Strength Through Wounding
AN - Well, this proved more difficult than I thought. You know when you have a plan that seems sufficient but when you put it into sentences it seems lacking? That was my main problem with this chapter. I feel as though perhaps I haven't given certain areas adequate attention, but the word count begs to differ. Eh, it's all down as it should have been so hopefully you all enjoy it :). Chapter title is from a song by Jimmy Eat World.
Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed. I try to reply individually but spare time has been lacking in recent months. I promise to try my best to reply to everyone in the future and hope that you all continue to read and to leave feedback.
An advanced warning: The rating may rise to an M with the next chapter. I won't know until I actually write what I have planned, but it is likely. If this puts you off, I apologise. The M content will likely not be frequent, but I'd rather be on the safe side.
In case the next chapter does not find its way up before the end of the month, happy holidays to you all! I hope you all receive what you hoped for and go easy on the chocolates. Aw hell, go to town on 'em, that's what the holidays are for!
Chapter One - Disintegration
'Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue.
Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.'
~Stephen King~
July 25, 1998. 1:24pm
The silence grated on every nerve and more. Irons' office smelled like the back end of a very sick camel, and Chris knew it must have had something to do with the dead animals he displayed so cheerfully on his walls. Irons had never been hunting in his life.
Family photographs stood beneath the morbid display, adding to the disturbing scene with the cheerfulness they depicted. Mostly fishing scenes, and long weekends at a log cabin in the Arklay forest. Add the various awards and the American flag that stood alongside the scene, and it painted a picture of the stereotype none of them would have applied to Irons.
It was the one room of the R.P.D. building that appeared to have been left exactly as it was following the conversion from the old Raccoon Museum of Antiquities.
Even the clock did not tick; it scraped.
"The hell is he?" Barry huffed, wringing his hands as though he expected a fight. Irons operated on his own terms, and though it was perhaps in his best interests to speak to the surviving S.T.A.R.S. members, at the moment they were confined to his office, where they could do no harm to his reputation.
Chris observed his teammates carefully, analysing every pose and every twitch. Jill remained as calm and composed as ever, though she could not fool him. Brad was as clueless as he always was, Barry as impatient, and Rebecca...
"You alright, kid?" he asked. She glanced up in a sudden hurry, muttering a startled "hmm?". Her hands were shaking, her body hunched up defensively.
"I'm fine," she lied. Chris recognised the tone, but was not in the mood to press further. If it was important, she would have brought it up.
The door behind them swung open and they all turned in their seats, preparing to rise.
"Stay seated, stay seated," Irons instructed impatiently, making haste as he headed for his desk. "Damn press has been biting my heels all morning."
A ripple of something that did not represent amusement in the slightest passed through the room, five sets of eyes on the Chief as he lowered himself into his ridiculously extravagant armchair.
"I honestly don't know where to start," he spoke at last, once he had accomplished a position Chris assumed was intended to be menacing. "So perhaps you should tell me where the hell you have been for the past six hours!"
Anger rose quickly in Chris's throat, bringing with it words he knew would be better kept to himself. He sensed similar reactions in all directions, but his mind was too focused to turn and acknowledge the others.
"We were all tired, sir," Rebecca spoke meekly. "Most of us were badly wounded. We needed rest; otherwise we would have been in no fit state to give a statement."
When Chris finally turned, he saw that her head was bowed and she was speaking to her bruised hands. She must have been the only member of the team to have been genuinely intimidated by Irons; Vickers included.
Irons contemplated this for a few moments, his eyes scanning the various visible wounds before him.
"That is understandable," he commented at long last. "I assume the others have been admitted to hospital?"
The tension within the small room stretched to incredible lengths. Each survivor waited for another to speak up, hoping that they would not have to validate the fates of their friends. A small sob escaped from Rebecca and her head fell forward into her hands.
"The others are dead...sir," Barry answered. Perhaps he believed that he owed it to the others?
Chris was still unsure what to think of his friend's actions. On the one hand, he had betrayed the team; he had almost led Jill to her death and had certainly slowed their escape. But on the other, he was only trying to protect his family. In his heart, Chris knew that he could never betray his friends in the way Barry had, but when he considered being in his position, with Claire at the mercy of a madman, he honestly did not know what he would do. It was a situation that could only be understood by those who experienced it.
"Did you not read the report I submitted earlier, sir?"
Irons locked eyes with Barry maliciously before turning to a plain brown folder upon his desk.
"This is your report?" He looked down at the papers within the folder and chuckled deeply. "I thought this was some dumb-ass novel you've been working on. You expect me to believe this? I'll ask you again, Burton: where are the others?"
"They're dead!" Chris shouted, deliberately dropping the honorific.
Irons stared him down like a man with a purpose. If looks could kill, he was sure that his brain would be seeping out of his ears by now. Even Wesker had not had the audacity to raise his voice to the chief.
"And I suppose they were killed by, what was it? Ah yes, 'bio-engineered organisms'?" His moustache began to twitch ominously beneath his large nose, the skin around it turning an offensive shade of crimson. "You must think I'm incredibly stupid."
Chris remained silent.
