Strength Through Wounding
AN - Happy new year, everyone! I hope 2010 is treating you all well so far. I finished this a little sooner than I thought, but one again it deviated a little from the plan. It was intended to be a quite Chris-heavy chapter (hence the title ^_^) and about half this length, but once I start typing I never know what's going to come out. I've been listening to a lot of new music lately but one old song that came up when I was thinking about this chapter was Animal I Have Become by Three Days Grace. It could be Chris's theme song at the moment lol. Chapter title is from a song by The Get Up Kids.
The next chapter will likely not be up for at least two weeks (busy busy busy) but you may or may not be happy to know that I'm trying to work on a little something for Valentine's day. I've always wanted to write a holiday-centred oneshot but inspiration always strikes at the wrong time.
Another huge, huge thank you to everyone who reviewed: Sparkle Valentine, Kenshin13, KT324, xSummonerYunax, Devil Rebel, cjjs, tek, Razial and J.L. Zielesch. I love reading your comments/feedback so please keep them coming :).
Chapter Four -Like A Man Possessed
"I know, but I don't. I'm blind in every other eye."
August 8, 1998. 3:15am
"You're standing on my foot, you big oaf!"
Chris stepped back suddenly, bracing himself against the wall as he uttered a hurried apology. Jill pretended to be annoyed, smiling in the dark as she searched for the pins within the reader beside the door.
"You may want to ease up on the beer," she advised, finding the lock simple enough to allow a momentary slip in concentration. "There was a hell of a lot of weight in that step."
"Muscle is heavier than fat," he grumbled.
"Keep telling yourself that, Uncle Phil," she teased further. The lock snapped beneath her fingers, the door to her left whirring open without the faintest hint of alarm bells.
She looked to him for praise, but realised soon after that no such compliment would come after her light-hearted joking.
"Uncle Phil?" he repeated, rolling his eyes. "That's the best you could come up with; a Fresh Prince reference?"
"As touching as this little argument is, can we please focus?" Barry requested, voice strained by the twitching of lips.
Chris tapped his earpiece, expression hardening as he suddenly found himself back in the moment.
The analysis of the data Brad had extracted from Dr. Anderson's hard drive had proved more useful than anticipated. Little evidence had been found, but suspicious circumstances and conflicting accounts had led them to several Umbrella-owned properties across the city. While Brad continued to analyse what had been found, the others took it upon themselves to investigate, spurred on by the success of the Anderson foray.
Pharmacies, private housing, storage depots; Jill's 'talent' had been tested in ways she had never even conceived. Even so, each break-in brought with it feelings of fear and trepidation. What if she suffered another panic attack? The memories still lingered, though she rarely attended to them. Never before had she felt such a sincere lack of control. So sure was she that she was going to die, all that had driven her was the desire to run, to get the hell out of there and not care how much attention she drew to herself.
Chris had been attentive in the extreme since that night, but she was reluctant to admit that it was comforting. He would poke and prod at her recently-renovated defense system, but she never once snapped under the pressure he applied and confessed the truly haunting emotions that festered within. Though his attentiveness was annoying on occasions, she felt secure in the knowledge that should control slip from her grasp, he was there to catch it and to keep her feet firmly on the ground.
"Go," she whispered, falling back behind his taller frame. She was glad that he was back at her side, now that he had proven that his temper could be kept in check and could remember to take his pain medication every morning.
If only his temper would remain so restrained in less professional situations...
Once they were fully immersed in darkness, Chris reached back to tap her wrist. It was not a signal as such, simply a way for him to confirm that she was close by and keeping in step with him. Flashlights sprung to life, beams trained low on the floor. The blinds of the medical centre were firmly closed, but they thought it better to not tempt fate.
"Are you in the back room yet?" This time, it was Rebecca who spoke, shy and reserved but asserting herself experimentally.
"Almost," Jill spoke in a low tone.
A medical centre that tended to refer visitors to a nearby doctor's surgery was quick to provoke interest within the group. Add to that the frequent visits paid by Dr. Anderson and other names they had learned to associate with Umbrella, and they had grounds for compelling suspicion. It was this suspicion that led them to arrive at the conclusion that it was little more than a carefully-disguised meeting grounds for employees. There was sure to be something of interest here. If only they could break past the rather complex lock to the back room.
"Man, this place is strange," Chris muttered. "It's how a clinic should look, but I haven't seen anything this..."
"Clinical?" Jill finished. Chris nodded nervously. She agreed with his observation; it was almost catalogue in its precision. No medical centre she had ever stepped inside had been this flawless.
"Oh, score," Chris laughed quietly, pulling something from beneath a lone desk. "Yeah, I doubt much work gets done here."
She turned to his position several feet from her, dismay settling into her expression as she watched him flick through a fairly recent copy of Playboy. Many words that she wanted to throw at him floated through her seething mind. All fell from thought when his expression turned to one of disinterest; a frown that plainly said 'I've already read this one'.
Jealousy festered in a small corner of her mind, repressed only by the lack of surprise at his actions. He was a man; a man who, by her estimates, had not satisfied certain needs in many months. It caused her to question his sudden lack of interest in finding a girlfriend. The majority of conversations between her male teammates had centred around recent conquests or members of the R.P.D. that they hoped to be future conquests. Had she not seen the care they had taken with her and with female friends they had not taken into their beds, she likely would have thought them all to be pigs.
Truthfully, his lack of interest in women as of late had pleased her. Jealousy was not an emotion she handled well. While his choice in serious girlfriends had been less superficial, his attention was always held by the type of beauty that one had to pay for. Jill was no dog, she knew that much, but she had never considered herself to be exceptionally pretty. She had never drawn male attention the way her friends had. Perhaps they were simply more confident than her?
"Maybe you shouldn't wear them out so quickly," she joked; a simple, shameless way of ignoring her thoughts.
Chris turned from the magazine, stepping closer to her, close enough that she could smell his aftershave.
"Care to show me something new?" he teased.
Something twisted within her, freeing the animal she fought so hard to keep caged. His flirting usually provoked a roll of the eyes or a sweeping brush of irritation, but not this, never this.
Even shrouded in darkness he was still handsome; boyish and mature in the same breath.
Swallowing the lump that had promptly risen to her throat, she turned from him and focused her attention on the lock that was their sole interest in the room.
"We should...probably hurry," she slurred.
"Jill, it was a joke," he assured her in bewilderment. She had taken more lewd suggestions with a larger dose of humour.
She could think of no reason for the way his suggestion affected her, other than the usual.
