Strength Through Wounding
AN - Needless to say, I finished this a lot sooner than anticipated. Ironically, I thought this would be the shortest chapter yet and I think it's probably the longest lol. There's only a few things I want to say about this chapter.
Re:Chris's position in S.T.A.R.S.: it made sense to me. I never saw Barry as much of a leader, and I'm sure Wesker thought the same.
Re:the last part of the chapter: Most. Difficult. Thing. Ever. Seriously, it even underwent a last-minute rewrite. I wanted to write it from Chris's perspective, so that's what I forced myself to do and I'm kind of wondering if it was the best angle after all. I hope it came out as intended. This was actually originally just the first part of the chapter, but I split it, which made it a little more difficult to convey what I wanted, especially Jill's mood.
Chapter title is from a song by Wakey! Wakey!.
Again, big thank you to everyone who reviewed: cjjs, Ultimolu, KT324, Kenshin13, Sparkle Valentine, .-SnipingWolf, tek and xSummonerYunax. I'll try to keep going with the replies :).
Chapter Six -War Sweater
"I love you, I swear it, I would never lie.
But I fear for our lives and I fear your closed eyes."
August 14, 1998. 8:20pm
Jill had lost count of the hours that had passed since Chris's sudden departure from the investigation. The others had pointed out that he had done so little work in the past week that it changed nothing, but she was not convinced. Her own morale had fallen considerably and she was sure that the others had felt it, too.
As surprising as it was, Chris was in fact the second in command of Alpha Team. It was a position Barry had politely declined when Chris had offered it to him; he had agreed with Wesker's decision, believing him to be built from far sturdier leadership material than himself. Barry had always been a follower, and had never truly felt comfortable dishing out orders. With both Wesker and Enrico dead, that left the command of S.T.A.R.S. in Chris's hands. The hierarchal structure of the group had essentially dissolved in the weeks following the deaths of the others, but they had all hoped that had the need to turn to a leader arose, Chris would rise up to the occasion. They had certainly not expected him to be the first to leave.
Though the chain of command had been unspecified following the second in command (with Edward claiming the honour for Bravo team following the disinterest of the others), Barry had pointed out that as Chris's partner, the responsibility of leadership should fall to her. The idea had frightened her considerably; she was no leader, and would truthfully not know where to begin.
She turned her attention to the answer phone in an attempt to leave her discomfort behind. The light had continued to blink for days now, though she had not found the strength to collect what waited.
"Jill, it's Claire," spoke a familiar voice. "Will you please tell my asshat of a brother to pick up the damn phone when I call? I...I'm really sorry I didn't call sooner. I know we're not close or anything, but...I can't begin to imagine what you're going through right now. Look after him, okay? And kick his ass if he doesn't do the same for you."
Yet another reason to feel anger towards Chris. It was one thing to ignore his friends, it was another entirely to ignore his sister. She loved him more than anything, and all this confusion could not have been easy for her. After the deaths of their parents, he was all she had left. It was selfish and cruel of him to keep her in the dark, even if he truly believed that it was for her own good.
"I know you said not to call," her father's voice explained through the machine. "Jill, I just want you to be careful. I could be out of here in five years, and when I am I want my daughter to be there, and I want to know that she is safe. I know I don't have to lecture you on the importance of a strong mind... You are more like your mother every time I see you, so I know that I don't have to worry about the care you take with your work. I just want you to listen more to the part of you that belonged to her. I haven't been the best father Jill, I know that, and I know I can never ask you to forgive me, but...just take more care than I did. That's all I can ask. I love you, and in case I never see you again...I just want you to know that I'm proud of you for doing the right thing. I've always been proud of you, and I never told you enough. Take care."
The urge to hit 'redial' and beg to speak to her incarcerated father was overwhelming. She was not happy with the arrangement she had agreed to; no contact, not even via telephone. The anger at Umbrella's surveillance of Dick subsided with tears that broke forth. While she had never told him, she had never once blamed him for the hell her teenage years had been following his incarceration. She was angry, both at the disease that had claimed her mother and the system that had stolen her father. He had taught her to be strong, in a way different from what her mother had preached, but equally useful. It was thanks to Dick's tutelage that she had been able to chase down and subdue the man who had stolen her friend's purse when they were sixteen, and his knowledge that had seen her gain access into many locked rooms within Spencer's hellhole of a mansion. Even the hardened attitude she had adopted since being taken in by her aunt and uncle had been attributed to her father. It was this attitude that had brought her so far in a male-dominated business; the Jill Valentine that had existed ten years ago was too weak, she would have fallen apart at the seams by now.
Strange, because she could feel this juvenile side breaking through with every blow she suffered thanks to Umbrella's destructive influence on their lives. On the outside she was a soldier, but she knew that within she was little more than a frightened child these days.
"Hey Jill, just to let you know I'm going to be a little late tonight, so don't lock me out. And don't worry, I'm at the office and Barry said he'd drive me to yours so I'll be fine."
"Great," she groaned. All that had brought her to that night was the optimistic anticipation of a night of wine, chocolate and a Friends marathon in anticipation of the upcoming season premiere.
Normal, that was what tonight was intended to be. Normal with the promise of a mild hangover the next morning.
She turned off the television and took the wine back to the fridge. There was little point in starting alone, though drunk was perhaps the most soothing way to face the world in its current state.
Work was another matter she did not wish to face; the sheer magnitude of the laboratory beneath the city was mind-boggling to consider. While she knew that it was perhaps a futile attempt, she was also aware than investigation was imperative. Though the work frustrated her, she looked to the investigation with curious eagerness.
She only wished that when the time came to move, her partner would be at her side.
