on existing concerns within the two individuals he left behind. Claire leaned in close, embracing him closely as he voiced his appreciation.
"I'll go check on Leon and Mike," she let him know. "I'll come back later. I know you want to be alone with her."
Again, he thanked her, though was somewhat reluctant to watch her leave. He did not know what awaited him on the other side of that door and was admittedly a little terrified to face her.
But love overpowered reluctance and he stepped inside, the steady beep of her monitor filling his ears as the closing door drowned out the hubbub of the hospital corridor.
"Hey!" spoke a quiet, heavily-medicated voice. He had barely pulled the door flush with its frame when she spoke.
He smiled as he gazed upon her, hovering by the door for a few short moments before pulling an adjacent chair closer to the bed and lowering himself into it. The original light tan had returned to her skin, her full lips once again pink. It made the world of difference, and the concern he felt was reduced to levels that were somewhat easier to tolerate. Even the swelling at her eye seemed less pronounced, bruising severe but less frightening without the accent of blood.
"Hey," he whispered back. "You had us all worried back there."
She frowned a little, and tilted her head to glance over his shoulder.
"Lots of flowers..." she sighed. He did not know how he had failed to notice the sea of colour as he had stepped into the room; dozens of flowers, separated into several bouquets, decorated the bedside cabinet. Three cards were propped between the vases, each bearing a heartfelt wish of good health.
'They sure move quickly,' he thought to himself. Not even twelve hours had passed since her admittance to the hospital, yet half of the rescue team had sent their well-wishes in the form of a positive explosion of colour. They succeeded in brightening up the room, such a stark contrast to the clinical décor and stuffy atmosphere of the small room.
"Which ones are yours?" Jill asked. And it was at this point that his heart sank. Truth be told, he had not thought of flowers, too concerned with her wellbeing and the persistent desire to be by her side.
"I didn't have time to go to a florist," he apologised. "And you're worth a hell of a lot more than a five dollar bouquet from the gift shop."
She giggled childishly, wide grin illuminating her features.
"I don't need flowers when I have you," she laughed, pressing the tip of her index finger to his nose on the last word. "You..."
The finger tapped against his nose three more times before laughter overcame him. It occurred to him that he should remain more composed in such a situation, but he simply could not help himself. Whatever they had given her, it sure was strong. Capturing her hand in his, he pressed his lips against the back, kissing up her fingertips and over the heavy bandaging that bound her middle finger.
"On the lips, dummy," she pleaded, and what could he do but acquiesce?
She tasted sweet against his tongue, tainted only by the distant copper tang of blood. Though he tried to be gentle, Jill had other ideas and he suddenly found that he was the submissive party in this kiss, folding to her desire as she often did to his. The delightful friction teased suppressed emotions, carved a serious of recent memories into his mind's eye.
'She wouldn't be in this position if it wasn't for you. You failed her, you left her to the mercy of that monster.'
It was she who recognised his tears, severing contact when she felt moisture against her skin. Never before had he shed tears in her presence. He was always so composed, even in the times he could feel himself slowly dying inside. Men did not cry, he knew that much. He was no stranger to tears, but he did not wish for her to know this side to him. He was a soldier in her eyes; strong and sturdy, never faltering, the epitome of masculinity. But this time, the tears glistened in the dim light, betraying him as he knew he deserved.
"Oh, no," she pleaded. "No, no, no! Please don't cry."
But her insistence only spurred him on further, as did the fingertips that attempted to smudge away his tears.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. Sorry did not quite cut it, but it was all he could think of to say. "I should have been there for you; I should have...done something. I didn't know..."
Jill frowned and attempted to pull him into an embrace but he refused. He did not deserve comfort, not from her. If he had only fought for her, pushed harder for her rescue then she would not have suffered for so long, would perhaps not even be in hospital at all.
"You did all you could," she told him; a sober voice through an intoxicated mind. "He would have killed me if you had tried anything and you know that. You did your job and I am so proud of you...I know how your emotions can get a little out of control sometimes."
All of his emotion formed a ball in his stomach, a ball which rose slowly, sure to choke him, sure to poison him internally. She was proud of him for leaving her to the mercy of a madman? Sure, he had stayed true to protocol and performed his role perfectly, but how could he be proud of himself when his orders, his actions even, had caused her so much harm? It was his job as both her partner and her boyfriend to protect her, and he had failed on both accounts.
