Strength Through Wounding
AN - I actually finished this chapter at the weekend, but couldn't upload it. So apologies for the wait, hopefully it was worth it :). As you probably noticed, the rating went up. I didn't know how far I'd go with this chapter but I think it warrants an M. If not, it will cover me for later violence, etc. Things will hopefully start picking up from here; more tension, a little bit of criminal activity... Chapter title is from a song by Alkaline Trio.
Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed so far...Chaed, Daitsuke-kun, pezgirl1, KT324, C. Redfield 86, cjjs, Supermodel Sandwich, Kenshin13, tek, program-reaper, Ultimolu, Stardust4, xSummonerYunax and Sparkle Valentine. I appreciate you taking the time to leave comments. Hope you enjoy the chapter.
Chapter Two - I Was A Prayer
To a hopeless cause, I sold my soul
A romantic plastic piece of shit you can mold
Until I break into chokable pieces.
July 31, 1998. 7:00am.
The heat pressed against the boundaries of bearability. Somehow, somewhere, she found the means to tolerate it. He was insatiable, demanding more of her than she knew how to give.
She could not have moved had she harboured such a ridiculously stupid wish; his body pinned her comfortably to the mattress, strong arms and even stronger thighs caging her. She barely knew where to hold, her damp skin slipping uselessly against his own save for where it counted. Her sight was not her own, neither was her voice and she could barely control her limited range of movements. All she wanted was to be closer to him, to have him inside her very mind and soul, and not merely her body.
"Jill..." His voice was a low groan in her ear.
A response failed her, so she settled instead for grasping his thick hair and thrusting her hips up to meet his. Her mouth fell further open, an assortment of noises and babbles she could not make sense of tumbling into the humid air of her bedroom. It was not long before his lips caught these words and kissed her fiercely, passionately and yet still lovingly. His hands fell to her hips, holding her body steady as he buried himself to the hilt in her warmth.
There was not an inch of her body that was not touched, caressed or kissed in a manner that sent her into sensory overload. Yet somehow, just when she thought she had reached the peak of her senses, something pushed her further still.
In a brave and almost futile attempt, she forced him over with her strength, switching positions in a move she deemed reckless and very possibly a waste of time. Chris simply smiled at her, sliding a hand teasingly from her abdomen to a breast, something sensational fluttering in the wake of his touch. She paused momentarily to gather her thoughts and breathe an unhindered breath. But such a foolish move would not be allowed. Apparantly sensing that she had little energy to carry on, he gripped her hips tightly and pushed up to meet her.
It was different somehow, the way he pressed against her. There was more to him than she was used to and a simple rotation of his hips was all it took for her body to convulse out of control in the midst of a cry that was almost a protest, sending her crashing down onto his slippery torso.
"I got you," he whispered, voice laden with gluttonous desire. She wished that she could understand the emotions that flourished beneath the physical pleasure. There was something there, something wonderful, but she was not granted a moment's reprieve to study it and to revel in its purity.
Then the pace changed. His mood softened and he held her tenderly, whispering how soft her flesh was, how sweet the taste of her skin...how he loved her more than anything.
Something registered as absurd in her mind, and for a moment she writhed within sheets, burning from a fever she could not control. A moment later, all she felt was Chris, moving gently beneath her, catching her doubt with soft kisses along her jaw. She felt entirely useless, paralysed by a warm sensation that pulsed through her body in waves, but she knew for certain that she never wanted to leave the safety and comfort of his arms.
Her eyes fluttered closed, lips parting breathlessly as she reached yet a higher peak.
Never...
...in a million...
...years...
A scream broke through her delirium, and suddenly she was alone, clad in her usual cotton pyjamas. It took a moment for her to register that the scream had been her own, and that the sheets beneath her were soaked through to the mattress. Her pyjamas were no better, the thin material of her cami clinging stubbornly to her skin.
"What the fuck?" she gasped, every nerve searching for the sensations that had been upon her a moment earlier.
The footsteps that thudded outside her bedroom door a moment later were most unwelcome. He did not even speak as he found his way onto her bed, reaching for her in the comforting manner he had every night they had shared a bed only for her to wake him with her restlessness.
She was quick to bat away the hands that slid over exposed skin, feeling the attention of every hungry receptor turn to that small area of warmth.
"Don't!" she warned carefully. But as always, Chris failed to take the hint and was soon reaching for her face, fingers sliding to the source of her recently-overcome concussion.
His shirtless visage did not elude her attention and she cursed the summer temperatures, thanking only that he had chosen not to sleep in the nude.
In an instant it all became too much. Before the raging signals within her body achieved their goal, she flung herself over the side of her bed and into the ensuite bathroom. Chris had been kind enough to repair the damage he had caused the first night of his stay, and so it remained the closest room to her that was capable of placing a lockable physical barrier between the body she longed for in that moment and the body she seemed to have lost all control over.
"Jill, are you alright?"
It seemed that it was the only words he spoke to her lately. What was once touching concern had swiftly become unwanted attention.
"I'm fine," she countered, as she always did. "Just a nightmare."
There was no movement beyond the pine. It had been days since a nightmare had forced a scream from her; a definite cause for concern. When he finally moved away, she felt her body relax. Had he finally taken the hint that his help was unneeded? Or had he recognised her screams as those of arousal and not terror?
She shuddered at the thought. There would be no facing him if that were the truth.
Shedding her damp bed clothes, she stepped beneath the showerhead, making sure that the temperature was as low as could be before turning on the water. The droplets fell painful and cold against her flushed skin, like jagged particles of ice onto sun-scorched sand. Slowly but surely, her heart rate slowed and the memories faded with the thin sheen of sweat that coated her body.
When she was finally satisfied that her mind was her own and was once again in control of every aspect of her physical being, she leaned against the cool tiles, shivering from the cold.