Rebecca found it difficult to keep up with Barry's pace; her legs were far shorter and she did not possess the determination that seemed to propel him towards their destination.
"Slow down!" she complained. Though he did slow his steps, they were still much faster than her own.
"Sorry," he apologised gruffly. "Want to catch the bastard before he leaves."
She did not voice her assumption, which was that Irons had already left and their late-night sprint through the empty precinct was in vain. Even if they found him smoking himself to an early grave within the confines of his office, she knew that anything they said would be thrown back at them.
Barry had thought it was worth trying to get through the man's cotton-filled skull, but she was not convinced.
Surprisingly, dim light shone from beneath the door once they finally reached their destination and with a simple push - no courtesy knock - it swung open.
"Who is it?" boomed Irons' voice, slurred from the rich influence of cigars and Scotch. Perhaps fate was on their side after all, Rebecca wondered as she quickened her pace behind Barry.
"Sir, we have something you may be interested in," spoke the older man. She watched him wave the manila folder, watched Irons' eyes follow it in hazy disbelief.
"What the hell is this?" he demanded. "You think you can just barge into my office? I'll have you all suspended!"
Smooth as always. Once again, Rebecca's mind dwelled on the futility of the endeavour and the foolishness of handing evidence to the one man who would be sure to destroy it. Fortunately, Barry had seen enough sense to withhold the most sensitive and powerful information, lest their suspicions prove true. The last thing they wanted was to go to the courts only to find that word had travelled back to Umbrella and all that their evidence proved had been destroyed, hidden or moved.
"You told us to report back to you if we ever found evidence to support our allegations," Barry announced, somewhat smugly. They had always known that Irons was simply mocking them when he offered this 'support'. "Well here you go."
The folder slapped against the surface of Irons' desk, the sound bouncing off the joylessly decorated walls. All Irons could do was stare at the offending item, perhaps hoping that it would burst into flame and the insult would be gone.
"You're joking?" he asked. Everything was a joke to Irons, especially where work was concerned.
"No sir," Rebecca spoke up, boldly stepping forward. "Summative employee reports, but they provide the basis for at least a low-grade investigation. There is evidence of illegal procurement of bacteriological specimens, which would be cause for concern for customs if little else. Unlicensed experimentation, severe violations of the Nuremberg Code as well as the Declaration of Helsinki and blatant ignorance of international trading laws."
Though she was sure that Irons had not understood a word of this, she could not help but to smile at her newfound confidence. Living with Jill had proved beneficial to her working ethic. Despite this, she was growing concerned for the confidence levels of her friend; at first it seemed as though her strength had merely been rubbing off on the medic, but lately she had began to wonder if she had been draining her completely.
Was it simply a side of Jill she had not been given the chance to see in the office environment? Whatever it was, she knew that Chris was not far from the cause.
'Perhaps it's best that love stays far away from me,' she surmised.
Irons began to leaf slowly through the pages of the file. It was comprised mainly of medical reports and internal memos; benign evidence, the best kept for the big guns. Barry had not understood a word of most of it, and Rebecca was sure that the same could be said for the chief.
"This is ridiculous," Irons laughed, more confident than they had expected. "You think this will support your case?"
"It's a start," Barry pressed. It was obvious that they took corners much like boxers would, and she could only wait for the bell to ring.
Irons leaned forward on his desk, levelling his eyes at his employee.
"You have no idea what you're messing with," he told them. "You think you can push and it won't snap back in your face?"
Suddenly defensive, Rebecca was ashamed to find that she stepped closer to Barry's shadow, shrinking away from the oversized desk. Though she knew not to take any threat from the cowardly man seriously, something in his tone at least suggested malice.
"Sir?"
"I was not merely being appropriate when I told you that no lawyer in this city would represent you," he smiled. "This information is insubstantial, inadequate and I have half a mind to arrest you now for search without a warrant."
"Damn it, Irons, you know as well as I do that there is something going on here," Barry growled, eyes now level with the chief's. "You may want to reach inside and grab hold of that one shred of your soul that still possesses an ounce of decency and pursue this, whatever your obligations to Umbrella may be."
Irons was visibly stunned by his words, eyes shrinking to pinpricks, the general impression of a startled animal striking the two colleagues.
"If it's money that you want, I'd wager the reward for revealing a conspiracy this profound would be substantial," Barry continued in his 'off the record' voice. "Far more than whatever Umbrella is slipping you."
Beady eyes darted away from his threatening form, as though considering for a moment the proposal that had been laid before his greedy mind. Rebecca knew that it was a futile attempt at persuasion, but found it mildly amusing how Irons' corrupt mind could not tune out an offer of this scale. It made her ever more eager to hear what excuse he would offer.
"You just don't get it, do you?" he sighed, drunken façade falling fast. "Umbrella is untouchable; there is nothing you can do. If you caught them with their pants down, you'd still lose. You'll be dead before it hits the courts."
A deeply unsettling chuckle reverberated through his tar-lined chest.
"There is nothing you can do."
August 15, 1998. 12:05am.
Darkness greeted her pupils when lids slid open. The incessant ring of her telephone was jarring to newly-awakened ears, but she registered it nonetheless.
'Back to flashbacks, I see,' her thoughts interrupted sardonically, recalling a nightmare she hoped to forget.
Whoever was calling would just have to wait. Nobody called anymore, especially not at an hour that would rouse her from sleep.
Despite her clear thoughts on the matter, her hand reached groggily for the handset, lifting it from its cradle with the intention of telling the caller where to go and dropping it to the ground. Another intention, it seemed, that did not live up to its promise.
"Hello?" she groaned into the mouthpiece. Whoever it was, they had better be prepared to offer a damn good reason for waking her.
"Jill?"
Suddenly, they had her undivided attention.