"I'm the one who should be sorry," she breathed, her right eye watering. "I love you so much that I...I just don't know how to handle it. I get a little crazy sometimes and I'll admit that I'm often insecure. I have a tendency to ruin every good thing that comes my way; it was only a matter of time before I tried it with you. I was so childish..."
Laughing softly, he took her hand once again into his, amazed by the strength in her grip. She was not the only partner with this tendency. Together, their relationship was volatile, but the foundations were solid and perhaps that was all that truly mattered?
"I don't want a hysterectomy," she confessed. "And I sure as hell don't want you to get the snip. I was scared, Chris, and I wasn't thinking straight and I'm sorry that I took it out on you. I'm still scared, but...if I have to relinquish every hope I have, I'll be happy as long as I still have you. Because all of that stuff, everything that I want...it's just not worth it without you. And...and now I'm crying."
Rather than brush away her tears, he smiled down at her, gripping her hand tightly in his as they shared in a mutual moment of self-degredation. He had almost forgotten about their previous argument. Her hand moved again, reaching for his neck to pull him down for a second kiss. Moisture mingled on tear-stained cheeks as he braced himself against the bed, afraid that he would fall on her if he made one wrong move.
"Let's make a promise," he whispered, lips brushing gently against hers. "Let's be selfish from now on."
"I can do that," she sighed happily. "Mmm, you smell good."
His laughter this time was more joyful and he gently brushed his fingers across the bruising on her cheek, sweeping fallen hair from her eyes.
"You might want to stop talking now," he advised. "Otherwise you're going to regret this when the morphine wears off."
"No, I'm serious!" she insisted. Whatever sobriety that had descended upon her moments earlier appeared to have dissipated. "If I move in with you your sheets will start to smell like me. What's the point in waking up if- What? Why are you laughing?"
Tears of mirth now rolled down his cheeks, though he knew he would regret them when she was taken off the opioids. It was strange to him that in the space of twelve hours, everything could change. He would not have envisioned himself smiling so soon, or holding her hand as she dug herself deeper and deeper into humiliation with every word she spoke. It was how he wanted things to be between them; carefree and blissful, knowing that there was nowhere in the world they would rather be than in each other's company.
"I can't lift my head," she suddenly realised.
Chris pressed his lips to her forehead, showing her with a tender kiss that she did not need to move. Though the medication had spirited away her pain, her body still felt the effects of her ordeal and probably would for some time. But she was a fighter and, as usual, he expected her to halve the doctor's estimated recovery time.
"Why did I think that we were going to have children?" she mused aloud. He wondered if she had indeed intended to speak these words aloud. "We've only been dating five months."
It had not occurred to him, but now a single thought blossomed into many and he was left wondering the same thing. He had been so quick to assure her that they could adopt, that somehow they would have children. She had not yet consented to living with him and he had not yet asked for her hand in marriage.
'Don't pretend the thought never crossed your mind,' a secretive voice whispered in the back of his mind.
Because he had considered it, had even pondered the many ways he could propose. It was not a question of if, but of when. He loved her and now that he had her, he was never going to let her go. But their life was far from ideal and there was no room for weddings. Wesker remained at large, as did Spencer, and they simply could not afford to become wrapped up in one another and deal with yet another bond to bind them. Their marriage would fall apart and he did not want that. Love was all they had, quiet and subdued. No marriage, no children, not even the promise of a future. Even so, it was far from bittersweet; they had each other and that was all that they ever truly wanted.
"It's not unreasonable," he told her, elated to find that his words brought happiness to her eyes. "Because I love you deeply and I know that I always will."
Her eyes closed to his words, her smile brilliant as she hummed softly in delight.
"You know, Chris Redfield..." she sighed happily. "I could spend the rest of my life with you."
His first thought was that it was the drugs that spoke and not his lover, but intoxication rarely spawned lies; it revealed truths that were desperately kept secret. And this was hers, straight from the heart.
Chris pressed his lips tenderly to hers, stroking her cheek in the hopes of lulling her back into peaceful sleep. But there was something he needed to say before she slipped away, something she had to know. He did not know if she would remember his words, but knew that he needed to speak them with a smile on his lips and a laugh to his tone.
"And I with you, Jill Valentine. And I with you..."
AN - Please Review :)