She knew from the gossip of the girls of the R.P.D. that had found their way into the bed of Chris Redfield that at least the physical aspects of her dream had hit pretty close to the mark. It was this knowledge that she found difficult to shake off. The love and the happiness that merely being in his presence brought was not an issue; she had come to terms with these emotions months earlier. But how could she face him now that her libido had caught on to what her heart already knew?
"I think I preferred the zombies," she groaned, finding that she longed for the nights she spent back amongst the creatures of the mansion.
The hallucinations had, for the most part, devolved merely into lucid dreams. She assumed that her concussion had confused the boundaries of reality and imagination and so had forced her dreams into her daily life. At least, she preferred to think of it that way. It assured her that she was not completely insane. Still, she often found herself succumbing to surroundings that for the briefest of moments appeared as real as the air she breathed. When it was so difficult to distinguish dreams from reality, she found it easy to tolerate these moments of brief insanity.
Chris had remained by her side as promised until her check up, sharing her bed for the first night and setting up camp on her bedroom floor the subsequent two so as not to disturb her prescribed rest. Once the pain had faded, the swelling had subsided and she was given the all clear by a surprisingly quiet Rebecca, she found that her heart sank at the knowledge that Chris would be returning to his own apartment. Luck, however, appeared to be on her side when a reckless bound from her bed the first morning she woke to find her world did not spin aggravated her tender ankle. Fearing that she would fall, stumble or otherwise injure herself, Chris insisted that he remain a further few days.
When her awkward limp was no more, they were both out of excuses. She did not ask him to leave and he made no attempts to vacate her guest bedroom. Truth be told, she no longer knew if it was fear of being alone that brought her to crave his company or the love that she found increasingly hard to deny. If the dream told her anything, it was that it was foolish for them to be in such close, constant proximity when they were both as wounded as they were. When clueless to a cure, humanity always seemed to turn to pleasures to disguise unwanted symptoms.
Soon, the water ran warm against her and she forced herself to wash the memories away before wrapping herself in a robe and stepping out to face the uncertain.
"Christopher? Christopher!"
Barry flinched with his friend. It was perhaps in his best interests not to question the latest rift in the complex relationship of the Redfield siblings, but he had surmised Claire's reasoning without much thought.
"Chris, will you just pick up the phone? I saw the news and- Well, I'm worried, alright? Just call me and let me know that you're alright and I'll stop harassing you."
"See what I mean?" Chris asked, turning off his cell and placing it deep inside the top drawer of his desk.
Barry was not one to interfere with volatile circumstances, but he saw an unfairness in Chris's treatment of his teenaged sister that the family man within could not tolerate. He would have scolded either one of his daughters for acting in such a way.
"Call her back," he advised. "You know she's not gonna stop buggin' you 'til you do."
The unfriendly glare he turned from told him what he could do with his advice. Barry sighed. He should have known better. The others may have taken steps towards forgiveness, but the act was beyond Chris. The anger that seemed to shadow him in his every moment took away his capacity for forgiveness, for reason and for understanding. He had thought that Jill's increased presence in the man's daily life would help dilute his temper, but it only seemed to have exacerbated it all.
'She must be a damn nightmare to live with,' he concluded.
"Where is Jill today?" he asked. Anything that would force a change in mood.
Chris sighed pointlessly and shrugged.
"Beats me," he replied. "She came in earlier but ran off as soon as I arrived. I think she's avoiding me but can't think why."
Barry grimaced. Jill was another enigma in the dark days of aftermath. He had never seen her so withdrawn and so skittish. She barely knew where she was any more. With the psychiatric evaluations Irons had forced them all into beginning soon after the press conference that had ended only in ridicule and humiliation, it was no surprise that she clamoured for an escape route. Surface checks turned up nothing against Umbrella, and deeper probing would have to be held off until wounds had adequately healed. For now, the office was their cell and it suffocated them as such.
"I just... Why do women have to be so fucking closed with everything?" Chris fumed. Barry did not question his rant and listened with an attentive ear. "They're all about feelings and shit, but when it comes to their own they clam up and there's no way in."
Flakes of varnished wood chipped away from the desk beneath Chris's fingernails. Frustration was evident in every tensed muscle, in every twitch of his dark scowl. Barry decided against pointing out that Chris was acting in the exact same way. He was not in the mood to handle the inevitably resulting fireworks.
"Try being married to one," he chortled. "It gets worse."
Kathy had remained schtum about her feelings towards the attention her husband received from both the townspeople and the press. She could barely walk to the convenience store without a microphone being suddenly and viciously thrust beneath her nose. The press knew no boundaries he was so sure that if they did not cease their invasive actions soon, his enraged wife would be teaching them the hard way.
He had never wanted such negative attention to fall on his family, but such was the price of fighting the good fight. He simply felt lucky that Kathy was on his side and had vowed to stand resolutely by him every step of the way.
But would she be so motivated if she knew of his betrayal?
"Maybe she's afraid of me?" Chris continued, oblivious to his friend's lack of attention. "But why? She has no reason. I'd never hurt her. Never."
He ranted to the weathered surface of his desk, seeming not to care whether or not anyone was listening to his words. Perhaps it was for the best that he did not know of the other man's inner turmoil? Barry never had been the type of man who could easily open up. It was a trait he shared with the young marksman, only not so influenced by youth and inexperience.
"How the hell am I supposed to help her if she won't even look at me?"
Barry knew how his companion felt, but did not know what to say to make him feel any better.
"Jill is a strong woman," he tried. "She can handle herself. You don't have to help her, Chris. Just give her some space and she'll come around on her own."
It was obvious that his answer was not pleasing. Chris Redfield often did not know when to drop something, and being told had been proven to rile him in the past. Barry understood his desire to help the quietly suffering Jill. They had arrived too late to help the others, too late to offer assistance of any kind. Now that they had the opportunity it was a given that they would seize it with both hands and, in Chris's case, stubbornly refuse to let it go.