"Chris?" she asked in disbelief, suppressing a yawn. After so little contact, he chooses to call her in the middle of the night? It seemed that beggars truly could not be choosers. "What do you want? It's...Chris, it's after midnight."
"I know," he admitted. He seemed off; unsure and unsettled. Was he drunk? It would not be the first time he had drunk-dialled her. "Jill, we need to talk."
"Chris, it's after midnight," she repeated. The handset now rested almost uselessly against her head. She was sure that she would fall back asleep mid-conversation.
"I know," he insisted, more impatient this time. "It's important. Can you come over?"
"Now?" she groaned, the persuasive call of sleep almost lulling her away from the conversation. "Chris, it's-"
"After midnight, I know. I'm sorry if I woke you, but this is really important and you're the only person I know I can trust with this. Please."
There was something desperate in the way he pleaded that acted like a stimulant to her overtired body. She knew that it was purely business, but her heart convinced her for the smallest fraction of a second that he was calling her over because he missed her, and simply wanted to see her.
"Alright," she relented. "Give me half an hour to get dressed and find my car keys."
As she returned the phone to its original position she realised that this would be no easy feat; she was sure that the car keys had been left with Rebecca.
Every limb seemed ridiculously heavy, and the glare from her bedside lamp was painfully loud. She did not know from where gathered the energy to pull herself into a pair of jeans and underwear, never mind rifle through her T-shirt drawer for something that was not wrinkled beyond belief.
The apartment remained silent, with no sign of the door being locked from the inside; Rebecca had not yet returned home. Casting her concern aside, she repeated the fact that wherever she was, she was with Barry and therefore she was safe. The girl had being working herself to exhaustion lately, and Jill would not have been surprised if she remained at the office, poring over some case file or another.
She checked her jacket, her firearm and her holster, and with weary anticipation she stepped out into the night.
The unsuccessful meeting had put both Rebecca and Barry in a painfully foul mood. A simple re-arrangement of files within the office had led to a mutual rant that stretched over multiple hours. When the clock hands finally struck midnight, they found it within them to fake a smile, lock the office and retreat to their respective homes.
"So where do we go from here?" Rebecca asked. It was a question none of them had ever wanted to ask, a question that signalled how close to the end of the line they actually were.
"We keep going," Barry guessed. "That's all we can do."
Somehow, his answer did not comfort her. All their fight seemed to lead to was a continuous series of dead ends. What if this was the final blockade? What if Umbrella never fell, and they dedicated the rest of their lives to a fight that was impossible to win?
She was eighteen, was she doomed to spend the rest of her years in hiding? All that had been keeping them going was the hope that one day they could return to their normal lives, fear and suspicion a thing of the past. To consider the possibility that peace and closure did not lie in their future; it was demoralising, to say the least.
The usual unease crept upon them as they made for the car park. An eerie mist poured in from the park to the right of the entrance, unsettling in the way it concealed the majority of their surroundings. Mist was not a common sight at that time of year.
"Excuse me," a voice called, stopping them in their tracks before their feet had hit the tarmac. Each reached instinctively for their concealed firearm, taking no chances.
"Whoa, hey!" the stranger protested. "Don't shoot the messenger!"
His cocky stance fit the profile of what they expected of Umbrella, but the nervousness that laced his undertones suggested that he was equally as afraid of them as they had been of him. Broad-shouldered with long mahogany hair, pulled back tightly and tied at the back of his head; something about him struck Rebecca as familiar. He was dressed in strangely formal attire, an assortment of pens clipped to his shirt pocket and a plastic file in hand.
"I didn't want to come inside," he explained. "Thought it would draw too much attention. I have something that may interest you."
Rebecca watched as he pressed the folder into Barry's hands, before raising his once again to show that he was unarmed.
"Bertolucci, right?" Barry asked as he accepted the unexpected gift. "I've seen you round the station a few times. Didn't think you'd have the guts to show your face round here again."
"Anything for the truth," Bertolucci smiled in response. "For what it's worth, I have nothing against you guys. If you ask me, S.T.A.R.S. is the best thing to happen to the R.P.D. in years. Can't say it's worth the extra money at the taxpayer's expense but at least you've done some good in your time."
The name Ben Bertolucci was infamous within the walls of the R.P.D.; his stories had riled the higher management, especially Chief Irons. The majority of his tales of corruption and incompetence had been based upon fact, and though they greatly amused those who were not involved, it was a miracle the man could say so much with so little repercussion.
"What is this?" Barry asked.
"Information," Bertolucci clarified, hands sliding into his pockets once the threat of being gunned down had receded. "I...I've been following your story. Don't get me wrong, I thought you were all wackjobs when it broke, but there were elements of your story that supported what I'd already found, things I'd kept to myself because...well, it's dangerous stuff. It goes deep, all of this. I figured it would be worth more to you than it would to me."
Rebecca leaned over Barry's shoulder as he opened the file, pulling out several heavily-printed sheets of paper. Several passport-sized photographs were printed on each side, supplemental information neatly organised into rows at the side. Further delving into the folder produced many similar pages. Some faces they recognised, most they did not; high-profile individuals, the unfamiliar primarily clad in lab coats and business attire.
"What is this?" Rebecca wanted to know. More pages, more faces.
"Influence," Bertolucci told her. "Your claims of corruption within the ranks of the Umbrella Corporation piqued my interest, so I dug a little deeper into what I already know. Every connection that I couldn't trace leads right back to them. That folder contains a list of every individual I have documented receiving monetary deposits from Umbrella accounts. The deposits are sporadic at best, and they're damn good at covering their tracks. I can't prove that any bribes are being offered, so this information is virtually useless to me. Something tells me that you could put it to use."