"I know," she whispered. "But let's focus."
There was no reply from his direction; not even a breath. It made it somewhat easier to concentrate on disabling a rather tricky lock, but once again she felt ashamed that she had been forced to cast aside a well-meaning attempt at normality. It was his way of making her feel more at ease. Trouble was, his words had quite the opposite effect.
"Sorry," he sighed, a little dejected.
A smile came out of nowhere, encouragement that he could not see.
"Could you hold this pin here?" she asked with a flick of her right wrist. Moments later, his fingertips slid across the back of her hand and gripped the pick. Even gloved, she could feel the warmth of his skin.
Warm breath fell at her ear, that damn stench of tobacco drowning out the masculine scent of his aftershave.
"Hey, Valentine!"
She turned suddenly, caught unaware by the voice of her comrade. Joseph waved enthusiastically, Forest and Chris turning in bewilderment beside him.
"Told you it was her!" she heard him shout as she tentatively waved back. The countless shots her friends had persuaded her to down had begun to catch up with her. Perhaps the martinis were a bad idea?
"Oh, cute," Patricia purred beside her. "You know them?"
She considered for a moment denying association. After all, Patricia had never set foot inside the R.P.D.; she wouldn't be any the wiser. Regardless of her wish, she knew that her friend was looking for a good time and it seemed she had set her eye on three possible targets; there would be no stopping her now.
"S.T.A.R.S.," Jill hiccupped. She gripped the stem of her glass, pouring the clear liquid down her throat. It was only a matter of time before they made their way over and she would like to have no memory of what transpired, if it was at all possible. Forest was in a happy relationship, but a ridiculous drunk. Joseph was recently single, and Chris... Chris was single, attractive and from what she gathered, not averse to a little fooling around.
She had been with the S.T.A.R.S. unit for nigh on six months and although she considered her teammates good friends, she was a little reluctant to introduce them to her friends outside of the R.P.D. staff. The reason escaped her, but she knew that awkwardness would likely ensue should the two groups mix. Chris had already met many of her girlfriends, mostly by accident, and she could never shake the awkwardness of the looks the girls threw the man she had come to identify as the closest thing to a best friend she had.
"Why the hell have you been pining over Jason?" Patricia asked. "These guys are way cuter. Especially the one with the tattoo."
"I haven't been pining over Jason," Jill defended, gripping her friend's arm as the alcohol suddenly severed the link between her brain and her legs. "I just don't think dumping the bastard was punishment enough. And f'your information, the guy with the tattoo is taken."
Patricia smirked, obviously suppressing a snarky remark.
Suddenly, fingers trailed up the back of her arm, the overpowering scent of cheap men's cologne assaulting her senses.
"Hey, darlin'," a sickeningly familiar voice purred. "Let me get you another one."
"Oh, for God's sake!" she amost screamed, rounding on the man. "Can't you take the hint? Wax your chest, wash your face and pull the socks out of your pants, then try it on someone else."
Patricia suddenly fell into a fit of hysterics. Jill was at the end of her patience. It was one thing to accost her, it was another completely to return every half hour and hope she was drunk enough to take home.
"Jeez," the man defended. "This one's got a mouth on her."
"Is there a problem, honey?"
Though its statement irritated her more than the man's desperation, this voice was familiar in a more satisfying way. His cologne, too; it was sweeter, complimenting a deeply satisfying natural scent in a less invasive manner.
Perhaps it was her intoxitated condition, or perhaps she was simply desperate for a way out of this confrontation; whatever her reason, she found herself leaning into his body and welcoming the arm that wound intimately around her waist.
"D'know," she coughed, a less than ladylike bubble of air rising in her throat.
"No problem," the man apologised, stepping aside with alarming haste.
"Honey?" she asked, rounding on Chris. "I oughtta lay you out for that." Apparantly, she found an attitude comfortable to wear that night.
"Hey," he laughed, taking a step forward and pinning her to the bar with his body. "Don't turn the attitude on me. You want me to call him back?"
She smiled, holding back a giggle.
"Honey," she sighed sarcastically. "Can't you find some other girl to rub up against?"
For whatever reason, her words only drew him closer to her, his head dipping to her neck. His lips hovered millimetres from the surface of her skin, nose nuzzling affectionately into the curve of her neck. She moved her hands to his torso, pushing against him. However, alcohol had made her arms weak and she was no match for his strength. She was left to press against muscle, fighting against a rising wave of energy that was unwelcome and verged on sick to consider.
"He's watching," he whispered, lips now at her ear. "Have to make it convincing."
He pulled away after a few seconds, smiling sadistically down at her. She could tell by the blank expression in his eyes that was drunk, though it was obvious to both that she was much further gone.
"You're an ass," she told him, her point almost nullified by the fractured nature of her speech. Why the hell was it so difficult to speak when intoxicated?
"Come on," he laughed, hands moving flirtatiously to her waist. "You know you want a piece of this."
She rolled her eyes. Now was not the time for another one of his dumb attempts at flirting. Handling such advances was easy when she knew that he was joking, but the way he held her cast doubt upon his intentions.
Even so, she found that an answer did not come so easily to her. Her jerk of an ex-boyfriend had temporarliy hardened her heart; she was not looking for love or something tangible. The heat that came from the union of their hips burned a suggestion into her impaired consciousness. Chris was not unattractive; he was a close friend, someone she knew she could trust. She wagered he would know what he was doing, too. There was a lot of tension she felt the need to release; would it be so bad?
"What harm would it do?" she thought aloud. Chris seemed taken aback, and mumbled for clarification.
"What's a one night stand between friends?" she purred, running a finger down his chest. What disturbed her was the dubious nature of her flirtation. Was she joking? She could not tell.
Chris stepped away, smiling as he severed all physical contact between the two.
"You don't want to sleep with me," he told her, serious in every dimension of the word.
"And why is that?" The least she could do was humour him.
"Because I wouldn't respect you," he spoke truthfully. "Because you'll hate me in the morning."
She balked at his honesty, her mind sobering up a little as it comprehended his speech.
"You're hot, Jill," he told her. "But you're also my best friend. I don't want to throw that away."
Suddenly, she felt her face flush. The confidence she had found at the bottom of many shot glasses was gone and she was left a weak, embarassed girl who had just propositioned a man she certainly did not want to wake up next to.
"Hey Jill," Patricia whispered, seeming to believe that keeping her voice low would not break whatever was going on between the two. "I'm going to dance. You gonna be okay?"
Was she? She nodded anyway.
