You taste like gun powder...
"Chris I can't believe you! Are you kidding me?! Do you know what that kid did, and you let him walk?!"
Jill's face was a mix of emotion, watching as Chris threw apart his desk looking for the file work he was sure he had but not finding. Chris didn't do paperwork, but he could if need be and he'd needed to back then, so since he had possibly the worst filing system on the face of the planet there was no way of knowing. But then, there was knowing without knowing. "You think Jill?! You weren't the only one that he ghosted." On top of that, there was no reason for him to get completely complicated over the matter. He didn't needed Jill to know what happened in the interrogation room. He'd gotten loose almost five minutes later, just like anticipated... clothed and rearmed, only then had he reported the kid escaped. Damn little brat. By the time Jill had sounded any kind of alarmed herself, Piers was gone. How had he even known how to get around this place, his access key was a key, not a map. He wasn't kidding when he said he was talented at his job. Chris continued searching, but knew well that he wasn't going to find it. "Damn it!" Chris threw shut the file cabinet. It wouldn't be in the computer, Chris didn't pretend to use computers, but evidently he'd considered that as well. "All the mission details on what happened during the Il Veltro mission is gone..., including all the information on the known affiliates and whereabouts, where we keep all the things we confiscated."
"Damn it Chris seriously, he could have done anything with those key codes!" Shoving him aside Jill quickly spun in the swivel chair, dropping her hands on the keyboard and immediately typing like a professional, or a thirteen year old girl, since they seemed to be equal in this day and age in the field of keyboarding. Pass codes and keys thrown into place before pulling up the file work of her own, all the information flying up in six seven, thirteen windows of information, scanning for everything involved. "There's no way this kid hacked into the B.S.A.A. mainframe... shit but if they're just looking for information on what we did with their men and where they're being held..." Glowering, the age old partner vehemently twisted her lips, "Alright Chris, start talking... you've had that look on your face since the second you walked out of interrogation. Who the hell is that kid!? Why is he out to get you?"
Tangy, burning scorched the back of Chris' raspy throat, ignoring the urge to cough from the searing pain and instead taking a long fulfilling drag off his cigarette butt, poison filling massive lungs hidden beneath his huge chest; while Chris smeared his fingers across the slick rain soaked stone, slippery and frozen against the tips of his calloused hands. The words scrawled across the front were just another in the huge display here at the cemetery, another long line of apologies that sad siblings, children, mothers, and fathers,... and old rivals had put on their headstone to relieve some kind of guilt that could come from immortalizing some final last words. Patting the huge slab one more time, the captain gave a saluted snarl, a glass clinked while the whiskey bottle settled atop the stone, rain drops echoing off the empty glass filling the air with the sound of tinkling bells, filling with deluded yellowing drops. Dark brown eyes narrowed at the stone, shaking his head, unshaven for a week and not sober for one second longer than between bottles lasted which so long as the B.S.A.A. was paying meant never. Crumpling a brown bag in one hand, another long neck showed itself, glancing far across the desolate wasteland of sadness for nothing at all but finding with it, another section of the greenery; two men standing in their black suits, mourning a loss. Heh, poor suckers, did they suppose that that wearing nice clothing and looking like a fucking penguin was going to make it easier for them to deal with death. They needed the whiskey more than he did. He wasn't about to share though, that was sure; this bottle was meant for him... and for the man six feet under. Scoffing, there was a darkness from the cloud cover overhead, looking up behind sunglasses that shielded the darkening bags under his eyes and the blown out pupils, cracking open the fresh bottle once and pouring some out over the grave at his feet, staining the smooth slate with malt brown. So many dead men, they deserved the good stuff... This shouldn't have mattered so much... it was only a matter of time for them all, how was this any different, could have easily been Chris in his place.
"Chris... its time to go, I've gotta get back." Jill's concerned eyes met her partner's, not daring a look at the grave herself, both mortified they were here and strangely drawn beside him, wrapping her tiny arms around his bulk of a waist a sort of loving embrace only they could share; nudging him along whilst taking another swig and a huff off the stick of cancer before tossing those too for the grounds keeper to find in the event that anyone else ever came to this part of the cemetary. It was unlikely there would ever be another human being interested in that grave, but still, it was more fitting to leave him with the bottle, than to take it with. "Maybe you should stay home tonight Chris... its not a big deal. Its just a recruitment thing you don't have to be there."
"Wha's the poin,' 'They wan' the grea' hero there... don' they?"