Her breath caught in her throat, the evening chill on the wind catching her unaware. Even so, she knew that the shiver that passed through her bones was not entirely due to the weather.
Half of the Raccoon City Council stared back at her from the pages, the Chief of Medicine at Raccoon General Hospital joining them alongside several senior officers of the Raccoon Police Department...including Police Chief Brian Irons.
"I knew it," Barry fumed beneath his breath. "Bastard's been taking bribes."
It all made sense; there was no chance that Irons had made it to Chief on his own steam. His incompetence was a joke, and it was clear that he saw the position as a stepping stone to a higher office. Mayor Warren was steadily losing favour in light of incidents that seemed far too orchestrated to be coincidence. Word on the street was that Irons looked to be the main contender for his position. A quick leaf through Bertolucci's file showed no sign of the beleaguered Mayor.
It was simple, now that they thought about it. Warren was a good man, and always put the good of the city above personal gain. Umbrella could not control him, so they were attempting to oust him. Irons would fold easily beneath pressure; if he rose to office, Umbrella would essentially control the city.
Bertolucci nervously scanned the parking lot.
"It's terrifying to consider, but I believe you," he muttered, hand raised to his hair. "If Umbrella are capable of this level of subterfuge, who knows what else they are capable of? Be careful, especially 'round that Chief of yours. He's a nasty piece of work."
He left before they could thank him, left in stunned silence as they contemplated his words.
"They're everywhere," Rebecca noted. "Irons was right, we don't stand a chance of taking them on here. It's a miracle we're still alive!"
Barry's suggestion had been evident to her the moment he had opened the file.
"We have to leave Raccoon."
Chris could not cease the nervous checking of his watch. Barely a minute passed between glances, and each one that crawled past only made him more and more anxious.
'She's not coming.'
'It's only been five minutes!'
'Why would she come? You weren't exactly pleasant to her last time you spoke.'
He scoffed at his thoughts. Unpleasant was not how would have described the way he had acted towards her. It had been cowardly, cruel and unnecessary. He had initially believed that pushing her away would ease the knot within his stomach, but what had initially felt akin to mild indigestion now felt more like a flesh-eating disease. It was easier to push than to accept, though he was beginning to discover that it was far more agonising. Every day he felt less and less like a man; a real man would not treat a woman that way, especially not his best friend.
'Where the hell is she?'
As though on cue, three short raps were heard against the door to his apartment.
Suddenly, his courage drained. Why had he invited her? What had he been thinking? Why not Barry? Why not Rebecca? Hell, why not Brad?
He drew the many locks quicker than his fingers could manage, until nothing separated them but the door itself.
She appeared as dishevelled as he felt; clad in plain jeans and a low-cut V-neck tee, barely covered by a worn-in jacket she pulled tight to her body. She wore no make up, but he still found that his breath was not where he had expected it to be.
"You going to let me in?" she asked curtly.
Stepping aside, he allowed her to pass, quickly closing the door behind her and turning each and every lock. Paranoia, it seemed, was infectious.
"I didn't think you would come," he admitted with quiet satisfaction.
Her footsteps shuffled against carpet, legs carrying her to the mess he had sworn for days he would clean. Food cartons, cigarette butts, crumpled paper and bent pizza boxes; the scene painted the perfect picture of a slob.
"Chris..." she gasped, taking more interest in the trash than in the man she had come to see. "What the hell is this?"
Though he did not fully understand her suppressed outrage, he hung his head in shame. There was no food amongst the litter, no invite for insects to suddenly descend upon his apartment. It was simple uncleanliness and she knew that he rarely cleaned up after himself.
"Okay, how long did it take you to smoke all these?" she demanded in disbelief as she emptied a single ashtray into a plastic bag. "You want cancer, is that it?"
He had not expected her to be civil with him. If he had been the one woken at such an ungodly hour, they would undoubtedly be beating each other to death with sofa cushions at this point.
"It's good to see you," he admitted against his better judgement.
She cast him a look that conveyed her wish to mirror the sentiment. The only words that fell from her lips were further complaints and general avoidance of her purpose of her visit. When he stepped towards her, he stepped into the dim light, close enough now to make out that she had discarded her jacket on the arm of his sofa.
"Chris, how-" her words ended abruptly when she turned, eyes meeting his for the first time since her arrival. When she spoke once again, her tone was softer, gentler. "Jesus, Chris. What hap- Have you even slept at all since you left?"
He shrugged, for he did not know the answer. A couple of hours every night at most was usually what he stole, but they were hours filled with unsettling dreams and distressing circumstances. Remaining awake had become the easier option.
Jill's fingers ran through her hair, her demeanour suddenly changing. He had no idea what he looked like these days, but it had obviously been enough to startle her.
"I'm alright," he assured her, desperate to chase the worry from her reluctant smile.
"Of course," she laughed bitterly. "You're always alright. Bulletproof Chris Redfield. All the pain in the world couldn't buckle your knees."
Oh how wrong she was. He wished to tell her so, tell her that he was hurting more than she could imagine. Every ounce of discomfort that found its way into her words tore another wound in his already fractured being. Of all the people he longed to protect, it was those who meant the most to him that suffered the most.
"Jill..."
"The only reason I'm here is because I thought you might need me," she revealed. "I'm starting to think that whatever my gut tells me about you, I should do the opposite."
"Jill, I'm sorry-"
"Try telling that to Elran," she spat. "You're an asshole, Chris. You're selfish, uncaring, and if you keep going down this road you're going to end up old and lonely."
The dagger that had been pricking at his guard suddenly buried itself to the hilt in his heart. He could not remember ever witnessing her so furious. Every word had been carefully orchestrated to blind him with guilt and regret, the full force of her fury hitting him with every syllable.