"A conspiracy," Irons read. "Zombies, giant snakes, the Trevor family. And at the heart of it all, the Umbrella Corporation; our most generous benefactors and the driving force behind this entire city. Do you have any idea how crazy this sounds? Have you been smoking those herbal remedies of yours?"
"With all due respect, sir," Jill spoke, placing an unfriendly emphasis on the last word. "Is it any wonder that Umbrella have been pumping a lot of money into the R.P.D., specifically the S.T.A.R.S. unit, when one of their operatives was working here under cover?"
Irons' moustache twitched above his top lip, his expression turning sour. It was clear to every member of his small audience that she had struck a deep-seated nerve. Too often did the chief find himself fighting off accusations of police corruption. The S.T.A.R.S. unit was a gem in his soot-stained belt, often discovering minor incidents of corruption itself and seeing that those involved were dragged kicking and screaming to court. The mere suggestion that this juggernaut of righteousness was smack bang in the middle of the largest case of police corruption the department had ever seen was preposterous.
At least, this was Chris's evaluation of his position.
"Miss Valentine, I hope you are aware of the extent of your suggestion," he threatened. There was not a hint of pleasant conversation in his voice. "If you believe yourself to be correct in this absurd assumption then I suggest you file a motion and order a thorough investigation into the structure of the R.P.D. and the involvement of its benefactors."
Chris watched with intrigue as Jill's jaw hardened, her furious gaze never once faltering. She was a pillar of strength in that moment and he could not help but be in awe of her prowess. This woman, this strong, passionate woman...so far removed from the shivering wreck he had found on the bathroom floor that very morning.
"Oh don't worry, sir," she sniped. "I fully intend to."
He knew that her words were empty, that she recognised the futility of such a movement. Umbrella were too quick and too clever. By the time an investigation was ordered, funds would be moved and all trace of such dirty money would be long gone. What she had intended was to elicit a reaction that could be analysed.
Credit had to be given to the man; for all the fear that his eyes revealed, his posture remained unchanged. It was a small hint of an underlying suspicion, but enough to begin a new thought process within each and every one of them.
It always had been a wonder how Irons had risen to a position of power in such a short space of time.
"It is my understanding that you wish to pursue formal inquiries into the Umbrella Corporation and their activities within the Raccoon City area," Irons continued nonchalantly, flipping yet another page before their eyes. "I assume that you bear hard evidence?"
Chris noticed Jill sigh softly as she pushed herself further up in the uncomfortable chair. He could tell by the way her arms shook from her own weight that she was still weakened, as were they all. It was a physical toll they would be paying for perhaps weeks to come.
"No, sir," she admitted with reluctance, her voice adopting a strange sort of sweetness. Perhaps she believed that she could appeal to Irons on an emotional level?
"Ah yes," he conquered triumphantly. "This supposed 'facility' was destroyed when you activated the self-destruct system. All evidence was conveniently destroyed, as was any possible basis for your accusations. Honey, there is not a single officer in this station or lawyer in this state that would pursue this case."
Chris felt his blood boil to his ears. The condescending tone, the slime-covered name he had thrown her way… It was all that he could do to force his anger to the same place as his pain, and resist the overwhelming urge to wring his oversized neck until he apologised and offered her the respect she deserved. He did not know why the man's comments riled him so, but it was becoming nigh on unbearable.
"Sir," spoke a quiet, trembling voice. All attention diverted to Rebecca, shrunk so far down in her chair that it resonated the feeling of an individual who wished that they could fall straight through the soft pine and out of existence.
"We had no choice," she assured the chief. "Regardless of whether or not our colleagues were in danger, what existed in that laboratory could not be allowed to escape. You would have been looking at-"
"At what?" Irons fumed. "I hear these wild stories but all I see is criminal damage, arson, and several dead police officers. You should be less concerned about supporting your own insane notions and start worrying about the charges I could levy against all of you!"
The strangled gasp that escaped the younger member of the team was the last straw. It was a pathetic sound; one of anguish and defeat. Whatever lay behind it forced Chris to his feet, forced his fists to slam against the heavy oak of Irons' desk and his blood to flow furiously to his skin.
"One foot further in that direction and I swear to God I will-" he roared, cut off only when Irons attempted to match his stance, which resulted in a pitiful imitation of concentrated rage.
"Or you will what, Redfield?"
Chris's jaw twitched uncomfortably as he searched for the words to describe the visual that played out in his mind. No expression was graphic enough, no adjectives descriptive enough to explain what he would have truly loved to do to the man.
"Push me and find out," he challenged quietly.
"C-Chris, calm down," Brad stuttered from several paces behind. Chris dared not reply, lest he reveal his true feelings about the man that had suffered a sudden attack of selfish cowardice and left them all for dead.
The others had joined him on his feet, standing their ground. At least, this was what he had hoped. The thought did occur that perhaps they were only joining him because they were all too familiar with his infamous temper. Save for the new girl, they had all bore the brunt of it at least once.
"You are suggesting that we killed the others?" Jill asked, visibly swallowing her fury. "That this is some kind of elaborate hoax?"
Irons did not reply. He merely levelled his eyes at her, the simplicity of his gaze confirming her fears.