There were no words that could express his regret over the betrayal they had suffered at his hands. His family may have meant the world to him, but that was no excuse for endangering the lives of his friends.
'Why am I still here?'
Kathy and the girls were at home, likely watching the television with curtains closed to avoid the baying press. He was torn between two poles of loyalty, between the family he had risked it all for and the friends that had suffered as a result. Kathy could not understand why he believed he owed so much to the others, and he found that on every occasion that she questioned his blind loyalty he could not answer with the truth.
"You know what?" Chris fumed. "Fuck it. I'm out of here."
This news came as a surprise; the younger S.T.A.R.S. members may have watched the ticking clock with the expectation of bored high school students, but none of them had ever clocked off early. Truth be told, Chris was always the one to remain after hours. Though as time passed, Barry had begun to wonder if this had less to do with his work ethic and more to do with the woman he would spent the overtime with. It was no wonder her reluctance to accept help had infuriated the man; any fool could see that they danced around deeply romantic feelings.
"Go home, Barry," Chris suggested as he shrugged on his jacket. "Go see Kathy."
While it pleased Barry that Chris could still find words to speak to him, he knew that returning to the good friends they had once been would take some time.
There was so much that needed to be said...and not just to Chris.
With both family and friends in mind, he obeyed without question.
Raccoon City was a contradiction in its own right. Rebecca often thought it appeared as though areas had been pulled from various cities across the United States and deposited smack bang in the middle of Michigan. Tall skyscrapers and urban filth met lush plant life and a relaxed atmosphere the likes of which she had never found in such a large city. Strangely enough, it was this aspect of Raccoon that she had fallen in love with.
The area she found herself in that afternoon was not far from the centre of town. The settings were semi-urban but still held a lingering scent of the chill that the city often brought to one's mind. It was an area favoured by the other S.T.A.R.S. members, for convenience, security and price. Rebecca, on the other hand, resided far away from the others, virtually on the other side of town. It had been a condition of her parents' permission to move to Raccoon that they be allowed to buy her an apartment in a respectable area of town. An area, it seemed, that was populated mainly by middle-class families. She could not drive and found the daily commute almost hellish so she was pleased to discover that Barry lived nearby and was more than willing to drive her to work every morning and back home again most evenings.
The apartment block before her was modern in build, but rustically weathered in keeping with the general feel of downtown Raccoon.
"Please be in, please be in," she repeated. "Sixth time lucky..."
To her delight, the intercom buzzed moments after she pressed on the call button.
"Hello?" The voice was warm and light, but also sad and wistful.
"Bridgette?" she called, surprised both that she had been blessed with an answer and had actually found the voice to speak. "Hi, my name is Rebecca Chambers, I-"
Her voice was cut off in an instant by a furious buzz that she barely recognised as the automatic release of the lock. Time stood still for the shortest of moments. So suddenly? She had at least expected to argue her case before being invited in.
In a flurry of movement, she pushed on the heavy obstacle and found that her feet carried her without much effort up to the second floor.
The door was open when she reached apartment 215, though she was initially reluctant to step inside without a welcome. Swallowing her anxiety, she stepped forward, making sure that the door closed safely behind her.
"Hello?" she tried, met only with silence. Boxes towered precariously against bare walls, the only furniture a large television and leather couch.
Suitcases blocked the entrance to what she assumed was the bedroom, S.T.A.R.S. paraphernalia falling from the hole of a badly beaten cardboard structure.
"Do you like Earl Grey?" a voice asked, startling her with its casual interruption of her observations. "It's all I have right now but I could pour you a glass of milk if you like."
Her fingers found the awaiting mug, gratefully accepting the beverage. Bridgette smiled at her mournfully, her eyes failing to reflect the happiness conveyed by her lightly-painted lips.
"Tea is fine," Rebecca assured her. "I didn't expect anything, to be honest."
Bridgette instructed her to sit, an unmistakeable eagerness in her voice not floating far above Rebecca's head.
"You're probably wondering who I am," she forced out, thought barely propelling her words.
Honey blonde hair swirled in waves as Bridgette shook her head enthusiastically. She was pretty, that much Rebecca could tell. Green eyes, full lips, curvy figure. In years, she appeared to be the same age as Jill. The same age Richard had been.
"Rebecca," she acknowledged sadly. "You're not quite what I had imagined. Much shorter, a lot prettier. Sorry, I... Richard. He spoke of you quite fondly."
Rebecca bowed her head, threatening the tears that pricked at her eyes. She had no right to shed them, not here, not now.
As her head rose, she caught the glimmer of the diamond at Bridgette's left hand. It seemed out of place on such a homely girl, but sparkled in such a way that it complimented her perfectly. Rebecca had only received a single payment of wages, but knew that the S.T.A.R.S. salary was nothing special. It must have taken months to save up for such a mesmerising ring.
"I'm sorry for your loss," the younger girl offered. It did not touch upon what needed to be said, but it was all that she could put into words.
Bridgette looked away, smiling sadly to herself.
"And I for yours," she spoke softly. "I fear you feel it more greatly at this moment than I do."
Suddenly, words were a lost cause. Unaware of what exactly had brought her to Bridgette, a woman widowed before her own wedding, Rebecca suddenly wished that she were safely in her apartment on the other side of the city.
As though the moment called for it, she suddenly became aware of a flash of red against the cream walls. No stain was left against the paint, though the man that leaned against it was barely recognisable from the blood that coated his savagely mangled form. Strips of the orange shirt hung loosely round his waist, the uncovered chest glistening with gore that barely covered a battered ribcage. An eye had been lost, as had an arm from the elbow down, and the crew-cut he had been teased about on many occasions was no longer complete. Enough flesh remained to hold the majority of his organs where they belonged, but the muscle of his legs had been almost completely stripped from the bone. He was a walking medical impossibility.