It was a bitter taste of his own medicine, and it hurt like hell.
"I called you over to talk," he explained, his voice defiantly calm. Business was what had driven him to dial her number, and business was the direction this meeting needed to take. "I found something I need you to take a look at."
He turned towards his bedroom, not giving her the chance to protest. He had not the energy within him to fight, and knew that he deserved everything she threw his way.
Fortunately, his bedroom was far cleaner than the rest of his apartment; he had even made his bed that morning. Papers lay scattered over the desk, almost entirely obscuring his computer and printer from view. It took only moments to locate the paper of interest, and she took it from him without question.
It was a harrowing find and not a burden he wished to impose on her but she was his partner above all, and if his plans were to come to fruition, he wanted her to be at his side as he fought. He could not do this without her. More than that, he did not want to.
"G?" she read aloud. "Implantation? Mitochondrial- Is this a virus?"
Chris nodded morosely.
"But...the virus in the labs, that was designated 'T'."
"This is something else," Chris sighed. "We have no idea of the extent to which Umbrella is experimenting with viral technology. There could be dozens more. This one is fairly new, extracted from Lisa Trevor. We know what they did to her, Jill. The T-virus was the basis of her infection; this could be an amalgamation of everything they have found so far. I can't understand everything, but it seems to be uncontrollable and highly volatile. If this gets out..."
She stumbled, steadied only by his quick hand. Blue eyes looked from the paper to the face she had seen on too few occasions lately. He could almost see the thoughts gathering behind her concentration, links forming and conclusions being prematurely drawn.
"Rebecca never mentioned this," she murmured. "Chris, did you- Have you- All this time?"
The reason for her pained expression eluded him, but he nodded regardless. The others had been too busy; he had caught wind of something and dove after it with what he shamefully admitted was reckless obsession. He had been a rolling boulder, knocking aside everything - and everyone - in his path. Everyone including her.
"Dammit, Chris, why didn't you come to me for help?" she demanded emotionally. "We're partners. You didn't have to do this alone."
He could not answer. Why had he not asked for her help? Was it the belief that she would be safer away from him? Or was it the fear-fuelled desire to put distance between them? He certainly hoped it was not the latter.
"I'm leaving," he whispered. Always, the wrong words found their way into conversation. He could not bring himself to check her expression. Leave was all he ever seemed to do these days.
"You have got to be joking," she pushed angrily. "Please tell me you're joking."
"I'm not," he admitted. His mouth was dry and he was sure the words ripped his throat to shreds as they emerged. "There is nothing more for us here. Umbrella's main HQ is in Paris, if we want to find anything we need to be looking there."
She turned from him, letting the papers fall to the floor. He could sense the tension that wracked her body, could feel the impact of the blow he had inflicted with every step away from him that she took.
"Jill...I want you to come with me."
It was a sincere wish, one he hoped that she would grant. Aside from the progress, Rebecca and Barry were in the midst of moving their families; they would be alone for at least a week. Time enough, he hoped, to repair all the damage he had dealt to their relationship, whatever that may be at this point.
"I can't do this without you," he revealed. "I know we're all hurting, but that's no excuse for the way I've been lately. I let my anger distort the truth, and somewhere along the line I forgot what was important. Friends, Jill. I need you with me because you're my partner, but I want you with me because you're my friend. Please...I don't want to leave you behind."
A single tear on her cheek caught the light from his bedside lamp, though she was quick to wipe it away, as though it had never been there at all.
"No," she answered after a short silence.
His blood boiled for the smallest of moments. No?
"Jill!" he protested, stepping towards her and reaching out.
"Chris, I can't," she insisted as she brushed off his hands. "I- You have no idea who badly I want to say yes. But the lab beneath the city...it's worth at least looking into. That's already my job. I need to stay here and see what I can find. We could miss something big and we can't afford a loss like that."
"I can't afford a loss like you!" he blurted out. It was unintentional, and the embarrassment it brought with it made eye contact between the two impossible. "We. We can't afford a loss like you, Jill."
Somehow, he did not think that anything had been saved.
To his surprise, she approached him, smiling encouragement as she placed the palms of her hands flat against his chest.
"Stay," she urged. "This should only take a month at the most. Wait for me, and I'll come with you."
Such an offer had never been so appealing. However, he knew that if they did not move now, they never would. If he did not move now, he never would. Paris offered the promise of a break, of a short-lived vacation. He felt moments away from breaking point and knew that if he did not get out of Raccoon - and soon - he would likely burn out.
Besides, Claire would not seek him out in Paris. It was time to disappear completely.
"I can't," he lamented, pulling her into an embrace. "It's now or never. I spoke to my doctor and he said I should be alright to fly out, so I was thinking about next week."
She was so small in his arms, sinking into his embrace rather than pulling away. Lost in her own little world, it seemed, it was not until he pulled away himself that she took notice of what he had said.
"There's nothing I can say to stop you, is there?" she asked, concealing a mournful smile.
There were a few things she could say, but he knew that they would never be heard, not from her lips. She knew him too well and so accepted this inevitable concept without pushing a sensitive issue. She was as stubborn as he and though it dealt a further blow to his heart, he knew that come next week, they would be exchanging temporary farewells.
It was strange how his plan seemed bittersweet without her involvement. But what had he truly expected? He had not been much of a friend lately. The only reprieve came in the form of her reluctant acceptance of his departure.
"I'm sorry," he apologised. "For everything."
Jill pulled further away, raising a closed fist to her mouth. An abrupt change could be sensed in her posture, but he could not find a reason for her sudden adjustment.
"I should go back," she hurried. "It's getting late and Rebecca will be wondering where I am. Could I borrow some money for a cab?"