"Our friends died out there!" she screamed as she suddenly lurched forward. Her cries were echoed by those of her friends, which fell strangely silent as she continued in her violent chastisement. "You can't even begin to understand what we went through, what we are still going through! You should show us a little respect because we just saved your worthless ass!"
"Miss Valentine, you will not raise your voice to me!" Irons countered. "Two years in service and you still don't know your place."
Chris did not know if it was the sudden outburst of emotion from his usually calm and collected partner or Irons' undeserved remark, but something chipped away the final inch of the chains he had put in place to restrain his temper. Before he was completely aware of his actions, he was halfway across Irons's desk, reaching out for something to grab so that he could pull that smug face close enough to pummel.
Strong arms restrained him, and he was sure that he must have been foaming at the mouth by the time Barry succeeded in pulling him a safe distance from his victim.
Irons appeared unperturbed but they all recognised the frightened quiver of his pale hands as fingers teased his moustache.
"Thank you, Burton," he spoke calmly, "and thank you, Redfield. A course of action is now clear to me."
"Evaluation?" Chris fumed for the thousandth time. "Who the hell does he think he is?"
"He's the chief," Barry reminded him grimly. "He has the authority. Just be thankful he didn't fire our asses."
"Thankful?" Chris began to take his repetition of words quite seriously. "I should have handed my badge in then and there. Smug bastard."
Jill flinched as his plate slammed against the tabletop. Several stray peas rolled towards her bowl, desperately escaping the mood that turned the very air around Chris sour.
"The hell you looking at?" he growled as the clash of hard material drew the attention of nearby diners. In a flurry of cutlery, they turned back to their meals.
Even at the best of times, the cafeteria of the police department was teeming with employees and visitors alike. It was one of the many features of the old museum that had been chosen to be carried forward, and was frequented not only by officers, but also by families of individuals that had been pulled in for questioning. It was the attention of two of the latter that had landed on their gathering.
Jill quietly picked up her spoon and tapped at the surface of the tomato soup she had picked up without a thought.
"We need our jobs because we need all the power we can get," she told her festering partner. "If the P.D. can't help us then fuck it, we'll do it ourselves."
She was aware of Chris's focus shifting to her, and to the whirlpool she was attempting to create in the thick liquid before her.
"You have a point," he admitted, with less reluctance than she had expected. As her eyes rose briefly, he offered a comforting smile and she accepted it with much gratitude.
"You're not serious?" Brad asked after a few moments of silence. "After all that they did? They'll kill us!"
"Or die trying," Jill smiled, her eyes glistening with pride as a moment of mutual amusement passed between herself and Chris. As he broke eye contact with her she paused for thought, wondering if she had flirted with him or had merely offered some much-needed comic relief. Whatever it was, it had been reciprocated and the resulting happiness settled into a hollow in her chest, far away from the pain and confusion that riddled her wounded form.
'You flirt with one another all the time,' she told herself, over and over. 'It's harmless fun.'
"We know too much," Brad murmured hypnotically. "They won't just let us walk away from this."
Jill could sense the fury rising once again within the man before her, though he succeeded in restraining his contempt by shovelling a forkful of mashed potato into his mouth.
"Brad, we have to do this!" Rebecca insisted, so much so that her body balanced precariously on the edge of her plastic chair. "We can't let their deaths be for nothing!"
"And what if our poking around gets us all killed? It's not going to go anywhere; you heard what Irons said. They're dead, and there's nothing we can do. Just…learn to deal with it."
Jill narrowly avoided the knife that spun towards her as Chris's right hand thrust an accusing finger in the pilot's direction.
"You have no right to make comments like that," he spat.
"Come on, Chris," Brad tried, forcing his tone to the level of a plea. "Drop the lame machismo act; you have no one to impress."
The fork joined the knife, Chris's body spinning in his chair so that the older man could witness the full extent of his furious irritation. For a moment, Jill felt the need to prepare herself for a brawl.
"You have no right to comment on friendship and loyalty. You deserted us, right when we needed you the most. So if you don't shut the-"
An ear-piercing shriek of metal on tile seared through his words. Jill vaguely registered Rebecca's form leave her side, and then she was half way out of the door, leaving little but confusion and shame in her wake.
Brad's chair followed hers, though he was careful to avoid stepping around his much stronger colleague.
"Maybe I don't," he chirped sheepishly. "Maybe you're right; this has nothing to do with me. It's all well and good, because I don't want anything to do with this. I'm sorry, but this truth is not worth dying for."
Jill waited for the attention to turn to her, as it always did in the wake of such a commotion. Sure enough, Chris smiled apologetically and reached to pull a stray pea from the sleeve of her shirt.
"Just for once I'd actually like to finish a threat," he joked, though the mood viciously rejected his light-heartedness and he was left to hang his head in what she could only assume was shame.
She resisted the urge to take his hand, deeming the action inappropriate. Perhaps it was, perhaps it was completely innocent…she no longer knew what was innocent in the context of her relationship with her best friend.
There were no words in her mind that she could think to speak, and no air in her lungs to make such a simple function possible. The warm soup did little to chase away the unnatural chill beneath her skin, and the wounds that ate away at her energy and tolerance throbbed persistently. She was amazed that Chris could remain so animated given the extent of his own injuries. The mild collision with Irons' desk was sure to have aggravated his broken ribs.