When he spoke, she could barely understand the words that were forced through severed vocal cords.
"Isn't she beautiful?" he asked, surprising her to find that his faceless gaze was not on her. "She tried to stop me from joining S.T.A.R.S., you know. Said it was too dangerous. I told her she was wrong. I wish just this time she had not been proven right."
"I...I have to know," Bridgette whispered, confirming Rebecca's suspicion that Richard was confined to her senses alone. "All these stories; I don't know what to make of them, what to believe."
She knew the question before the grieving woman could voice her curiosity. Tears spilled onto the glistening ring.
"How did it happen?"
"Tell her, Rebecca. Tell her the truth."
It concerned her that the others had thrown aside the purpose of such a large, water-filled area after little more than light speculation. Little was visible beneath the surface of the murky water, but she was willing to believe that it must have run deep. The surface flowed at the level of her knees, flooding boosting the volume of the substance that steadily began to unnerve her.
As was inevitable when stepping on wet metal, she slipped against the gangway, the vile water rising up to meet her. As luck would have it, she ceased her descent before her face connected with the grey pool. Hands gripped her securely, hauling her to her feet with great care.
"Watch your step," Jill reminded her. Embarrassment forced out an apology, cheeks burning painfully as she realised that all eyes were on her.
Chris and Barry moved on, hands suddenly at the railings to prevent a similar mishap. Richard offered a smile from a few paces behind Jill and it was enough to reassure her for now.
"You should really let me take a look at that," she told the woman that ushered her forward, noticing once again the thick river of dried blood that ran from beneath her beret to the curve of her jaw. A collision powerful enough to draw blood likely would have left her concussed and sporting one hell of a migraine.
"I'm fine," Jill reacted stubbornly. Rebecca turned from her sheepishly, moving further towards the men of Alpha.
"Rebecca."
She did not turn around, only signalled that she was listening.
"When we get to safety you can clean it up, okay?"
She sensed a smile in Jill's voice, and it forced one to her lips. Deep down she knew that the offer had merely been to make her feel less useless but she appreciated the sentiment and harboured genuine concern for what was potentially quite a serious injury.
"Wow, you're admitting to injury," Richard laughed from yet further in the distance. "I'd make a joke about flying pigs, but they could actually be a possibility in this place."
Every survivor laughed at this, appreciating a welcome break in the otherwise dismal atmosphere.
Rebecca found that her steps were steadier than before, and she felt confident enough to pick up speed, closing the gap between herself and the guys.
She sensed a less welcome shift in the atmosphere moments later, every hair rising on her arms. The distinct feeling of being watched had been creeping up on her ever since they had stepped into the aqua ring, but now it threatened to touch upon her composure. She could sense the build up to an unknown crescendo; a feeling unsettling in its own right, but downright terrifying in current circumstances.
"Jill, look out!"
Richard's voice sliced through the tune of the metaphorical orchestra in her mind, and she spun around suddenly, stumbling backwards into Chris as he not only turned, but made to rush past her.
Suddenly, they were all on their backs, water spraying from the pool to the left of the gangway. Something large, sleek and riddled with festering wounds lunged through the air, jagged teeth bearing down on the other female.
Chris's legs wrapped suddenly around Rebecca's midriff, catching her as she slid towards the edge of the splintered metal platform, water crushing in on all sides. Blood stained the water around her, shotgun sinking to the depths as the platform gave way.
'Jill! No, no, no!'
She was suddenly pulled to her feet, dragged through the shallows and roughly taken into Barry's care as Chris dove beneath the surface. Jill's blue beret floated ominously towards her and Barry barely relinquished his grip as she reached out for it.
All was calm and quiet, crimson water concealing Chris from view. Barry continued to hold her tight, barely maintaining his balance on the shaking frame. Richard... Richard was nowhere to be seen.
The surface of the water broke and Chris appeared through the rippled waves, a slender arm wrapped loosely yet securely around his neck. With less care than he had shown in the past, he hauled Jill up the broken gangway, depositing her on the more stable section where Barry held the rookie.
Rebecca pulled free from the Alpha's grasp to hastily but gently tap Jill's cheek with her fingertips. The blood had washed from her face, but no new wounds seemed to have appeared. After a few seconds she concluded that she had merely been winded, and pulled the beret gently over her head while she blinked at her surroundings.
"Where's Richard?" she asked, turning to Chris. The expression that met her eyes forced her heart down into the pit of her stomach. Jill had not been wounded, she was not bleeding. The blood...
"Richard!" Jill cried out suddenly, jerking out of Rebecca's clinical hold and almost falling back to where she had only recently been recovered from.
"Jill, don't!" Chris pleaded. He attempted to pull her back, to guide them all towards the door that lay mere metres away.
"Richard!"
"Hold her back!" Rebecca barked. Her first order. It seemed surreal and a little bittersweet that it should come under such circumstances.
Water sprayed up at them, a scream that did not belong to Jill stealing their attention with its painful intensity. Richard emerged from the spray, and suddenly there was no holding her back.
Blood slopped thick and fast from his open mouth, one hand pushing down on the jaws that clamped around his waist, the other reaching instinctively forward.
There was no stopping the girl in blue as she threw her body forward, grasping Richard's frantic hand. Rebecca was forced aside, making room for Barry to join in Chris's seemingly futile effort to keep her on the platform and out of the water. Even with Barry's arms at her shoulders and Chris's at her waist, the woman displayed amazing strength and resilience; but in this deadly game of tug-of-war, she did not stand a chance.
Suddenly, they were thrown back onto the bending metal, Chris taking the most of Jill's weight. In the sudden rush of movement, Rebecca had difficulty finding her feet again.
"Ah!"