"I'm taking you home, anyway," Chris announced suddenly. "It's too easy for someone to take advantage of you like this."
"I can look after myself, you know," she protested. Had he truly been drunk or merely pretending?
"I know you're still angry at Jason," he sighed. Definitely under the influence; there was no way he would have brought the infamous ex up had he been sober. Perhaps sensing her dismay, he moved close to whisper in her ear. "You're a great girl, Jill. Don't cheapen yourself like this. You're worth a hell of a lot more. Someday, you'll find someone who understands that. Until then, please don't settle for this."
She remembered that night with conflicting emotion, remembered how she wished her friends had put things in perspective the way Chris had. She also remembered the next morning; how she had stumbled out of her bedroom with a bitch of a hangover, only to practically beat him to death with a cushion when she found him sleeping on her sofa. Once she had realised who her lodger was, embarrassment set in. Details of the previous night had been hazy at best, but she knew that she had flirted with him, almost puked down his front and then cried childishly when he finally succeeded in leading her back to her apartment. Alcohol was not a good friend to her.
Though her feelings for him at that time were purely platonic, she could look back at his words with fondness and appreciation. Despite the joking around and the hell he often made her working life, she knew that he cared for her. Enough that he would forsake a night in bed with any number of women - herself included - to ensure that she made it home safely.
She was vaguely aware of the pressure of the pins beneath her tools, too preoccupied with the scent of his being and the thrill of his proximity. It had been months since she had been touched by a man and she knew it in the worst possible way. The thought of sweating beneath Chris, of his body pushing hers to limits she never knew she had, and holding her as she trembled... She doubted that even her dreams would compare.
'A kiss would suffice.'
The sane sliver of her mind called out to her through the veil of sexual frustration, and she knew that it was right. She did not truly want a messy night of passion, not even a bone-shattering orgasm. What she wanted was comfort, security, love, and not with any man...with Chris. She wanted to feel something that was real.
His eyes flitted to hers, a similar lonely desire reflecting in the depths of his sorrow.
So much had happened in the weeks prior to the night they lost their friends. Their friendship had reached new heights, the emotional distance between them closing significantly. On some level, she had been convinced that he returned her feelings in some way, that he was perhaps days away from asking her on a date. Then Umbrella shattered their lives. If the pieces were out there, would they even fit together anymore?
If he truly felt for her as more than a friend, had his feelings changed over the last fortnight? Some days she wondered if she was the same person. Perhaps he had realised that she was not?
Living vicariously through dreams and stolen moments was all that kept her aching heart beating. Moments like these...
A pick slipped, knocking a single pin out of alignment.
"Oh no."
"What is it?" he asked, voice coming clear and crisp as reality returned to her.
As it transpired, he was not required to answer her. A siren rang out, the unmistakeable clang of metal shutters sounding behind her. In the time it took them both to turn, two windows and the door were sealed off, severely restricting their means of escape. Somewhere outside, dogs barked, voices screamed into the night.
"Get out!" Chris screamed, pushing her towards the nearest window.
"What the hell is going on?" Barry roared through the headset. Jill could not focus on his voice, so disabling was the violent alarm.
Dull thuds beat in time with the siren, the window giving on the third blow. Jill could barely react, but accepted Chris's help and hauled herself over the frame, careful not to cut herself on broken glass. She landed painfully on the hard soil, left hand twisted awkwardly beneath her.
Shutters fell around them, and suddenly Chris was out of sight, a wall of corrugated steel where he had stood moments before.
"No!" she screamed, beating her fists desperately against the metal. Her heart lept into her throat, choking her with the weight of her carelessness.
Suddenly, another thud. Two...three... A window several panes along broke outwards, something large flying out onto the grass an instant before the shutter slammed in place. Wasting no time, she ran to him, heaving him to his feet even as he groaned in protest. His breaths were short and inadequate as they sprinted for freedom, the siren fading into the distance.
Gasping for air, they both stopped once they were sure they were not being followed.
"Chris," she urged, hands on his shoulder as he slid to the ground. "Your ribs."
"I'm fine," he brushed off. "Landed on my other side."
She chose not to believe him, observing his breathing as Rebecca had taught her to, only to find that it was as normal as could be expected.
He reached for her hand so suddenly that she had to fight not to pull back.
"You, on the other hand," he breathed, slipping her glove off as carefully as he could.
The act proved unnaturally painful and she bit back a tearful cry. It was a cry that turned into disgust when her eyes fell on the unnatural angle at which her middle finger was bent.
"Oh shit," she gasped, this time fighting back a rising wave of nausea. She had never been truly squeamish, but dislocations made her skin crawl. There was nothing natural about a twisted limb. It was the reason she could rarely stomach street performers; who on Earth would want to do that for fun?
"Hold still," he instructed, taking hold of the injured finger.
"No!" she protested, pulling her hand away and holding it protectively to her body. He was untrained and often rough in his touch; chances are he would wrench the appendage off completely.
"Rebecca will fix it," she insisted.
"Fix what?" a voice asked, throwing her off-balance. "What happened? Are you alright?"
"The lock failed," Chris explained. "Set the damn alarm off. Jill dislocated her finger on the way out."
"Are you sure it's a dislocation?"
"We all went through basic field medicine," he sighed. "I know what a dislocation looks like."
Rebecca went silent for a few short seconds, perhaps biting back an angry comment.
"Fix it," she told him. "I'll run her down the ER in the morning for an X-ray."
"She won't let me touch the damn thing."
"Can we stop arguing?" Jill requested, her voice as frazzled as her nerves. "Please? I just...need a moment."
She removed her headset before the others could complain, letting it rest uselessly at her neck. An all too familiar dread seized her. A moment's concentration; that was all that had been lost. A moment she had taken to wade in the shallows of her deep love for her partner in crime that had almost cost him his life. Had Umbrella caught him, she doubted they would hand him in to the police. He would have been shot on sight...or worse.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, feeling suddenly faint. "I should have been concentrating, I should have-"
"It wasn't your fault," he returned. "We accepted the risks that came with-"
"I wasn't paying attention!" she insisted harshly. "I should have been giving that damn thing my undivided attention and I let myself get distracted. It was unprofessional, idiotic and almost got us both locked up."
Her body moved, though she herself made no movement. She found that she fell quite easily against him, his comfort intoxicating and somewhat disorienting.
Her mind had not been her own lately, for more reasons than stupid emotions. She wished that she could hide from the shadows, longing for the comfort of normality. Some days she felt as though she had taken her life for granted. Were she able to step back in time, she would have appreciated normal so much more. Now...she doubted that she would ever experience it again.