The soup slopped from her spoon, back into the bowl. The appetite that had plagued her throughout the course of their meeting evaporated in an instant. Thick beads of liquid dripped slowly, achingly, into the larger sea of liquid.
Drips…
What was once thick and congealed became fluid and light. Her vision swam in and out of focus, Chris's voice droning on as little more than background noise. Bubbles floated to the crust, skin breaking the dry surface. Skin became flesh, flesh became bone, and her spoon slipped helplessly into the abyss.
"Hey!"
The pain that resulted as her head snapped back shot down her spine and through her left leg. It was then that she became aware of the breath she had been holding painfully within her lungs.
"You okay?" Chris asked. She could describe the emotion in his eyes only as genuine concern.
"I'm…fine," she spoke unsteadily. All that lay before her was tomato soup, though now it appeared to be spattered over her hands. She was quick to wipe it away, knowing somehow that it would only morph into something more sinister.
The visions had been expected, but she wondered how long they would persist. Every drop of blood brought her closer and closer to breaking the bubble of serenity she had surrounded herself with. Now was not the time to break down, and tears would help no one.
"Listen, I uh-" she began. "I don't think I'm going to be much use today. I'm still…a little groggy. I'll be at my apartment if anyone needs me."
Her attempts to slip out of the conversation before her absence was noted were thwarted before they had begun. She was barely halfway to her feet when a voice found its way to her.
"Hold up," Chris requested, almost choking on the little food that had found its way to his throat. "I'll drive you."
He sensed her desire to protest before the thought had even approached her mind.
"I drove you here," he reminded her. "There's no sense in you taking the bus back. Besides, Rebecca said you have a pretty bad concussion. If you're not feeling well you really shouldn't be on your own."
The excuse he offered was poorly founded, but she appreciated it nonetheless.
"Chris, you're not much better yourself," she laughed humourlessly. She hoped that he would persist with his offer. She truly did not want to be alone.
"Alright," he pretended to relent. "Let me drive you to the hospital. I'd feel much better about leaving you if I knew you were alright."
"I said I was, didn't I? But alright, take me to the hospital; get yourself looked over while we're there."
"No deal," he objected, finally on his feet. "I'm taking you home, no arguments."
Barry's deep chuckle broke through their playful argument.
"You're both as bad as each other," he laughed. "I'll find Rebecca, see how she's coping. I don't know if I should worry about the two of you falling into bed or bludgeoning each other to death. Just another day in S.T.A.R.S. I suppose."
Laughter met the choice words that Chris offered in response. For once Jill was enjoying the experience of not being the source or target of Chris's anger. While his worry was often annoying in the ways it manifested, she much preferred having him fuss over her than hounding her with accusations of insanity.
Sometimes she felt far too comfortable with her partner.
The tears had begun to flow the moment her palms hit the cafeteria door. That hellishly annoying voice chased her from corridor to corridor until she finally found the relative safety of the S.T.A.R.S. office.
Falling from her eyes with frightening velocity, tears spilled onto waiting hands. The floor rose up to meet her as she slid down the frame of the door, legs bending readily before her.
There was nothing that she could do to stem the flow. Even silently reciting her favoured medical textbook – a tactic that had proven successful prior to many stressful exams – failed to quash the emotions that surged forth.
Fear, anger, helplessness…everything she could name and more.
It was a strange and unnerving feeling, to be aware of one's emotions but completely lacking control over when and how they presented themselves.
It seemed woefully ironic that a career she had chosen to prove her strength and capability had reduced her to carefully hidden attacks of anxiety.
In the end, she chose to cry out her worries, and after several agonising minutes she felt the weight lift from her brow and once again breathing did not seem to be such a painstaking chore.
"You would think you're the only human in the world capable of hurting."
The kindliness had fallen from Richard's tone, mirroring the flesh that now barely covered many open wounds. His appearance had deteriorated severely in the last few hours, perhaps as his death continued to return to her in terrifying visions. Puncture wounds now riddled his torso, affording him the appearance of a severely abused chew toy. The blood left no stain, though his clothes withheld water and his lips had begun to pale. Little of his shirt remained against his torso, and less skin still became exposed. Several fingers had fallen from one hand, ripped carelessly rather than severed.
She found that she could not look upon him without the dangerous urge to vomit.
"What do you expect from me?" she screamed, though the sound came out as little more than a frantic gasp. "I'm not bulletproof! I'm not even a damn soldier, I'm a child! If I want to cry, I think I have the right, don't you?"
"Just as my life is my own, and I had the right to choose how it ended," he pointed out triumphantly. "You know that I have no regrets. So stop crying over something that would make me smile were I alive to appreciate it."
To hear the words in his voice felt as though her worries had been lifted for but a brief moment. She did not truly believe in what he voiced, but she clung to it in the hope that it would be enough to pull her through the moments she knew she was facing.
"What happened to you?" she asked. She was unsure if he was a ghost or a hallucination, and regardless of which were true she knew that it was equally stupid of her to attempt any form of conversation with him.