Jill's deeply disturbed cry caught the attention of the others, but Rebecca wished in an instant that she had not turned. Richard's hand slipped from Jill's grasp, dropping into the water before them. As it sank steadily to meet the body that already been dragged to depths that were dizzying to consider, it left a crimson trail in its wake. The sickening spiral hypnotized the young medic, moments later dispersing in an almost artistic haze.
The silence that met her story was suffocating. Rebecca tugged at the collar of her shirt, shifting uncomfortably as a bead of sweat rolled down her calf. Bridgette had bowed her head the moment the story began, the thick waves of her hair hiding her expression in a rather clever display of grief.
"I'm so sorry," Rebecca choked. Should she reach for her hand? Offer her a crumpled tissue? "I don't expect you to believe me."
"I do." Bridgette's voice was tinged with sadness; tears wiped quickly from her rosy cheeks before she lifted her head and attempted a smile.
"It makes sense. What the...everything the reporters said. It didn't add up. I never thought that zombies and genetically engineered sharks would be the most logical conclusion."
Rebecca tried to laugh with her, but found that she could not. Bridgette had been waiting for the answers that Irons and the media had denied her. Closure came with a bitter taste, but it was better that she know than spend the rest of her life wondering.
"How is Jill?"
It seemed as though everyone was seeking the answer to this question. It was a natural reaction to feel a little annoyed.
"She's fine. Alive."
Several beads of liquid escaped through intertwined lashes. Bridgette set aside her teacup and brought a tissue to her eyes.
"Good," she breathed. "Then he died the way he would have wanted."
She laughed humourlessly, folding the tissue over and over in her hands.
"It doesn't help much, but... I'm proud of him. You should be, too."
Rebecca looked her in the eye, confused by the meaning of her words. Bridgette tilted her head to the side with another wide smile. Such a pleasant girl. She did not deserve to hurt the way she did.
"Richard always used to say I was good at reading people. It's not your fault, Rebecca. I don't understand your reasoning for believing so, but it's not true."
Something lifted with her words, something that had wrapped around her heart with icy tendrils and over the course of the past week had began to slowly and painfully crush all feeling from the battered organ.
"She never lies." Though his voice rang in her ears, she could not locate Richard within the small living room.
She stayed for a little while, exchanging memories of their mutual friend. Rebecca's input was limited to say the least, but what she learned far outweighed her shyness. Bridgette revealed her desire to leave Raccoon, having found living with the ghost of her relationship nigh on unbearable. She flew out in two days but made the promise to visit each of the survivors; after all, they were her friends as much as they were Richard's.
When Rebecca finally left with a cell phone number tucked within the fabrics of her purse, the sun hung low in the sky. She was aware of an uncomfortable build of pressure behind her eyes, pressing on each and every one of her senses. She pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezed shut her eyes, but nothing could force tears into existence. Relief crashed against her, pushing so forcefully against her ribcage that she raised a hand to her chest.
"Rebecca?"
The voice, to her surprise, was feminine.
"What are you doing here?"
Strangely enough, what her will alone had been unable to accomplish, Jill's voice provoked in a matter of seconds. She tried her best to hide her eyes but as usual nothing slipped past her teammate. Before she knew it, her palms were collecting tears.
There was no thought more humiliating to her than that of breaking down in front of Jill Valentine. Her weakness was displayed so pitifully in front of the one woman who was apparently immune to the concept. She waited for the laugh, for the scold and the icy demand to pull herself together.
But they never came.
"Hey," Jill's voice soothed as her arms found their way around her.
Rebecca's pride told her to move away, to shun the comfort she was offered, but she couldn't.
There was something about Jill's hold that drove away the moisture in her eyes. Something that did not judge or pity her. It was a welcome change to what she had been offered in the past and suddenly all the images she had built of her fellow survivor were shattered.
Forcing herself to wallow in well-deserved shame, she clung to her lithe form.
"It's okay," Jill murmured. She waited until Rebecca made the first move before pulling away. "Do you want to talk?"
She shook her head, and for once there was meaning in her response. Nothing she could say now would change anything. Bridgette's words would not sound the same in any other voice. She did not yet know if they would be enough to quell the tempest within.
All she could do was wait...and hope.
Teetering on the edge of a bar stool was not the way Chris Redfield liked to end the day. A round of beers with the guys at Jack's, or a greasy burger from Grill 13, but never alone, never this drunk.
His alcohol habits had calmed in the past few years, but he remained with the tolerance to drink a fair amount before he felt the effects. Even by his standards, he knew he had crossed the line. His vision swam, mind raced and it took him several attempts to locate his draught.
When stress set in, all Chris knew was to drink the pain away.
The bartender left him well alone. What his reasoning was, Chris did not know, nor did he care. There were many customers that night, several of which were propping up the bar solo. Women troubles, he guessed. It was always the same story.
He used to mock the foolish souls that let a woman steal their heart and drain their pride, but tonight he shared in their pain.
A chance meeting with Jill as he swiftly exited the R.P.D. building had turned an already sour mood bad. The refusal to look him in the eye was infuriating enough, but her awkward avoidance of his friendly chatter and constant movements away from him had proved more than mildly annoying. The worst part of it all was that she had given no reason for her avoidance. Was she afraid of him?
Pain had hit him hard the moment she brushed past him and had not faded since. It was a high price he paid for the enjoyment of many moments they had spent together under the same roof. Moments that further emphasised the depth of his feelings for her; the way she folded clean towels, the way she laughed at her favourite sitcom, the concentration displayed in her posture as she set about cooking an afternoon meal for them both. He loved it all, and feared that he would soon be forced out of their tentatively shared apartment.
If only he knew what he had done, then he could make it right...
"I'm back."
He felt his unexpected companion lift herself back onto the barstool to his right. For a moment he thought that she would topple from her own weight, which was admittedly not much.
"So...where were we?"