"What's bothering you?" Chris asked.
A frown found its way to her features. Would he understand if she told him? Or would it detract from the respect he held for her? No...she was not ready to open up, not now, not to him.
"Nothing," she insisted. There was movement as his right hand rubbed her back, his left moving gentle to hold hers.
"I don't buy it," he smirked, his sudden avoidance unnatural and jarring. She chose not to press the matter, lest she force him to move from his comforting embrace. "You're thinking about Friends, aren't you?"
She laughed, suddenly not minding the abrupt shift in topic.
"The season ended on a cliffhanger," she explained, deciding to play along. "It looks like Ross- Ah!"
Blinding pain shot through her left hand, up her arm and back down again until it settled in the knuckle.
"Fixed your finger."
August 8, 1998. 12:15pm.
Given the near-catastrophic occurence in the early hours of the morning, the day had so far ran smoothly. Rebecca discovered that Jill's finger had set perfectly and Chris continued to nurse a bruised jaw he received in return for his rather unorthodox solution to his partner's injury. Barry appreciated the quiet that drifted serenely through the office, unsurprised that news of the break-in had not reached the media or the police department. Umbrella tended to take care of their own, as was proven by Brad's discovery of data pertaining to a rather dubious security force hired by the company.
Barry's interest, however, lay in the activities of the Chief; a man no stranger to political sleaze. One detail easily noticed over the past fortnight was that, despite requiring them to arrive on time for work every weekday morning as per usual, he rarely sent any wok their way. It seemed as though he were keeping them within his sight whilst ensuring that they were occupied and not out causing 'trouble'. Had it not been for officer Branagh's frequent requests for assistance, their presence at the R.P.D. would be pointless.
Investigating Irons proved more difficult than anticipated. The man seemed to have a plethora of 'spare' accounts; a sure sign that he harboured a dirty secret, but one that made it nigh on impossible to find out what exactly that secret was. When the burden began to get too heavy to shoulder alone, Chris had stepped in, sharing his suspicions. It occurred to them both that Irons foolishly trusted Barry, perhaps due to the attention he paid to Wesker's orders. It was a trust they intended to exploit.
"Good news," Chris announced as he returned to his desk. "I just spoke to Jack. He said that while the evidence is not enough mount a large scale investigation, he understands our suspicions and will look into Irons's background for us."
"That's great!" Barry exclaimed. It was the first hint of good news they had received all week.
"He said it could take a couple of months but he's fairly confident that he'll get clearance," Chris continued. "What's more, he said that if there's any evidence of bribery or interference from Umbrella on any level, it could be enough to secure a warrant for an investigation into the corporation's activities, and if anything turns up he can use what little evidence we have against them. We may actually be taken seriously for once."
Barry allowed himself to feel a little relief, but knew better than to pin all of his hopes on Chris's old friend. Their personal war may be over before it truly began...it was too good to be true. After all, Umbrella had evaded the F.B.I. for so long that a simple investigation would likely only prove a minor inconvenience for them.
"Did you find anything?"
He looked up, shrugging gently.
"Just more damn holes," he sighed. "The odd mention of run-ins with the law, but no details. Bastard must have erased his own file, 'least the one we have on system."
"What the hell is he hiding?"
It was a question they had all begun to ask, one that had slowly begun to edge its way to the forefront of their own investigation. Somewhere deep in his gut, Barry knew that Irons was the missing link in their chain of understanding. All leads pointed to the R.P.D., but all they found when they followed were dead ends and more questions.
A short rustle followed by the click of a lighter drew his attention back to his comrade. Had Rebecca graced them with her presence that afternoon, he was sure she would have a few choice words to throw his way. Barry knew from experience that many men graduated from the armed forces with a habit they had not taken with them upon entry. Even so, Chris had always been a relatively light smoker, going through as little as a two or three packs a week. So far he had counted three in as many days, and who knew how many he smoked outside of the office?
As much concern as he held for his old friend, he acknowledged that his current temper was foul enough without adding nicotine withdrawal to the fire.
"How's Kathy?" Chris asked. Had he sensed his friend's line of thought?
"She's talkin' to me now," he chuckled sadly. "That's something, I suppose."
Chris remained respectfully silent. Barry knew that on some level he agreed with Kathy's reaction. It was what he deserved, after all.
Kathy's dismay helped to heal the guilt that he felt, but it still lingered in the many crevices of his mind. Perhaps he would never shake that awful feeling.
The girls, on the other hand... Moira and Polly had attached themselves more firmly to his side since the incident, perhaps out of fear of losing him they way they had lost their 'uncles'. They would wait on the doorstep for his return, hang over his shoulder as he completed paperwork at home, and even curl up at the bottom of the bed he shared with their mother. They were his angels, through and through; the mere memory of Wesker's threats boiled his blood every time he considered those terrifying words.
A thought bubbled to the surface of his consciousness, unwelcome and hideous to consider. Media activity in their neighbourhood had calmed, but a general vulture-like presence remained. Vans parked on street corners, microphones that would find their way to his lips as he collected the morning paper. So many vans, so many people...how many were truly media?
Moira had spoken of a van that lingered around the vicinity of her school; unmoving except to vacate the premises after hours. Though the information greatly disturbed him, he hid his fear from his daughter, telling her only to stay away from this van and to remain in the safety of the school grounds until she was collected by her parents. He had considered pulling her out of school, but what good would it do? He did not have the time nor the expertise to tutor her or Polly at home and neither did Kathy. The principal of the school was an old friend of the family; someone he trusted more than a sitter or private tutor.
He looked to Chris for a further twist in conversation, but was met with nothing but a faraway look. Barry had not been the only preoccupied mind as of late. Worry for one another was all that kept them safe, but Chris's worry for his partner had grown to the point of obsession. He suspected that Rebecca's decision to keep her complaints to herself and allow him to once again partner with Jill was directly linked to the nervousness she had begun to exhibit when they found themselves working together. She had not yet witnessed the full extent of his infamous temper, and was determined that it remain that way.
Blame fell also upon Jill. Somehow, it had fallen to her to keep his volatile nature within safe limits, but it had been her behaviour that seemed to push him closer to an explosive peak. Had he not thought that seperating the two would only cause more friction, Barry would have suggested that Chris move out days before now.
The hours ticked away, little work was done and eventually it was time to pack up and return home for much-needed rest. As per his daily ritual, Barry left every thought of Umbrella at the door. Evenings were family time; time to work on the damage in the most meaningful area of his life.