"Shark, I think," he shrugged, as though his wounds were mere inconveniences. "It all happened so fast. How is Jill?"
"She's fine," Rebecca answered with some annoyance. "Badly concussed, a few bruised ribs and minor flesh wounds that probably smart like hell but she's pushing on like nothing's wrong. She's stubborn and I don't know what the hell she is trying to prove."
Richard chuckled. Despite her harsh initiation into S.T.A.R.S., Rebecca was still a rookie and as such had not developed an understanding of her Alpha teammates…at least consciously.
"She's not trying to prove a thing," he smiled, seemingly knowing that she knew it herself deep down. Otherwise, how would he know? "I don't know how she does it, but she always keeps her emotions perfectly in check. Jill is the backbone of Alpha…without her level head the others would be all over the place. It's not that she doesn't feel pain or loss the way you do…she is simply better at hiding it. 'For the good of the team'. I'd wager you're not the only S.T.A.R.S. member crying herself to sleep."
The frown that appeared in response to his words was unwelcome. She felt that she did not have the right to judge the others when she knew so little about them. Of all the emotions that rioted within her heart and mind, her thoughts and feelings towards the only other female member of the team troubled her the most. She had no reason to dislike Jill, and truly she did not claim to harbour hatred for her. It was jealousy, mostly. Jealousy over her assertive attitude and level-headedness, over how she could diffuse any manner of tense situations with little more than a few calm words. After everything that had happened over the past eighteen hours, how could she carry on as though she had not been through a majorly traumatic experience?
In the end, every individual dealt with their emotions in the way that suited them best. Chris lashed out with admittedly frightening anger, Barry attempted to take charge of the situation, Brad turned tail and fled, and Jill neglected her own feelings to be the well of strength from which others drew their own.
Rebecca, on the other hand…
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
"Nothing," he sighed. "But I know that you want closure…and somehow you're supposed to get it from me."
Her eyes fell to the floor for but a fraction of a second and when they lifted once again, the office was empty. Chaotic, yet empty.
"I wasn't your fault, Rebecca," Richard's voice echoed in her head.
Why could she not just believe him?
Hauling herself to her feet, she found that aches had settled in around the wounds that she had forgotten in the haze that had been the past few hours. Bruises, scrapes; nothing serious. Further weight trickled into her laden heart when she realised that Chris had suffered many injuries that had been meant for her. Sounds she had heard a second too late, shadows cast when her eyes were not where they should have been; Chris bore evidence of every mistake she had made.
She sidled along the row of desks, not quite knowing which belonged to whom but noting that one could easily tell with a simple guess. The desks all belonged to the Alpha team, with Joseph being kind enough to offer space at the end of his. From what she had learned, the small space had been more than enough for the group of close-knit friends.
Chris's desk was as messy as she had expected it to be, with various music CDs, imprinted with names of bands she had never heard of, piled haphazardly in one corner. A photograph had been crudely taped to the corner of his computer monitor; a young girl, not much older than Rebecca, with eyes that signalled a definite blood link to the marksman. Jill's seemed to be a poster image for order, though Chris's mess spilled over onto one end of its perfection. She also displayed a photograph proudly in a frame on the surface of her desk; a man who appeared to be in his early to mid thirties. The picture was old, perhaps over a decade. Once again, the shape and colour of his crystalline blue eyes signified that he was a relation to the woman she did not fully understand. It was no secret that Valentine's father was a con, currently serving time for grand larceny. If her estimations of the age of the man within the frame were correct, then he would be well into his forties at that current time; the perfect age to claim a daughter of twenty-three.
As she moved further on, her eyes fell to a photograph at the end of Joseph's desk. Being an ex-Bravo, Joseph had been known to offer his desk up to the entire team…an act of kindness he had come to regret when he found himself buried beneath junk that did not even belong to him. The man within the photograph was young, and definitely familiar. Only here he was not so tormented, not so savaged by the act that had ultimately claimed his life. Beside Richard stood a woman she assumed to be his fiancée. He had mentioned her on few occasions, but each time he had, his eyes had lit up in a way she had never seen before in a man of his age.
She fingered the frame cautiously, weighing her thoughts against those that arose moments later.
In an instant her mind was made up, and she peeled herself from the distracting, familiar environment she had sought in her sorrow.
"A press statement released only moments ago confirms that S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team have returned safely from last night's emergency rescue. However, with this good news comes the knowledge of a tragedy. Only five members of the S.T.A.R.S. unit returned, with the remaining eight members believed to be dead. The survivors have been confirmed as Alpha team members Barry Burton, Christopher Redfield, Jill Valentine and Bradley Vickers, as well as the youngest member of Bravo team, eighteen-year-old medical prodigy Rebecca Chambers. This news follows-"
"-a girl who finds herself facing legendary horror villain Michael Myers in her new film Halloween H20, in theatres August 5th; Michelle Williams is with us later in the show."
As applause broke through the presenter's speech, Chris placed the remote back onto Jill's low coffee table. The sudden change of channel pleased Jill; she could barely tolerate thoughts of their ordeal, let alone hear it described through the words of an uneducated reporter. Daytime chat shows were far less vile in comparison.