Sharpened nails scraped the bare skin against his biceps. Familiar tingles of pleasure flashed along his muscles momentarily. Her touch was insistent and almost viciously eager. There was no doubt about it what she expected from him should he choose to play along with her little game.
At that moment, he was more than willing.
"My place isn't far from here," she purred, edging her stool closer to his. Her knee came to rest between his thighs, its proximity to a certain area no coincidence. "We could...be there in ten minutes. Tops."
Her breath stung his lips, a distinctly unpleasant concoction of gin, rum and unless he was mistaken, blackcurrant. Even so, there was something so enticing about the maroon tint of her lip gloss, and the way she seemed desperate for his company. He could not focus adequately to discern the colour of her eyes, but knew that they were half lidded. She was offering him carnal comfort on a silver platter; how could he refuse?
There was nothing gentle about his ways as he pulled her to him, and she giggled enjoyment at his enthusiasm. Her breath tasted as foul as it smelled, her lips too thin, too desperate.
"Thank you." Her words were accompanied with an appreciative smile. One that utilised the fullness of her lips to create a vision that sent her gratitude straight to the very centre of his heart.
Her hands groped limply at his chest, settling for the material of his shirt when they proved too numb to feel what lay beneath.
He was amazed that she had succeeded in hauling him to his feet. Her grip was not as weak as he expected, and it appeared that those slender fingers were misleading. So expressive, yielding not even to his considerable weight.
The hair that brushed against his cheek was coarse and damaged, and was most unpleasant against his fingers.
"What is this?"
She allowed him to reach up and test her newly-adopted hairstyle. The same natural deep chestnut colour, now ending at the level of her jaw. Her hair could have been any shade, any shape, any length, and he would still have found her immensely attractive. Despite this most important truth, he noted that this new cut emphasised everything that was beautiful about her.
Drunken though his fumbling was, Chris succeeded in separating himself from the girl that was now almost on his lap.
"I can't," he slurred. "I can't."
Her touch and her aggressive insistence touched on every base instinct, activating the most primitive areas of his brain. However, his heart beat furiously against the wave of lust that descended, overpowering his iron-clad will for the first time he could truly remember.
The woman was attractive, eager and her kiss left him wondering what else she was capable of. She was everything he had sought in a woman at this hour of the night, everything that would comfort him for a few short hours…but she wasn't Jill.
"Come on, Chris," she sighed, leaning back a few inches. "We've all got issues. Let me help you forget."
It seemed that he was no longer capable of entertaining such a thought. Had he succumbed to her advances, he knew that he would only think of her as his partner, believing it was Jill's gentle curves beneath him but knowing that they did not feel as they should. He would likely cry out the wrong name, and the act itself would prove enough to elevate his relationship with Jill to a whole new level of awkwardness. It would be good, but it would be meaningless.
What was once enough no longer sufficed.
"I can't," he repeated heavily.
The woman's reaction was not quite what he had expected.
"A woman, right?" she asked, not amused by the idea. "Hell of a stupid reason but I ain't gonna argue. Not after last time…"
She shuddered as she hopped from her barstool, legs buckling as heels slid against the floor. Chris did not care to watch her leave.
The ambience of the bar once again settled around him; idle chatter, laughter…
"Still no word on-"
His attention suddenly drawn to the television set above the bar, he failed to notice the void within his glass. His own face flashed alongside those of his teammates, footage of the press conference Irons had forced them to attend – and later regretted – once again displayed above a disbelieving headline.
Jill appeared moments later, her bruised face twisted in a pained expression as she flinched from the impact of a question – perhaps an accusation? – that had been thrown her way.
Two years ago he would not have noticed the flush of her cheeks, or the gentle pout of her lips; the way her eyes would magnify a smile. The simple fact that he had remained oblivious to her beauty for so long astounded him. True, she was not in the calibre of supermodels, but in her own right she was equally as attractive…at least, she was to his eyes.
A strange numb desperation settled in his ribcage. He had never had difficulty in approaching women. Admittedly, he had never experienced the depth of feeling that Jill invoked within him.
He had lost too many friends to count. Barry's loyalty was questionable at best, Rebecca had been with them for too short a time, and Brad had fallen far past the boundaries of betrayal. Jill was all that kept him anchored to sanity, all that was left of the camaraderie that he so loved about the S.T.A.R.S. unit. Yes, he had lost too many friends to count; and in a sick, sadistic way, he felt as though he were losing one more.
Slowly, the bartender ambled towards him.
"Fill me up."
The press had dissipated by the time Barry returned home. Nevertheless, the street remained devoid of inhabitants. It was not an unusual sight; not since the 'murders' began.
Kathy did not meet him at the door with her usual kiss and offer of a hot beverage. Even Polly and Moira were nowhere to be seen.
"Hello?"
His call was met a moment later by the vision of his wife that appeared in the living room doorway.
"I'm just in here," she said with a smile. "Let myself get behind on the chores again. The girls are at Paula's."
Barry grimaced unwillingly; a deviation from his normal behaviour that his wife picked up on in an instant. Between the hours he spent at work and his silence when he eventually returned home, he was amazed that she had not yet confronted him with awkward questions.
"Barry, what is it?" she asked impatiently. Her husband's closed mind and quiet heart had hung like a heavy shadow over their family. Their daughters had noticed his sullen attitude and though they were concerned for their father, they simply did not know how to react.
"Kathy…" his voice barely carried his words. "We need to talk."
She reacted to his admission only by clearing laundry from the sofa, switching the iron off at the wall and settling down onto the soft cushions to await what she assumed to be a confession.
Barry found joining her more difficult than was perhaps necessary. Reprieve was presented only in the form of his daughters' absence from the house. What would follow would likely not be pleasant and he did not wish to expose them to further turmoil.
"I haven't been completely honest with you," he confessed, holding her hands gently within his own. Kathy's eyes searched his bearded face, too impatient, it seemed, to wait for a verbal response.