The horrible slur was noxious sidling into her ear canals, assaulting and battering her face wand nose with the scent of over ripe booze and the serious lack of a shower on the stale sun bleached jacket leather absorbing and stinking of wet must; while his large muscled frame slacked over forward with a proper drunken hunch. If Jill Valentine was any other kind of woman, she wouldn't have been able to carry Chris' weight this way, but even with his massively muscled frame leaning and tripping over his own feet, ground slick and soaking up their pant legs, wetting socks and feet both; she still managed to hold up her partner. She was well versed in the process. Craning her head down so she wouldn't have to witness this disgrace, with one arm around the partner she'd had since day one, and the other sneaking out to pull open the cobalt blue sedan door. Both were slick with the October rain, drenched through to her bright blue panties and bra, but she couldn't care less helping Chris into his place on the leather seating as it squeaked under his mass, ignoring the cigarette already in his mouth. There was no point fighting him, once Chris was drunk, if he wanted something you gave it to him, or he'd make you. The smoking was the least of her worries anyway, cancer would kill you yeah, but it wouldn't get you doing stupid shit you'd never do otherwise. He'd always had a bit of a drinking problem before, it ran in the family. It wasn't as though Jill hadn't had her fair share of drowning in a bottle, but now... there were times she questioned now if Chris could even remember his own name. "Are you absolutely sure Chris, I can do this alone. You weren't obligated to go, its just me. They just mixed it all into one.. the announcement and the recruitment, so it's bound to be a lot of people"
"Tryin' ta ge' rid of me now too Valentine?"
Jill slammed the door shut, almost clipping Chris' cement feet while he dragged them like an elephant into the car, cutting him off before he could continue on with that melodramatic kind of thinking. Sucking in crisp clean air between her pursed lips she repeated the mantra she'd taken up since the day Chris had returned to the bottle. 'You can do this Jill. Just get him through the night. Just one more night.' Closing large saucer like eyes, the woman yanked open the driver's side door, clambering into the driver's seat with a squeak, and slipped the keys out of her watery pocket, cramming them into place and revving the engine; burbling in the storm. In a huff, she grit her teeth to hear her partner prattling on as though she hadn't even stopped his conversation by shutting the door over on him, swearing into his cigarette as though that would help him now. Perhaps there was something that she could do for him, or not. Being back in the real world was hard on every soldier, let alone one who had lost so much..., or felt he'd been left by everyone and everything. Sufferers of PTSD were often told to go through these kinds of issues, but Jill knew the real reason he was drunk off his ass and refusing any kind of help but to stumble through day after day like her puppy dog. It was the scars. Everyone had them, but no one forgot.
"Look you remember that day don't you? When the rain just kept falling and we didn't really have anything left. It was pouring outside, the day of the ceremony... the one for-"
"What I remember is you drunk as a skunk literally making me take you everywhere but to a warm shower because you thought it was okay to treat me like your chauffeur. And yes Chris I remember, the day when you went to the cemetery and made me pick you up because you had nothing left. I had a lot, I'm not sorry for what happened, and you shouldn't be either. You hit a low, it happens to everyone when someone dies, but I know what it meant to you not having him around anymore, no matter what he did." Jill crossed her arms around her chest, trying not to get overly pissed at her partner for his prolonged explanation. "How do you even remember it, you couldn't even spell Redfield on your 'Hi my name is' tag." Annoyed, pursed lips tugged to the corner, seeing red as Chris ground his fingers into his temple trying to draw memories back from a place he had barely had the talent to recall. these memories were so damn chaotic, he never wanted to remember them to begin with. That's what the booze had been for, to forget all his sorrow and crimes. Apparently a soldier was always a soldier and some part of him did remember that day no matter what he wanted particularly those few words, that drew back to him like a train colliding with his face. The booze never did help him much. There was no freedom for Chris Redfield, even in a bottle of Jameson, or six of them. Closing the computer with a flick of her fingers, she managed to pull her full attention to the man yanking migraines out of his brain in a battle for conviction to continue on. Evidently something was bothering him, his entire person was on edge; muscles flexed in his arms to the point where the veins in his arms looked strained, chest heaving and his gut so tense she could swear he was going to throw up. "Keep going..."
"I appreciate what you did for me then Jill, taking me out of that place I was in a dark place and I needed you. I appreciated it but..., look you remember the memorial?"
"The celebration..., yes Chris I remember. Only you thought it was a memorial."