Grateful also was she of Chris's lingering presence in her apartment. Between the spells of dizziness and the sudden, debilitating attacks of skittish loneliness she did not quite know how she would cope if she were left to face her feelings. At least with Chris at her side she could force herself to put on a brave face and act as though she was not falling apart behind her smile.
Chris's anger seemed less potent once they had reached a relative safe distance from the station. Even so, he seemed more agitated than normal, more fired up that was usual even for his ill-tempered persona.
He remained seated quietly on the sofa, eyes glued to the television screen but not quite registering what he watched.
"Are you hungry?" she asked, out of the blue. "You...kind of left half your lunch."
"Not really," he replied. "Can't say I had that big an appetite to begin with."
There was tension in his voice, evident even in his posture. Before she was aware of her actions, she was behind the sofa, reaching for his broad shoulders. He flinched a little as her fingers made contact, easing once again when he realised her intentions. Knotted muscle eased beneath her touch, warmth burning the tips of her fingers as they pressed forcefully into muscle and flesh.
As suddenly as she had begun her ministrations, the movements of her healing hands ceased. The back of Chris's head flitted in and out of focus, bile rising steadily in her throat.
"Hey, why'd you stop?" Chris joked lightly, reaching up for a shaking hand. His fingers had barely touched her skin when she pulled away, desperate to sever the connection before her emotions were further challenged.
Chris missed her by a moment as he turned around, realising a split second later that she had already fumbled her way along the back of the sofa and deposited herself heavily onto the cushion to his side.
To her conflicting dismay and relief, he did not question her sudden lack of interest in comforting him. She could feel his eyes remain on her observantly, but chose to act as though she was none the wiser. A flurry of thoughts swirled within her; love, fear, loss, guilt. Suddenly they were not as easily separated as they had been moments before.
Tremors seized her hands and she found the effort of raising them to her temples too exhausting.
"Jill, talk to me," he urged suddenly, annoying her with the act of reaching for a hand.
What could she say? Thoughts circled her consciousness, never once actually touching upon it. She could not make sense of the maelstrom and feared speaking, lest she reveal what she was too afraid to let him know.
"I'm fah-" she began. A deep breath brought an end to her erroneous assumption. It was as though her vocal cords had momentarily slipped from her control. "I'm- No, I'm not. I don't...feel right."
She tested her grip against his hand, finding with much comfort that it was as strong as it should have been. At least her strength remained.
"I think... Can you drive me to the hospital?"
She could almost feel the blood pumping around the wound beneath her hairline, emphasising the injury she had all but forgotten about.
The room was damp and dark, the air rife with the stench of death that she had become uncomfortably accustomed to. It occurred to her that she should have taken more caution in investigating such a strange circumstance. Richard was likely looking for her, and Chris and Rebecca were somewhere in the grounds. She was essentially backing herself into a corner; walking into circumstances she knew were suspicious without the aid of backup.
Floorboards creaked beneath her feet, an ominous fire that burned on the heath bathing the interior of the cabin in an ominous display of shadow and light.
She did not hear the movement to her side, did not even sense that she was not alone. By the time she registered the presence of another, her reaction came too late. Her head had barely risen when something collided forcefully and painfully with her skull, and the cabin was lost to an endless wash of black.
Chris obliged her request with no complaints. In fact, he offered more help than she believed herself to require, pulling her gently to her feet and offering unneeded support as she strode unsteadily towards the front door.
"I can manage," she insisted at long last, flinging his helpful hands aside. The thought of him half-carrying her to his car was humiliating. The injury was old, and she had struggled through many life or death moments following its infliction. She was sure that she could find her own way to a damn car.
"I was only trying to help," he interjected, wounded by her rebuffal. She was in no mood to satisfy her constant longing to be close to him with his sudden need to smother her with aid.
Despite the troublesome wound she had inflicted, Lisa Trevor held Jill's sympathy in a way the other victims had not. She could not imagine being torn from her family, subjected to horrific experimentation and forced into the state of an unstoppable monster. All because she had been the daughter of an artistic genius.
She retreated into her thoughts of the girl, safely away from Chris's unintentional influence.
It was not where she felt most comfortable, but rather where she felt most sane.
Barry was so sure he would beat a hole into the carpet the amount of times he found himself pacing the same hallways. The trouble with the R.P.D. building was that every damn corridor looked the same. The same tasteless décor, the same tacky ornaments. It reminded him in an uncomfortable way of the hallways he had found himself rushing through at the bidding of Albert Wesker.
Barry began to doubt that Rebecca had returned to the S.T.A.R.S. office, but could not find her anywhere else in the station. With options running out, he began to head to that dismal corner of the building, hoping that she had not chosen to flee.
"Burton."
He stopped so suddenly that his recently-filled stomach lurched. Recalling the last time he had heard that voice, it took every ounce of strength within him to turn to face the owner.
"Could I have a word?" Irons asked quietly, glancing nervously about the corridor. "In private?"
What could he do but oblige? Irons was not in the best of moods that day and he thought it best to do as the man said rather than risk the full extent of his petty wrath being brought down upon the others.