"Then start now," she instructed, sympathetic but not overly so. "We miss you, Barry. All that time you spend locked in that office. There is no reason-"
"Kathy." He was resolute in his decision to come clean, but words would not manifest. The love of his family was all that kept him going; who knew what would happen if it were suddenly withdrawn?
"I am more to blame than you know," he choked. Kathy made to protest, but he held up a hand to silence her. "Wesker approached me not long after I separated from Jill. I knew before long that it was no coincidence we found our way to the mansion. He refused to tell me the full extent of his orders, but I knew that we were all expendable; perhaps even meant to die."
Kathy remained silent in confusion, and he could sense that she waited for him to finish before allowing herself to jump to conclusions.
"He wanted my help," Barry continued. "Something about finding keys. When I refused, going so far as to voice my intention to inform the other of his betrayal, he said that there were men here, at this house. He told me they had you and the girls, and they would kill you if I refused him."
Her grip on his hands tightened almost painfully. The agony he had felt the moment Wesker had revealed his 'leverage' reflected back at him from the depths of her blue eyes.
"The others couldn't know, he said. He wanted me to kill them if they became suspicious."
Suddenly, hands were pulled from his grasp. The expression within her eyes had changed; once sympathetic, now pleading. Pleading with him to tell her that he had refused, that he had not taken Wesker's threat to heart and followed his orders.
"I avoided them," he continued, voice strangled through tearless sorrow. "Kept my distance, just to be safe. It worked for a while, but…after a while, Jill became suspicious."
"Barry…" Kathy gasped suddenly. "Tell me…please tell me you didn't'."
"I had no choice!" he insisted, moisture now building around his lashes. "Jill has more brains than the rest of us put together. I knew that…Wesker knew that. He wanted me to kill her, and if I didn't…he would send word back and one of the girls would die. I tried to avoid her, hoping that he wouldn't stumble across her and if he did she wouldn't be alone. But eventually, she found me…"
Kathy was suddenly gone from his side, her expression stubbornly hidden. He longed to hold her, but knew that she would only reject his advances. She was stronger than him most days, and today was no different.
"I was terrified," he forced himself to admit, knowing that his only chance of forgiveness was to continue. "I've known Jill for years, I couldn't- I thought if I finished it quickly it would be easier. She questioned me and…I pulled my gun on her. My actions were only half-hearted and when she moved to disarm me I didn't put up a fight. I couldn't confess to her, not even when I stared down the barrel of my own gun. If Wesker found out… We fought together after, and for a while I thought she had forgiven me…"
"Jill."
"Just get out of here," she ordered. He could tell from her tone that she was torn between watching him walk away and forcing upon him the same fate as the monster she had moments before seen thrown off the side of the stone platform.
She had not been the same since Richard's demise; while calm, cool and rational throughout the exploration of the mansion, she was now uncertain, angry and wounded and no longer cared who knew.
"I'm sorry-"
"I know you are," she revealed, voice distorted by an uncharacteristic snarl. "Which is the only reason I haven't killed you myself."
She turned to face him, her face a picture of hurt and betrayal.
"Go," she instructed again. "Before whoever is pulling your strings finds out that you spoke to me."
Her words should have comforted him, but their effect could be compared to a jagged whip against his soul. He did not want her help, or her sympathy. He had very almost killed her, yet she was offering him an escape.
"Jill, you-"
"Get out of here!" she screamed, moving closer to the open stone coffin that separated them. "Get out before I accept the fact that our progress has been severely hampered by your efforts!"
In the two years since her appointment within S.T.A.R.S., the full brunt of Jill's anger had not once been exposed to the others. As he flinched from the impact of her words, Barry realised that there was nothing beautiful or structured with her fury. It was terrifying in its lack of her usually clarity and compassion, forcing his legs to carry him towards the steel frame of the cargo lift.
The rage of Jill Valentine was not something he was keen to experience again. Even Chris's frightening temper had nothing on her cold, calculated fury. He would wager that it was enough to stop even Wesker in his tracks.
"We met again in the labs," he continued in his explanation of his betrayal. "But not before Wesker had found me and told me he wanted Chris and Jill to be led to a room at the back of the experimental facilities. When I met up with the others again, I realised how close to freedom we were. It was clear that Jill had withheld the details of out altercation from the others. I was ready to forget his orders and run for freedom, hoping that I could get to you before anything could happen. Then…then we were attacked. Jill led the monsters away and saved our lives. Trouble was, she had run in the direction of Wesker's lab. Chris refused to leave without her, and...they found out about Wesker's involvement with Umbrella. Jill was in trouble and I couldn't let him go through with whatever it was he had planned for her. So I came clean…told Chris were Jill would likely be. He barely spoke to me after that, but at least we all escaped. Wesker was dead and they told me he confessed to lying about holding you hostage."
Kathy remained silent, shirking away his touch when he rose to gauge her reaction. There was so much more that he wanted to say, so many excuses he was prepared to offer. Nothing seemed appropriate, and the excuses were just that…excuses. They weren't truth, they did not reflect how he truly felt; deeply ashamed and unforgiving of his actions.
"How could you?" Kathy asked at long last in a voice that trembled for reasons that were not yet known to her husband. "Whether or not they are your friends, Barry, they are people! How could you risk their lives? How could-"
"I couldn't let you die!" he insisted. "Kathy, I love you. I'm not proud of what I did, but I couldn't- I couldn't stand by and let you die. It was a catch twenty-two; either way, I wouldn't have been able to live with myself."
"Of all the lowlife, despicable-" she began, words meaningless when the disgust was heard in her voice.