A cab?
"You didn't bring your car?"
"I couldn't find the keys," she excused quickly. Why did she want to leave so desperately? "It was only a few blocks."
"You walked?" His voice was almost a roar. "What the hell were you thinking? You know it's dangerous out there, especially for us."
"I'm still in one piece, aren't I?"
"That's not the point!"
An unnatural chill had settled against his skin. He had thought her to have more sense than to take such a stupid risk. Reluctance surfaced as he contemplated the consequences of leaving her; could she be trusted to be careful with her actions? Recklessness was not something he had ever expected to see within her; further proof that the events of weeks past had affected her more than she was letting on.
"Why do you even care?" she snapped. Whatever tenderness she had displayed moments earlier had obviously been a momentary gift. Erratic was another word he would not have applied to her. Always level in her mood and temper, moat days she was the picture of a stable mind.
"Stay," he requested, preparing to reinforce his point physically if he must. "Sleep here, I'll drive you home in the morning."
Something flashed in her eyes, and her brow softened considerably.
"Is there any point in protesting?" she smiled. The twist of her lips was more genuine this time, though suppressed. It seemed that she was forcing a hostile demeanour but lacked the strength of mind to uphold this fakery. He knew the feeling; he would have acted the same way if their positions were in reverse.
"I locked the front door," he pointed out. "I'm not opening it until morning. Make of that what you will."
She laughed in resignation.
"Alright," she relented, eyes still stubbornly avoiding his. "If you insist on holding me hostage, I'm going to need something to sleep in."
Though her words hinted at reluctance, her smiled suggested otherwise.
What exactly he could offer, he did not know. Claire often left clothes at his apartment for ease of travel, but had taken the majority of her belongings with her when she moved away to college, including pyjamas. While he had not kept on top of laundry, there were at least a few of his own T-shirts he could offer her. The connotations were more than he could handle.
Nevertheless, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a suitable item for her comfort.
"This okay?"
She reached for the fabric, fingertips skimming over the soft cotton. She barely gripped the material; tight enough to ensure an adequate hold but gentle enough to encourage him to maintain his.
"May twelfth," she laughed, mind far from the present.
"What?"
"Joseph's birthday," she whispered. "You all joined him for drinks at his apartment; I wasn't there, it was Cassie's birthday too. You wore this shirt."
He had not connected the memory to his old T-shirt; it was clothing, pure and simple. But that night... It had seemed so normal at the time, but so far removed from where they were now.
"You obviously weren't intending to end up downtown," she teased. "When I ran into you, we were all equally wasted. I remember walking home through the park, and Brad falling spectacularly into the fountain. I broke one of my heels and you carried me home, singing Heat of the Moment at the top of your lungs."
Chris cringed at the unwelcome reminder.
"Did I ever apologise for that?"
She laughed with him, but only for a moment. Sadness caught her breath, forced her eyes closed in a movement he knew signalled the impending arrival of tears.
"Jill," he whispered, using their mutual grip on the T-shirt to pull her close. "Talk to me."
Her fingers slipped from the T-shirt, one hand moving to run fingers through her hair once again; a nervous move she had repeated many times that night.
"I miss them," she admitted with a broken voice. Her face contorted in pain, tears slipping from between closed eyelids. "Chris, I miss them."
The T-shirt fell to the floor. Arms encircled her, pulling her reluctant form into him; the only comfort he knew to offer. She folded into him easily, though kept her own arms between their bodies. Stubborn, it seemed, even in sorrow.
He knew that there was nothing he could say that would heal her wounds. It was from experience that he knew the force of grief. First his parents, now his friends.
Her pain came to him stronger than his own grief had. There she was, this one perfect, strong woman, trembling in his in arms. How could you heal pain that stemmed from the soul?
"I miss them, too," he sighed, finding that his own voice cracked as hers had. Was he crying? He was not sure; it had been many years since he had shed tears.
"I just don't understand it," she continued between soft, restrained sobs. "Why did they die? Why them and not us?"
Chris did not know how to answer. Truly, he had been searching for it with every breath that took him further and further away from that night. How many lives would have been saved had they been faster to act?
"I'm scared," she revealed. "I feel like I'm losing my mind. I'm losing everything."
"Hey," he soothed. "That's not true. Jill, I'd be worried if you didn't react to what happened. It's natural. But you have us, you'll always have us."
She scoffed quietly, pulling away to lower herself onto the edge of the bed.
"I can't speak to my father," she disclosed tearfully. "I lost most of my best friends, the others have either moved away or are too ashamed to talk to me. On top of that, we're different, you and I. You keep hiding and walking away and I don't know how much longer I can keep up the chase. I don't like what you've become, Chris. I want my friend back."
The shame returned, forcing him onto the bed at her side, guilting him into reaching for a trembling hand. They all had issues, and he knew that over the past couple of weeks, he had only been adding to hers. Was this sudden, inexplicable change due to him? Was her strength drawn from his proximity? He depended on her an awful lot, and had never considered that the feeling may have been mutual.
"I know that I hurt you," he revealed. "Trust me, whatever you're feeling, I'm getting it threefold. I have no excuse for being the asshole I've been lately, but I want you to know that no matter what I do and how I act, I'll always be there for you and I'll always come back."
Further tears spilled onto her cheeks. Her free hand could not move fast enough to bat them away.
"Friendship goes both ways," she told him. "You can't just be someone's friend, you have to let them be yours. You can't bottle things up then lash out when they try to help. I'm always here for you, but you never take me up on that offer. If you don't want to talk to me, fair enough, but talk to someone. Please."
She knew that her plea had likely fallen on deaf ears, but optimism was the only hope any of them could grasp.