Chris did not know how he found the window, only that he crashed through it with unprecedented force, followed by sleek black shapes that began to charge before he could steady himself in this new environment.
They were dogs, he could see that now. Dobermans, possibly a Doberman-Shepherd cross. Magnificent in poise, stature and what was left of musculature. They fell against his hail of bullets, less threatening now that they had been forced into the narrow corridor. Bullets ploughed into damp flesh, little evidence of their entry showing against matted fur and exposed gristle.
Once he was sure that the hallway was clear, he wasted no time in fleeing the scene, ravenous barks of the remaining canine creatures drawing ever closer from beyond the broken glass.
He held on to the thought of awaiting teammates; it was all that blocked images of Joseph's half-eaten corpse from his mind. "Think now, feel later"; that was what Jill always told him. If there was ever a time to think, it was upon him.
Wesker had led Jill and Barry to the same mansion he had entered in a more commando-style manner, he was sure of it. Now, all that was left was to find them, to reunite and to somehow come up with a plan.
Jill... At that moment in time, he hoped that she was on top form. Barry had little sense in his S.W.A.T.-trained mind and Wesker would have them hole up and wait for back-up, as per protocol. As far as he was concerned, the others were out there, and they needed help. Forest, Richard, Ken...Rebecca.
Or had they already met the same fate as Joseph?
'Forest is dead. Ken, too. Richard is alive, but he'll die in the end.'
He spun suddenly on the spot, searching for the source of this horrific suggestion. The room he found himself in remained empty, quiet...desolate. Decorated in the style of a century past, yet strangely it appeared to have been well lived-in.
A thud. Slow scrapes against the opposite door. The handle rattled ominously, but ultimately did not turn.
Thinking clearly for perhaps the first time that night, he slammed a new clip into his pistol and took several steps forward. Slowly, that was the way to do it. Turn the handle, wait a heartbeat, then throw open the door and take a step back.
He followed this inbuilt instinct to the word, catching a humanoid figure in his sight a moment later.
"Hold still," he commanded, training his sight carefully on the new form. There was something not right about its posture; body in a position of resignation, as though it waited for a reason to move. When Chris's voice reached its ears, it turned, a soulless gaze falling hungrily upon his visage.
"What the-?" His voice came as little more than a gasp, gun lowering as his mind worked furiously to accept the visual he was so sure lay before him.
The figure was male, late thirties perhaps, clad in casual daywear and bearded to boot. Yet not enough flesh clung to its bones to give the impression of a healthy man. Skin hung like papyrus from exposed bone, giving the distinct impression that everything between the two had disintegrated. Exposed muscle appeared withered and dry; useless. Yet it still moved, ambling towards him unsteadily as guttural groans escaped from what had perhaps once been a throat.
Without knowing entirely why, he fired. It was an instinctive reaction, born from the mind of a stunned man who had once been a little boy with a morbid interest in the works of George A. Romero. It came also from the mind of a man who had trained with the military; everything about this individual screamed intent of harm in the worst possible way. Dried blood flaked against broken fingernails and fell into the crevices of decaying skin; he had likely killed before.
His mind screamed 'zombie', but he refused to believe such an assumption. Zombies were fictional, they weren't real.
The smell that had forced its way into the room with the entrance of this...thing became overpowering, hitting the back of his throat and forcing a retch upon him. Hastily, he stepped over the carcass, seeking pockets of fresh air within the new corridor.
Then it came again. The unmistakeable hesitant shuffle of feet, the brush of fingertips against wallpaper. His mind could not focus, sweat beading on his forehead. A figure turned the corner, faced him.
He fired.
Her eyes met his, wide in surprise that in an instant fell from hopeful to stunned.
"J-Jill?"
She glanced down, thick crimson liquid seeping from a small hole in her abdomen, and from another in her chest. He was at her side when she fell, catching her painfully in his arms.
"Oh God," he cried, pressing a hand to the gushing wound that lay but an inch from her navel. All that came of this fruitless endeavour was a cry of discomfort, a sudden rush of warmth against his hand and a flash of pain to the numbness that had seized him.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. He was sorry? Sorry for what? For shooting her? For being careless in his aim and not killing her instantly with a headshot?
"Jill, I'm so sorry." Sorry was all he had.
"You're...a-alright," she noted, happy at least with this knowledge.
But happy for what?
"Just keep breathing," he begged. He fumbled within the pockets at his chest, finding a crude field bandage with seemingly great effort. But what good would it do? She needed surgery, not compression.
She coughed suddenly, breaths becoming raspy and infrequent. Words seemed to catch in her throat, spatters of blood appearing on her chin.
A lung. He had punctured a damn lung.
It was all he could do not to beg, not to break down and scream his fear through cauterised vocal cords. He could not think straight, could not seperate one emotion from the other.
'Think, don't feel'. But it could not be helped. Her life coated his hands, stained his clothes. The stomach he had hopes that one day would swell from his efforts shone a violent and offensive shade. So much time hoping and dreaming, so little acting. So much time theorising a future and delaying a confession...
The blood on his hands burned his skin, filled his lungs with its potency. It stained his soul, stole his thoughts, and slowly severed every attachment he felt to the life that was attempting to beat its way out of his chest.
Would the words matter now? Would they help?
'You don't have the courage. You'll never have the courage. You can't even confess to offer her a flicker of comfort. Coward.'
They were only words...
He lowered his lips to hers desperately, finding her fading warmth for a moment they may not have to spare. He tasted copper, tainting her skin with its impurity. But also...warmth. Pleasure. Passion. A promise...a promise of what would have been. The knot within his stomach untwisted, blossoming into something beyond comprehension, stealing him from the moment and planting him into another entirely. She was perfection, embodied in a simple touch of the lips. Perfection that returned his affection, devoid of breath but determined to see the act through.
And the nothing. No movement, no affection...nothing.
He leaned back, her eyes empty and half-lidded, staring aimlessy at the ceiling. The blood did not flow, not any more.
"Jill," he pleaded, shaking her body in gentle desperation with uncharacteristic moisture in his eyes. "Jill!"
'And you couldn't even say the words.'
He willed the voice to stop, to speak words of comfort to him.
'She deserves someone who will remind her every day of how wonderful she is, of how deeply she is loved. You can't even voice appreciation of the friendship you share, off all she has done for you! Loser.'
It was impetuous and childish. It was Chris.
Suddenly, her eyes fluttered open, lips parting experimentally.
She lept.
It took all of his strength to hold her down, to pin her to the floor as she fought against him, clawing up his arms, snarling aggressively through curled lips and cloudy eyes.