Fortunately it was an unused office that they stepped into, and not the stuffy confines of Irons's own.
The smug presence of superfluous artefacts was more than Barry was willing to tolerate at that moment.
"I have to ask..." Irons began tentatively, hand once again grooming his bush of a 'stache. "Assuming that what you reported of Wesker is true-"
"Every word of that report is truth, sir," Barry hissed as politely as he could. The conversation had barely started and already he was on his last nerve.
"Right, right," Irons mused thoughtfully. "Did he...mention anything of the R.P.D.? Anything that would...suggest corruption?"
His line of questioning piqued the interest of the S.T.A.R.S. member, though his sleep-deprived brain could not put a reason to the intrigue. Insane though it was, he chose to accept the assumption that Irons had perhaps given more consideration to their case and decided to offer what little help he could.
"No, sir," he replied honestly. Truth be told, Wesker had not spoken much of his employers or of others involved in the set-up. When considered alongside Chris and Jill's description of his behaviour in the moments preceding his death, he wondered if his allegiance had truly lain with Umbrella. Sure, the orders he had been following had been those of the corporation, but his ulterior motives appeared to be selfish. Had Umbrella intended for him to die with the others? Had Wesker uncovered this harsh truth and chosen to pre-empt his inevitable demise by stealing their research?
"No word of accomplices? Think, Burton; this could help your case."
"Wesker was careful in what he revealed," Barry offered. "I was not even aware that he worked for Umbrella until we discovered their involvement. He was...skilled. Truth be told, he revealed more in his last moments than he did in our many meetings. You should talk to Valentine and Redfield."
Iron grimaced, though the hint of a smile was apparent in his reaction. Barry knew that he would not follow up on their discussion. The man made no secret of his dislike of Redfield, and Valentine was the only female in the station that he had yet to make a move towards; a sure sign that part of him feared the woman. Irons was from the mold of man who found intelligence in a woman both threatening and unnatural. The arguments alone between Wesker and the Chief during the search for Chris's new partner told them all that he had been vehemently opposed to her hiring.
Brian Irons did not like that which he could not control.
"Sir, forgive me for asking, but why are you so interested in Captain Wesker? You were quick to throw our claims out earlier."
The hand finally fell from his upper lip, eyes hardening and jaw squaring as the amicably questioning mood was dropped.
"Just being sure I've covered all bases," he excused. "Press are clamouring for an official statement. Got a conference in ten minutes, need to get my details straight."
Barry scoffed inaudibly. Had he been in any other mood, he would have called Irons on his increasingly suspicious line of questioning. Fate, it would seem, was on the chief's side; worry for the younger member of the team and the awfully suffocating remnants of a sleepless night had blotted out the sound of every siren within his mind.
"As you were, Burton," Irons coughed as he pushed his heavy frame through the door.
Something didn't quite add up. A dull ache in the back of his mind pressed the issue further and he was forced to sate it with the promise to look into Irons' actions once time became an element he could spare. For now, there were more pressing concerns...
"Well, there appears to be no damage to bone structure."
The doctor's words brought with them the soothing rush of relief, but Jill did not react accordingly. Chris could barely contain his dismay, irritation continuing to fester beneath the bruising on his torso. When Jill had pleaded with him to see to his ribs whilst they were in the ER, he could not refuse. Her request came in a voice so despondent that his conscience did not allow for disagreement. What had followed was an hour of pokes, prods and x rays that forced a previously tolerable pain into new boundaries of agony. All to tell him what he had already known; two broken, one bruised, but nothing that required anything more than painkillers and rest.
"A minor scalp hematoma is present but there is no intercranial bleeding so it is of little cause for concern," the doctor continued, examining the wound once again. "The wound appears to be clean but hematomas are hotbeds for infection, so I'll set you off on a course of antibiotics just to be safe."
Neither of them found the need to point out that Rebecca had already written prescriptions for those who needed them.
"You don't appear to be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, so it's likely that the uneasiness you described is due to the concussion. However, if the hallucinations persist when the wound has healed, come straight to the ER."
"Is she going to be alright?" Chris asked impatiently. Too much describing of symptoms and little mention of her prospects.
"It is likely," the doctor answered swiftly, finally pulling the damned torch away from his patient's obedient gaze. "Scans were promising; there was no sign of permanent damage. Miss Valentine reported no amnesia, but the loss of consciousness is an issue. It is also possible that lack of sleep is exacerbating cognitive and emotional symptoms, so the circumstances make it quite difficult to grade the concussion. Nevertheless, I'd like to keep her in overnight for observation."
"No!" Jill protested suddenly, reaching for the arm of the doctor's white lab coat. "I'm not staying here."
She was resolute in her opinion and Chris agreed. Umbrella owned Raccoon General Hospital; it would be so easy to kidnap her in the night...or to disguise murder as an unfortunate turn of events. He would leave and return only to collect her body.
"Is there anyone staying with you at the moment?" the doctor asked, taken aback at her outburst but not overly shocked. It was obvious that stubborn patients were commonplace at this hospital. "Someone who can watch over you for the next seventy-two hours?"
"Yes," Chris insisted before he had given much thought to the idea. "I am...I can look after her."