Chris knew that her words were both valid and appropriate. But she was a woman; opening up came easier to her. The years had taught him to internalise his problems, to keep them to himself and put on a brave face. Truth be told, he did not know how to share what he felt. How could words mirror anguish, how could pure happiness be translated to syllables? Words were but a weak explanation of emotions. To truly be understood, they needed to be shared.
"I...I'm scared, too," he tried. At the very least it was worth the best he could give. "I'm scared I'm going to lose what little I have left."
Jill gripped his hand, silently encouraging reluctant words.
"I'm terrified of accepting they're gone, because I know I won't be able to cope."
An invisible noose tightened around his neck, choking words where they were least dangerous. They were only words, why were they so hard to speak?
"I don't like who I've become," he continued. "I hate that you're worried about me because it should be the other way around. I'm not myself, I know that now, and I have no control over it. Anger is painless, it's easier to accept."
"Help is easier," she whispered, though they both knew that she lied.
"I left because I'm scared of S.T.A.R.S.," he revealed. "I need to be professional for the sake of the team, but I know you'll all look to me as a leader and I'm not ready for that. I don't think I'll ever be ready for that kind of responsibility."
"I don't want a leader," she insisted, leaning in uncomfortably close. "I want a friend."
He laughed bitterly. She was one of four teammates; majority always emerged victorious. It may not have been a conscious move, but sooner or later they would begin to ask for guidance, for hope, and for plans he knew would be flawed. Something would go wrong, people would die, and he would never be able to wash the blood from his hands.
"Chris, I miss you," Jill breathed. "We all do. You don't have to lead, you just have to be there. All of this feels impossible without you."
Her warmth was almost suffocating, pressing into his side with unbearably tempting thoughts.
"I need you, and I'm not ashamed to admit that. Not anymore."
A void he had not previously been aware of pulled her to him again, her tears soaking through his T-shirt when she fell into him, eagerly this time. There was something comforting about the way she held him, something that told him never to let go.
'Now would be the perfect time to tell her how you feel.'
His body tensed stubbornly. Of all the stupid ideas his subconscious often offered, this had to be the most out of line. She needed comfort, not a revelation that was bound to startle and disturb her. They needed one another; unrequited love had a nasty tendency to drive a wedge between even the best of friends.
"You have a beautiful mind. There's no way you'd ever lose it."
What did that even mean? It was asinine, and a damn cowardly way of translating what he truly felt into words that would not bring about such devastation.
Her cries ceased, and he found that his hands ceased their rubbing of her back in response. Slowly, painfully, she pulled back, cheeks glistening with previously shed tears.
She had let go, had cried all her troubles into his welcoming shoulder, and he comes out with a compliment so ridiculous? Part of him hoped that she was judging the most appropriate angle for a slap; he knew he deserved it.
Her body remained in his arms, maintaining distance, but retaining the closeness he had felt moments earlier. Blue eyes blinked up at his ashamed expression, bloodshot yet still beautiful. She wore no make up and the night had already marred her face, but she was still beautiful in his love struck eyes. Plain in comparison to the other girls that had seen his bedroom, but far more attractive.
Adding insult to injury, he raised a hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks, fingertips moving then to catch the moisture beneath her eyes. Long lashes brushed softly against his calloused thumb, and she sighed quietly, biting her bottom lip.
When her eyes opened again, a fire raged within them, burning through the icy tone of her irises. In that moment, he had not known what to expect, but prepared an apology and a million excuses that would likely come up short.
What he had not expected was a kiss. It came softly; a simple application of pressure against his top lip. Indeed, he had not recognised the soft touch as that of her lips. Gentle, tentative and sweet. Quite simply, he had experienced nothing like it in his twenty-five years.
He felt the pressure of the kiss throughout his body, burning through veins that thawed with the sudden heat. The few brain cells that had not been immolated by the blissful inferno encouraged movement in his own lips, deepening a simple touch into a fiery kiss.
Nothing existed in that moment but her; he was not even sure that his presence was real. However he had believed kissing her would feel, it did not touch upon the sweet decadence of the real thing. Never had he been so sure about his love for the girl.
Her tongue cajoled his, the tip of her nose pressing gently against his cheek. His hands were moving, but he could barely feel what he touched. In the back of his mind, he knew that it was wrong, that this was not how it should be, but her poison had him in complete submission. Whatever she wanted, it was hers, she did not even have to ask.
Fingers suddenly touched against the skin of his abdomen, soft tips tracing ridges of muscle, pulling fabric up as they moved. The attention his mind had previously paid to her movements suddenly split, the diverted ecstasy flowing to another organ entirely.
Dare he stop her? He knew that he should, but could not find the desire within him. He loved this woman, and she kissed him back with such gentle ferocity that he was sure in his delirium that his feelings were not so unrequited after all.
With this thought, he knew how that night would end.
Mind suddenly free from the lust that had seized it, he could feel the emotion she poured into the kiss, could even feel tears against his cheeks that were not his own. She needed him, and put effort into every movement to let him know that it was so.
He was caught unaware when she pushed, forcing him to the bed with more strength than he had anticipated. Her hair fell against his cheek, teeth grazing his lip sensually. Whatever control he had hoped to grasp now eluded him; she was insistant and he knew in his heart that she wanted this as much as he did.
Explorative hands slid beneath her tee, gliding over toned abdominals. A startled gasp broke the kiss once again when fingers met with curved, bare skin.
'This woman is going to be the death of me,' he groaned inwardly, tracing the curve of her breast with one hand while the other pulled the tee clear of her body. Her lips fell against the skin of his cheek, kissing everywhere but the lips. His hands carressed her eagerly, reaching up, kneading soft flesh with rough hands.