No...this was not Jill.
He moved the hands that pressed her chest to the floor, and in an instant her arms were around him, teeth sinking painlessly into his neck. When they retreated, he felt flesh tear, hard tissue crunch and blood cascade from the wound. And slowly, he too fell.
Chris woke with a start.
What time was it? Where was he? Where was he supposed to be?
A quick glance at the television answered all three of these pressing questions; time for The Simpsons, Jill's apartment, right where he was. Sometimes he found her sofa just too damn comfy.
He found that his heart still beat out of tune, his body seized up fearfully in anticipation of some horrid occurance. Many nightmares had plagued the hours of darkness, but none so unsettling. He had witnessed the deaths of his friends a thousand times over, ran from their lumbering corpses, and had relived almost the entirety of that night. This...this was new. This was extrapolating from existing trauma.
That monster had fallen, and Jill had turned that corner. But he had sense; he had waited and he had seen her. It was not truth that he had seen, it was fiction. Fiction that for whatever length of time he had been living it, felt traumatically real.
Valid points were brought home by her fictional death and that damn voice that seemed to be trying to provoke him into a hysterical rage. He could feel his insides contorting with confused emotions; a state they had been locked in for quite a while. So much anger, searching for a vent. So much anger, and most of it was directed at his feelings for that one woman.
Why had he not spoken his feelings before? Why could he still not find the courage? Time may have been running out for them all...soon they may very well be dead. Would she die in his arms, waiting for words of comfort? Would he hold her in silence, too proud and too afraid to love her out loud, even in her last moments?
'She is as silent as I am,' he thought to himself. 'Keeps everything bottled up and won't say a damn word.'
He could see that she was hurting, and was keeping so much bottled up and carefully hidden behind a smile that convinced the others but did not sway him. She had already suffered a panic attack, was more to come?
Every morning he would pretend to have not heard crying she assumed had been done in secret.
How much longer would it be before one of them broke, and everything changed?
'Just tell her...'
The door to the small apartment opened without notice, and Jill stepped inside with no announcement of her return. She offered a smile and a smart comment about his couch potato mentality, but quickly turned to step into the kitchen.
'Talk to her.'
"How was your day?" he asked, vacating the sofa quickly yet casually.
"Oh, average," she answered as she prodded the oven controls. "We, uh...found building plans in the Anderson data. No idea what for yet, but we're working on it."
He hummed in exaggerated interest. Perhaps out of courtesy, she returned the question and he lied, as always. 'Good' had taken on similar connotations to 'boring as hell'. The more positive his response, the less compelled she seemed to be to probe into his feelings. Somehow she had the absurd idea that he was closing himself off. He got out of bed every morning, went to work, poked fun at her favourite television shows; was he supposed to spend every waking hour in tears, a nervous wreck? If this were the case, she had some nerve.
"My, uh...my father hasn't called, has he?" she asked, bracing herself against the counter with two hands.
"Nope."
"Oh."
Her eyes were suddenly downcast. She had been relucant to call her father, perhaps for the same reason he had still not called his sister. Dick had called twice since that night, and his daughter's reaction each time only served to prove how desperately she wished to speak with him. It was different for Jill; Dick was in prison, Claire was in college.
"Are you okay?" It was a question he had asked many times, and each time seemed as superficial as the last. The phrase had lost all meaning.
"I'm fine," she smiled. "Don't worry about me."
"How's the finger?"
She groaned in annoyance when he reached for her hand and carefully inspected the splint that had been forced upon it in the ER.
"I still hate you for that, by the way."
Her expression fell once again. He did not understand the guilt she felt over the events of the previous night, but he knew that it bothered her deeply.
'She wouldn't have these problems if you were actually there for her.'
"Jill, talk to me," he begged, spurred on by the unwelcome voice.
Her reaction was to walk away, avoiding the request physically as well as emotionally.
"You first," she stated. A dirty trick. "Chris, we're all going through a lot here. We're bouncing off the walls as it is, we don't need to be bouncing off each other."
Her point was valid.
"Having said that," she continued, breaking eye contact and moving to smooth down her clothing. "We're all...worried about you, Chris. What's on your mind?"
Thrown by this sudden, shift in the aim of the conversation, he balked. Something twisted within his stomach, and he knew that it was far from good.
"Kate Beckinsale," he joked, expression as serious as he could muster.
"Chris, be serious for once."
Her tone was sharp and demanding. His anger flared. Could she not appreciate a joke? She was allowed to dodge his questions but he had to face hers? How was that fair?
"You," he admitted after a moment's contemplation. At least he still had one hand at the steering wheel.
If only he could find the nerve to voice the depth to which his thoughts of her extended.
Jill paused breathlessly, severing eye contact almost painfully. Pain was not an emotion she wore well. It was merely the boundaries of decency and friendly conduct that prevented him from pulling her into his arms and hoping that it was enough to chase it away.
"Your facade doesn't fool me," he stated. "It may be your way of dealing with all this, but it's not healthy. I'd have thought last week would have proven that."
"You're right," she snarled, perhaps unintentionally. "It is my way of dealing with all this, and sure, maybe it's not the healthiest way to grieve, but chain-smoking, anger and drinking yourself to liver failure is hardly appropriate, either."
Her fired-up attitude appeased the raging beast that had begun to wipe the sleep from its vengeful eyes. Why did he so crave a fight?
"What do you expect me to do, cry into my pillow every night, hoping that nobody will hear?" he snapped, ashamed of the words but horrifyingly out of control of his tongue. He wondered if she had indeed hoped that her late-night crying had gone undetected, or if she was waiting for him to call her on it and comfort her?
The falter in her expression told him that his words had frightened her. Seconds later, his cheek burned from the sting of an unexpected impact. His body told him to fight back, to protest the assault; his heart, mind and soul told him that he deserved much worse.
"How dare you?" she snarled, the forefinger of her uninjured hand thrust in in his direction. "This...this is why I don't talk to you! You insensitive bastard!"
A choked sob strangled her final word, eyes narrowing as lips curled downward. Her hands flew to her face, covering the damage. Even so, the moisture in her eyes did not go unnoticed.
'Are you happy now?'
He was surprised to find that the impact of his own words had hit him much harder than her insult had. His chest constricted, pain emanating from a single point and spreading throughout his tensed body. He would have knocked out any other man who spoke to her in such a way. He had wanted her to fight back, to challenge his anger...he had not wanted this, had never wanted this.
He reached for her as she turned from him, gripping her arm as she attempted to flee.