The doctor looked from one partner to another and sighed in reluctant agreement.
"Very well," he decided. "Make sure that she is well rested and does not exert herself for the next few days. If you must take painkillers, take only paracetamol, and use ice against the wound. No alcohol until you are fully healed, and be careful not to hit your head again. Mr Redfield, I will provide you with appropriate literature, and should she display any of the listed symptoms, bring her back here immediately. I would recommend gently rousing her every two to three hours during sleep for the first night just to be on the safe side. She will require a check up within the next three days, but your team medic should be able to handle that. Also take care to regularly redress the wound."
With the assurance that they had no questions, Chris watched the doctor exit the examination room and turned to Jill once he was clear.
"You don't have to do this, you know," she pointed out weakly.
"Sure I do."
The idea of leaving her on her own in such a state was unthinkable and under no circumstances was he leaving her at the mercy of Umbrella.
She sought his warmth when he moved to her, the effects of the painkillers she had gulped down as soon as they had been offered beginning to kick in. It troubled him deeply that there was nothing he could do other than remain with her. He had been presented with a chance he had not been offered with the others, yet found himself completely and utterly helpless. She could die in her sleep, contract a nasty infection and succumb to blood poisoning, lose all sense and thought... So much could go wrong and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.
It wasn't right, it wasn't fair and it sure as hell wasn't justified.
"Stop it," she ordered groggily. Her command was met with confusion. "Whatever you're worrying about, stop it. I can feel you tensing up."
He laughed quietly, overjoyed when it was met with a more feminine expression of amusement. Somehow, she always knew how to break the sour mood of an unfortunate moment.
"I'll stay as long as you need me," he was sure to let her know. Despite the kind gesture, his reasoning was not entirely selfless. Alone, he would only wind himself up into a rage. Alone, he would worry for her and fear that she would vanish in the night. His worry for the others trailed closely behind that for her, but he knew that the others would never let him in. Jill had provided him with a rare entrance into her emotions and he chose to burrow deeper whilst he could. She may not have known of his love for her, but he was adamant that she knew of how far he would go for her, and how valued she truly was. He had lost too many friends...he could not lose the best he had.
"Please!" her voice came as a strangled cry that echoed off the walls. Something dragged along the tiles in the distance, slowly, ominously.
"No!"
Her scream propelled him around the corner, weapon drawn. It transpired that he need not have prepared himself for a fight; he could not face the enemy before him.
Forest Speyer; his closest friend within S.T.A.R.S., save for the woman he clung to in dry starvation. No, it could not have been Forest. Forest was dead; he had seen the body with his own eyes. This...creature. This creature was an abomination; an insult to his friend's memory. It was nothing of the man he had found himself deep in trouble with on many occasions.
So why was it so hard for him to pull the trigger, to save the life of his partner?
Jill...
The sharp crack was accompanied by the sickening squelch of brain matter as it separated from Forest's skull. He teetered for a moment, held up only by Jill's bloodied hands, before she lowered him respectfully to the ground, eyes on Chris at every beat of his racing heart.
Forest...
It was Speyer's company that Chris would have sought in such circumstances. Had he survived alongside them he likely would have accompanied Chris on his vigil, cheering them in the dark aftermath. Like Joseph, Forest always saw the lighter side of any situation. Situations were only as bad as you believed them to be...that was his motto. Dependable, reliable, cheerful Forest. His death was such a waste. He could have been so much more.
Emotion formed a ball within Chris's throat, one which almost choked him with its potency. He wanted to vomit, wanted to cry, even wanted to laugh. Coldness seeped from the very centre of his chest, infesting the surrounding tissue until the pain at his ribs became masochistically welcome. So unfamiliar were these feelings, he forced them out in the form of a laboured breath. A breath that turned suddenly to a vehement tirade against the hospital and even against Jill's bruised scalp. He had not intended to rant, but found that he could not control his speech. Moments later, the ball diffused and the cold receded, and once again he was able to feel Jill's comforting grip on his arm.
"Calm down," she requested, barely with the breath to ask. "Please don't make a scene."
He focused on the warmth against his forearm and allowed himself to be lost for a moment to the beauty of her touch. It proved a more effective remedy than any medication ever had. No pain, no anger, no grief...only her.
"Thank you," she acknowledged; a soft tug to pull him from his blissful world. "I must be an awful burden right now."
"There you go again with the self-pity," he joked. Never in the two years he had known her had she shown expectance of anything other than earned respect from others. She was independent and self-sufficient, and did not appear used to leaning on others for support. She overestimated the strain she put on those close to her.
Chris wished that he could be more like her. Left to his own devices, he only wound himself up. He was used to being alone but that did not mean that he coped well with his issues. Jill had once mused that perhaps his internalising of problems was what inspired such a foul mood to brew inside such a compassionate man. As always, her attempt to analyse the riddles of his mind was met with a barrage of comebacks. But deep down, he had known that she was right. If he could only learn to open up and let others in then perhaps he would not be so easily provoked. As Claire loved to point out, mellow did not exist for Chris Redfield.
Even so, he held on to his anger and to his thirst for revenge. Because truth be told, it was all that kept him going these days.
AN - Please review :)