She pulled away suddenly, arms covering what he had felt but had yet to see. Fearful eyes met his, pink lips parting to allow a trembling breath to pass. Her expression was one of desire and confusion; she could not bring herself to leave his arms completely, but seemed afraid of pushing forward.
"Is this right?" her silent eyes asked.
How could it be wrong?
Chris slid his fingers back into her soft hair, holding his palms against her cheeks. He had never seen her so vulnerable, so open. She was offering a lot, asking for nothing in return but his company. He loved her, though even in that moment he could not find the courage to tell her.
Was she afraid that he would leave?
He locked eyes with her, hoping that she would see how wrong she was to hold any doubt, and feel that which could not be spoken.
Her lips twitched, a smile attempted but not achieved.
Her kiss was gentle this time, lithe fingers stroking the back of his neck, wrapping around the short hairs at the base of his skull. He barely found the composure to free her of her jeans and pull her further onto his lap. Nails scraped over the skin of his shoulders, carving red marks in their wake. He was sure his skin had not always been this sensitive, every inch of her that pressed to him setting nerves aflame.
She was gentle despite her desperation and he knew that he had to be, too. She was not some dumb bar slut he had brought home for a night of fun; this was Jill Valentine, the woman he had willingly handed his useless heart to. Trouble was, did he know how to be gentle? He had little doubt that he was more experienced that her, and likely had a bad reputation within the female circles of the R.P.D. He wished there were a way to show her that he was equally as frightened, that simply gazing upon her half-naked form made him feel so out of his league he wasn't sure where he stood anymore. He did not make love, but knew that anything less would be an insult to her and to the way he felt. Always preoccupied with taking care of himself, how did he make this about her?
'Stop worrying or all this is pointless,' he reminded himself.
He found that his hands trembled as they slid experimentally up the smooth skin of her thigh. Somehow, he felt as though he were back in high school, fumbling his way through a first encounter. Every touch brought a different sound from her throat, and he could tell by the awkward movement of her limbs that she was desperately trying to remain quiet. Deviously, fingers slid beneath her underwear, tracing the curve of her backside. He did not want her to keep quiet; he wanted to hear how she felt, know what she liked.
Several fingers trailed behind, the texture of skin suddenly different; coarse and unpleasant. He did not mean to break contact, but it was a natural response. Three long, thin welts ran across the side of her upper right thigh. Though old and healing, he could tell that they had once been painful, perhaps still were. Further scratches could be felt against her back, one on her upper arm that he had failed to notice previously.
She seemed to notice his diverted attention, attempted to break it with the workings of her lips.
They had all suffered, though the extent of one another's injuries was known only by the medic who had treated them. Too preoccupied with the emotional scars, he had failed to consider the physical impact of that night. His own torso had been a pitiful sight to behold at first, and though the wounds had slowly healed, their ghosts remained.
Suddenly, her fingers wrapped around his dog tags, pulling him back onto the large awaiting bed.
Moonlight caught her as she moved, accentuating every curve and illuminating her skin with its ethereal glow. She may as well have been a dream; she seemed so far out of his reach, so unobtainable. Worry flashed once again in her eyes, breath shaking as he joined her. He had never known her fake confidence. What was it that she found so daunting?
'It's you, fool. She cares for you, feel it.'
He traced her scars lovingly, sinking into her and sliding her underwear sensually down her legs. She groaned into the skin of his neck, nipping at points of sensitivity he never knew that he had. Her hand slipped to his boxers, passing beneath the waistband as she nibbled gently on his earlobe. He jerked the arm at her waist, pulling her into him before her fingers travelled any lower. He was not seeking pleasure, though it pleased him to know that this would ultimately be the result of their tryst. No, he wanted to feel her, and to show her just how much she meant to him. If he could not tell her, then he could show her.
Hampering to his attempts, aggressiveness came to her in spurts, spurred on perhaps by impatience. She fought against him, and against herself; a tense battle for dominance he knew was fultile on her behalf. Within moments, she was beneath him, seemingly happy to resign herself to the fact that she had little control over what was to happen.
He groaned at the blissfullycontrasting feel of her body against his; soft curves against hard muscle. His own fingers made him a hypocrite and she bucked against the sudden pressure, gripping his arm tight enough to sink her fingernails into his tricep. This time, it was his lips that teased her throat, searching skin he had rarely seen exposed. He wanted to feel every inch of her, know what made her squeal his name. It was difficult when she could not keep still beside him, and every pressure point he did discover he found purely by accident. Her perspiration tasted as sweet as her lips, beading on her skin and catching the light.
"Chris!" she gasped, breaking the silence he had thought to be an unwritten rule.
His attention now broken, she took the moment to slide his boxers to the bed, throwing in an obligatory tease as she captured his lips, lest they push her too far too soon.
She fell back when he pushed, bucking her hips against his.
"Dammit, Jill," he groaned, regretting his words as soon as they emerged. She laughed nervously, wrapping her strong, soft thighs around his waist, but he knew that his outburst had been inappropriate.
His thumb brushed her cheek, fingers finding the softness of her hair. The trauma of days past seemed but a distant memory; the desperation in her almost hesitant movements signifying a need words could not describe.
Neither of them knew how long they laid there, lost in a tender kiss, feeling what had not yet been felt. Chris only knew that it was after one o'clock when he glanced to his bedside table, turning back to her when her lips once again found his ear.
Her eyes were glazed, her smile stupefied. Searching for reason, for permission, he found it somewhere beyond her dilated pupils. Unsure of what he had seen, he knew regardless that she wanted this as much as he; that she needed it even more. Whether his transgressions had been forgiven or simply forgotten, he did not know.
All he knew was that he loved her, and for now that was enough.
AN - Please review :).