"Let go of me!" she screamed, pulling easily from his grip. She need not have bothered. The simply touch of her skin to his was enough to force him to sever all physical contact.
Something flared in the very depths of his soul, overpowered the beast and held it in place. Cut off from all reasoning for lashing out, there was nothing to buffer the shame and agony of watching her reel from his poison.
Then, her expression softened, the tears that had been on the brink of falling drying up. Had she noticed the change? He fought for control of his wayward feelings, going so far as to lie to himself about how much he cared about the girl; anything to bring back the dragon. Anger was a good shield, and much easier to deal with.
"Chris..."
The beast had effectively been neutered. He would never hurt her, and now that he realised just what his anger made him capable of, he seemed incapable of directing anger towards her. A stupid defence mechanism.
"This isn't you," she pleaded. Her distance remained wary; did she think that he would strike her? Never.
A hand came to rest unexpectedly on his arm, feelings that were nothing more than carnal nigh on consuming him. Words came to his throat; three little words that told everything that was within his heart.
Stubbornly, he shook her hand away. As luck would have it, the words fell safely back into his heart, behind steadfast iron doors that he remained far too afraid to open.
"Chris, just-"
"Don't!" he warned as she reached for him again.
"You wanted to talk," she spoke, voice falsely calm and still shaking. "Talk. You can't keep-"
"I can't keep what, Jill?" Though not quite as potent as before, a certain something reared its ugly head. She was intrusive, and intrusion fuelled the fire. "I can't keep running and hiding?"
"You can't keep taking your anger out on everyone around you!" she seethed. Her hand slid up his arm, across the exposed skin of his upper arm. It was comforting in ways she would perhaps never know. She was lethal to him; eating him alive, slowly from the inside out. In a deeply masochistic way of speaking, he enjoyed the pain of loving her. If only he found the nerve to seek the only cure he knew of; confession.
"I said don't!" he cried desperately, pushing her physically away.
It all happened in an instant, but to him it felt like so much longer. Her shoulders moved back from the force of his shove, fingertips slipping from his arm. She could not move fast enough to adjust her stance and brace herself for the impact, and her recovering ankle bent beneath her.
She was on the floor before he realised what he had done. A sharp, pained cry crippled what was left of him, her injured hand slamming forcefully against the carpet.
Shamefully, he could not bring himself to speak. She did not move, remaining in shock on the floor, nursing her injury with tears in her eyes.
"Jill..." he spoke quietly, willing his hand to aid her in rising to her feet. For all the will he could muster, his hands did not move, but remained uselessly by his side.
"I'm sorry."
Jill rose of her own accord, not a single attempt made to push her fallen hair from her face. He waited impatiently. Should he reach out to offer her comfort in a tender touch?
Within moments she had steadied herself, hair fixed as much as was possible, clothes pulled back into position. All the while she did not look him in the eye.
"You need to sort your head out Chris," she muttered, voice barely audible from the weight of the emotion in her words. "Until then, don't...don't speak to me."
She was gone in an instant, jacket and bag following her through the front door.
Chris remained in shocked silence, the weight of his actions pressing down upon him.
'What have I become?'
Carver's Late Night Diner was far from Rebecca's idea of a productive night, especially alone. Strangely enough, it seemed to be the only place where her thoughts could be heard above the din of unfriendly silence. The Anderson data was proving particularly difficult to wade through; Brad believed that data lay encrypted below the level that they were accessing, but could not quite work out how to get at it. Cue many jokes about the exaggeration of his abilities and Brad's insistance that he had not seen anything like it before.
Midnight loomed ahead of her when the staff began to execute their closing down rituals, and she took this as a sign to pack up her papers and leave. Little thought had been given to exactly how she would get home at that hour.
"Would it be possible to send someone out to Carvers? Forty-five minutes? No, no, that's no good. Thanks anyway."
She forced her cellphone back into her pocket with a scowl.
"Useless cab companies," she grumbled. What was she to do? Midnight was fast approaching; the others would no doubt be asleep by now. She could not trouble them to drive her home, not when all but Barry lived on the opposite side of the city to her inconveniently-located apartment.
She approached the dark street cautiously, mentally mapping out the route to the nearby bus station. Surely something ran this late.
With hesitant steps, she moved, alert to her surroundings in a cautious yet not overly paranoid manner.
'This is going to take forever,' she thought to herself. The sidewalk wound round several buildings, doubling the length of her journey. Yet on the way stood perfectly usable alleyways. Not too dark, not too narrow. As long as she picked up the pace she could be out the other side in a couple of minutes, shaving at least five off her journey time.
'Mom and dad would have a fit if they could see me now.'
With a nervous glance over her shoulder, she stepped into the darkness, walking as fast as she felt capable of.
Something pricked at her senses, her body tensing up fearfully as she sensed a presence nearby. She spun around. Nothing.
'Get a grip on yourself, girl,' she willed.
"Rebecca Chambers?"
She jumped, visibly and audibly. Her hand moved instinctively to the firearm she kept concealed beneath her lightweight jacket.
"W-who's asking?" she stammered, ashamed in the knowledge that any one of the others would have fought the stranger or ran off by now.
She could not see his face, but knew that he was taller than her, bulkier and likely more than capable of overpowering her.
Before she had time to even blink, she found herself against the wall, screaming for all it was worth. His hand pressed against her throat, a silver blade catching the moonlight as it was raised to her cheek.
"Someone who thinks you freaks need to keep your mouths shut," he snarled. The sharp edge of the blade drew blood at her cheekbone before finding it's way to the corner of her lips, poised in a dangerously threatening position.
Her heart beat furiously, adrenaline sending mixed singles to every area of her body. Fear did not even cut it.
"I would love to see you talk after this," he laughed. "Let this be a message to you and your friends."
His elbow raised, eyes alight with gleeful concentration.
She kicked. It was all she felt able to do. It was also in this that she found an advantage to her small height; the level at which her foreceful thrust met with his body. It was too much for any man to tolerate and the knife fell to the concrete, the stranger doubling over in pain.
Adrenaline surged with a purpose now. The knife was kicked to a safe distance, another well-timed kick halting his effort to grab onto her clothing. Another kick was not so lucky, and her assailant pulled her legs from beneath her, resulting in a painful and disorienting fall to the ground.
"Aw hell, I'm gonna kill you anyway," the man cried, landing several forceful kicks to her abdomen before turning to recover his lost weapon.