Suddenly, she cut herself off. Her sudden silence both concerned and confused a desperate Barry. Kathy's forgiveness was not easily doled out, but he had hoped that perhaps she would be willing to consider clemency in his case. Silence…he did not know what to make of silence. It was too full of possibilities; meanings that could twist any way and still settle on a conclusion that was far from expected. When expectation was not easily confirmed, it made an already distressing situation unbearable.
"Teach me how to shoot," she asked.
"I'm sorry?" Had he not heard her correctly?
"You're worried about us," she pointed out, her voice not exactly pleasant. It told him point blank that he would be sleeping on the sofa that night. "Teach me how to use a firearm and you won't have to stoop to levels so low next time we are threatened. I want you to know that I am just as capable of protecting us as you are."
Barry considered arguing, pointing out that he did not doubt her strength, both physical and emotional.
In the end, he chose to bow to her will. It may not call for her to trust him, but perhaps she was right; perhaps it would ease his mind.
Midnight was fast approaching and still there was no sign of her roommate. No phone call, no messages on her empty answering machine. An empty bed had met her brief search of the apartment, and she was unsure if the feeling that set in was worry or annoyance.
If it was annoyance then why did she remain awake, waiting impatiently in the silence for a sign of his wellbeing?
She was fraught with concern, remembering only his pained expression as she fled from him in the entrance hall of the police station. Still perturbed by the dream that had haunted her the night before, she had found his presence distressing. Distressing because 'haunting' was not quite the word she would have used to describe the dream. It was wish-fulfilling in the most Freudian sense of the concept.
Recalling her ex-boyfriend's educational words during their break-up several months previously, she found it increasingly difficult to deny the fact that she was in love with Chris. She had accepted the notion on many occasions, denying it almost immediately when inappropriate thoughts and painful longing set it. It was easier to claim that she did not wish to be the one his affections were showered upon than it was to tolerate the sting of unrequited love.
Even her insistence that Chris was wrong for her fell apart. While he had once been careless with his feelings and sometimes misogynistic in his affections, she had come to understand the reasoning behind his acting in such a way. Then, as time progressed and she saw the way he acted with the girlfriends he had taken in the time she had known him, every negative opinion she had of him disappeared. He was more likely to have his heart broken than to break that of someone else.
She reached for the flowers on her small dining table, pushing the slim vase out of mere boredom. It was a small touch she had added to her apartment in recent days in an admittedly failed attempt to ease the gloom. All they had provided was another shadow to twist and turn before her eyes. The quiet did little to chase away the chill that set upon her, and she closed her eyes as the hair on her neck rose ominously. There was not a soul behind her, yet her body sensed something closing in, reaching, fumbling-
A sudden scratch at the door caused her to jump almost out of her chair in fright. Small strokes; uneven circles carved around the metal of the lock. In an instant, she was on her feet, the firearm she kept by her side at all times gripped tightly with both hands.
She held her breath as she peered through the peep hole, tucking the weapon into the waistband of her jeans as she reached for the lock a moment later.
Chris swayed on the other side, arm outstretched as he manoeuvred his key through the air, not seeming to register that the lock was no longer where it should have been.
"Where the hell have you been?" Jill seethed. "I've been out of my mind with worry!"
She was answered only with a dubious shrug before he stumbled over the threshold, falling into her supportive hold a moment later.
"Whoa, steady," Jill urged, managing barely to kick the door behind her closed. "Damn, how much did you drink?"
He tried his best to stand on his own two feet, but seemed unable to master the rather simple act of balance. In the end, Jill allowed him to rest the majority of his weight on her shoulders, fearing for his injured ribs as she carried him through to the spare bedroom.
"At least you came home alone," she muttered to herself. "I suppose that's one fact I should be thankful for."
He grunted; a sure sign of annoyance. She truly was thankful for his lack of company. The sounds that would have no doubt travelled through her rather thin walls would have been too much to bear. She did not know what she would do with yet another tear-stained pillowcase. Crying over a man was not something she was accustomed to and was unpleasant on the rare occasions that it did happen.
Chris was able to sway more or less on the spot when she directed him towards his bed. Trying her best to detach her mind from her actions, she reached for the bottom of his T-shirt, pleased when he did not assume the obvious. Her efforts uncovered toned muscles, still bearing the mottled bruising of an abused ribcage. As she had known from his lack of shyness in the shared locker room, there was not a single hair on his chest or abdomen and the skin was as tanned as his arms. His Air Force dog tags hung as they always did around his neck; there was not a time she could recall when he did not wear them with pride. Her hands fell next to his belt, fingers deftly unbuckling it with skill he would have mocked were he in possession of all his faculties.
"Hey!" he spoke suddenly, making no effort to stop her but seeming a little too interested in her wrists, which he saw fit to wrap his fingers around. "At least ask first."
She laughed involuntarily, hysteria threatening to impede her progress. He had been drunk on many occasions, but only when she herself had been in a similar state of inebriation. It was an amusing sight to behold.
"Don't push your luck," she reminded him amicably yet sternly, careful that his boxers remained as they were when his jeans were pulled down.
He did not need to be asked to crawl beneath the covers, but as he lay amongst the linen he looked up at her wistfully, unspoken words evidently on the tip of his tongue.
Jill leaned down to pull the covers up to his chin, pausing a moment later when his fingers reached up to tuck fallen hair behind her ears. His thumb fell short of its goal, brushing tenderly against the soft skin of her cheek.
"You're beautiful," he slurred.
She pulled back unexpectedly, recoiling from the softness of his alcohol-laden voice. His words were like poison to her weakened heart.
"You should…get some sleep," she excused. Her feet could not carry her fast enough to the door.
"I would join you but I don't trust you to keep your hands to yourself," she joked as an afterthought. Anything to pretend that she had not taken his words in the way she had. If he remembered anything of this in the morning, at least he would not remember her smile at his compliment.
As she allowed the door to close behind her, she was sure that she heard a small voice mutter sadly to itself.
"Neither do I."
AN - Please review :)