A few seconds was all she needed to draw her weapon, and to fire a shot into the thick flesh of his calf. The crack of the gunshot echoed painfully around the alley, a violently agonised scream joining it in morbid harmony. She did not wait to check the damage.
She ran, as fast as her legs would carry her, blinding pain pulsing through her abdominal muscles. She had no time to check for injuries.
But where was she going? Where had she even run to?
She continued on, unfamiliar signs and buildings rushing past her until the sights became a little more familiar. She was nowhere near the bus station, had likely put even more distance between herself and her destination.
Richard's old apartment complex came into view. No good; Bridgette had left town. Chris lived several blocks east, but he had not slept there for weeks.
Suddenly, her destination became obvious. Not for a split-second did she cease her Olympic-level sprinting. Her speed amazed her; why had she never been this fast in high school?
Her target building grew larger, a lone woman walking from her car to the door.
'Please don't hurry,' she begged as she watched a key enter the lock.
As luck would have it, she reached the doorway before the woman stepped through and darted in ahead of her, scaring the poor woman half to death. At that moment, she found it hard to care. She was numb, to both pity and fear. She assumed that it was the adrenaline.
The stairs almost crippled her, but soon she stood on the correct floor, and began to hammer on the door she hoped belonged to a friend.
The deadbolt slid across, chain rattled, key twisted...she fell into the apartment before Jill could offer a greeting.
"Lock the door!" she cried, several feet away from the doorway before Jill realised she had even crossed the threshold. "Lock the door!"
Chains, bolts and other various means of security slid into place and slowly, her senses were once again attuned to her surroundings.
As a hand was raised to her open mouth, she felt wetness against her fingertips. All this time and she had not felt the tears her body had shed. She fell into Jill's arms when they were offered, frantic in her search for assurance that she was not alone.
"Rebecca, are you alright?" Jill asked softly. The simple sound of her calm, soothing voice was enough to remedy her tremors. "What's wrong? What happened?"
Blood that had rushed to her head settled back into its usual flow and she found that she was able to loosen her grip on her friend, though not on the comfort her warmth provided.
"I was...walking home," she gasped.
"At this time?" Jill was visibly shocked. "Rebecca, don't you know how-"
"I do now," she interrupted, swallowing the bitter taste that had come to her mouth. She found that words fell easily from her lips; an explanation for her skittish behaviour. Jill listened intently, calming her when recent memories brought her close to hysteria.
When the last syllable left her thoughts, the adrenaline dispersed and she could do nothing but cry out the remainder of her tears. The severity of the situation became dangerously apparant to her. She could have died.
"You said he knew your name?" Jill asked, her voice not quite as steady as it had been moments ago. Rebeca nodded in confirmation. "Shit..."
"You think it was-?"
Jill said nothing, but met her fearful gaze with one of helplessness.
"It was only a matter of time," she whispered.
Rebecca fell onto her backside, trembling fingers held at the level of her lips. It took every ounce of strength left within her to keep her fingernails away from her chattering teeth. There was no need to slip back into old habits.
"It's not safe..." she muttered.
Would they be free to go anywhere now? Or would Umbrella pounce? They had to have recognised the break-in as the work of the renegade S.T.A.R.S.; why else would they strike now?
"Breathe slowly," Jill instructed. For the first time since her arrival, Rebecca detected a hint of sadness in her voice. "I'll get you a glass of water then I'll find you some pyjamas. I'm probably a size bigger than you but they should be alright for sleeping in."
Rebecca swallowed her dreadful anticipation; at least she was not being sent back to an empty apartment. Had she truly believed that her friend and comrade would send her on her way after such an experience?
Jill returned with the promised water and an offer of a more comfortable seat, but she had grown quite accustomed to the soft carpet at that point. She was not sure that her legs would support her weight just yet.
"Where's Chris?" she asked, noting that he had not appeared after she had made such a scene. Surely he could not have slept through it all?
Jill's gaze dropped to the floor, and she seadied herself in her lowered position.
"He...We argued earlier," she explained sadly. "I stormed out and when I came back all his things were gone and his keys were on the side. I think it's safe to say he's not coming back."
Through her receding terror and newfound fondness for her older teammate, Rebecca felt a wave of sorrow fall upon them both. Somehow, she had thought that living in such close proximity would bring the two partners together. She could barely touch upon the love Chris felt towards Jill; it would have taken something serious in a most earth-shattering way to force him to return home and leave her on her own.
Their relationship was complex, that was for sure.
Jill hissed in sharp pain as she attempted to use her bandaged hand to steady her posture.
"Let me have a look," Rebecca requested. She reached out tentatively, twitching slightly as Rebecca applied minimal pressure to her healing finger.
The young medic frowned; it was still set but appeared to have been aggravated. Jill had obviously not been taking her advice and resting her hand until it healed adequately.
Then, something caught her eye. A faint purple blemish on her wrist; surely the result of trauma. Pieces began to fall together in her mind, a horrifying picture constructed as a result.
"Jill, what-?" she began.
"It's nothing," she excused, retracting her arm.
"Did Chris...?"
Jill looked up suddenly, horrified by what her words implied.
"I fell," she insisted. "It was as much my fault as it was his; I grabbed him, he pushed, I lost my balance."
Suddenly Chris's reasoning for what he would have referred to as 'abandoning' Jill became clear. His temper had scared most of them; she doubted that it was a gentle nudge that sent her to the ground.
"Jill, I-"
"Don't," Jill requested. "It was nothing, and what just happened...Rebecca, you were attacked. Chris and I fight all the time, and I assure you I give as good as I get."
Of course...the attack. It seemed absurd that she should forget such a recent, traumatic occurance, but somehow her mind was attempting to push it where it could do no harm. Now that the memories were once again fresh in her mind, she preffered the sweet serenade of ignorance.
"You need sleep," Jill urged. "We will talk in the morning. I'll take you to pick up some clothes and you can stay with me for as long as this takes."
She thanked her quietly; it made no sense for either of them to be alone, not now that Umbrella had become active in their means of silencing them.
It transpired that Jill had been correct; her pyjamas were a little on the loose side, but comfortable nonetheless. She settled into the soft bed of the guest room, finding that she could smell Chris against the sheets, and the distinctive scent of hair gel against the pillows. Jill took to the shower once she was certain that her new roommate had settled down. Though she did not know why, Rebecca found herself sneaking into the master bedroom whilst it had been temporarily vacated and exchanging the pillows for those that had been in the guest bedroom.
There was little chance of her sleeping that night, though she believed that at least Jill deserved to rest well. Somehow, she thought the pillow would help.
AN - Please review :)