Every soldier in the area had come from miles around this place, touching the hopes and dreams of little boys earning their keep and full grown men inspired to act when a miraculous event happens that changes the tides of the war. Who cared what they were there for, an open bar was all that mattered. Chris had been settled there for the last half hour driving the bar tender to insanity with demands for the bottle when they were given strict instructions not to, and getting ranted at every time they threatened to water it down with huge cubes of ice. Ambient lighting kissed the glass in his rough palm sparkling a glint in his eye that went completely unnoticed, throwing back another before the glass came up, cool to rest against his forehead, the chunks of ice still melting away because of his furnace like heat. He needed a distraction and fast before he pissed off the guy at the corner of the bar by using up all the whiskey, considering moving on to something better, like straight vodka, it had a better burn. All these old ass bastards had just as much reason to drink as he did, so why didn't they? Instead they were all happy and victorious for a deed they hadn't even done. They were gratifying themselves with someone else's actions, as though they deserved an ego stroke. They could keep their fucking 'victory.' Snarling, Chris' lip curled over his teeth slapping the glass down hard on the counter demanding another with a ferocious growl resembling a bear, immediately served up with some hope that this one would quell the man's appetite. Jill's turn to talk. Some shitty piece about comradery and family... Yeah, what they didn't tell you was what follows. The fact that every man you take under your wing would die and not pretty little honorable deaths, no, and then if you didn't go with them; so would the other people in your life, the only one you could count on to stay alive. He couldn't take this. Hauling his hulking form from the seat, Chris ignored the man rushing to take up his limited spot prepared to slink off around the edges of the place until he found a good spot to throw up in. Spotting an open balcony across the way, window doors drawn shut, Chris weaved..., no stumbled and beat down the people in the crowd to cross the room, shoving those out of the way that refused to move and issuing a growled command at those who seemed to want to step up, ignoring Jill's sympathetic eyes following him as she spoke on ironically about her own family at the B.S.A.A.
Stupid little recruiting stunt. Those assholes didn't even know what it meant to be a soldier. They were a bunch of uptight children who wanted to join up to prove their worth when all they were proving was what complete dumbasses they were. Shoving the windowed doors aside along with crush blue blustery curtains, Chris scoffed, heavy feet numb, tingling and plodding to catch up under him. Tripping into the marble banister to catch himself with his face, hands too sluggish to come up and brace him, Chris could taste of irony tang of blood mingling with the whiskey still coating the inside of his cheeks. Working up a spit with blood globbed in his mouth, the captain snorted, leaning over and hacking the blob down on whoever's unfortunate head it might land on outside. Still fucking raining, what would they care? The world was crying. What a fucking line of shit. Those people in there were laughing and playing with revelry. Chirs rubbed the red in his eyes, a mix of the alcohol and emotions from earlier swearing about the loud music and the raucous giving him a pre-hangover migraine. That was before he heard the sounds of footsteps beside him, and the glass doors shutting again. Some ass hole come to join him on the this desolate balcony... in the middle of Jill's speech..? The least this shit could do was listen to what they'd come to see, even if it was some spectacle publicity stunt. Colossal hands clobbering down on the railing, at the next sound of a clearing throat, Chris growled like an animal, about roar at the little punk recruit who came to join this farse. If they wanted to hold some shitty ass memorial and host it as a tool for recruits, fine, but they could have at least called it a memorial, and they could have at least talked about the real reason they were there. They were just going to do a bunch of glory speeches, but if they were going to go through all that trouble then the punk to his right should have enough decency to listen to his partner's speech. And if not, what the hell were they doing here anyway? "WHAT?!"
Youthful features, completely unphased by Chris' tyrannical outburst seemed to mix together into a template of amused full lips, curled ever so slightly into a partial smile, and concerned and worried brows knit together just accenting the bright hazel of half lidded oculars that seemed to take everything in. Here was Chris Redfield, the image of 'the beast', his massive form all tensing muscles, clenching and grinding teeth, with a stubble on his jaw that could now be considered a beard, glowering down at 'the beauty' ready to kill him for just that clearing of his throat. And in his hand? Chris immediately stiffened, licking his already parched, drying lips, dry mouthed for a drink long time coming as a large hand encompassed the diamond in the rough, held out to him with no pretense. "Major always told me, if you're going to get drunk, do it on someone else's dime, and on expensive scotch." Soft tenor was practically mute against the rain, completely unaffected while the captain reached out hands brushing together, the other hand snaking out and bringing up a full bottle.
"Your major is wrong. Vodka, whiskey, or malt will do fine. Scotch is for old men." Chris drank it anyway, savoring the familiar burn and eying the bottle hungrily, snatching it up from a loose grip, slim fingers dipping back into grey suede pockets. Without the drinks he was pretty, with them he was damn fine. He didn't care what his name was, no one needed a name, particularly the ones handing out bottles of fine scotch for free.
"I wouldn't know."
Why was he still here? Chris poured another glass, drinking it down with that smoothness it afforded and then another, had to be at least fifty years in this bottle. One more, and he realized he was being stared at, hazel watching his adam's apple bob with each swallow an appeased smile on those pretty lips, swallowing what appeared to be a bit of his own dry throat watching the B.S.A.A. water logged captain down the rest of his glass. Finally, refilling it, weighing the glass, the captain handed it back to slimmer hands, dexterously catching up in Chris' fingers instead of taking the glass, just holding them over Chris' own like a blanket. Warmth flooded into those cool finger tips, touching rough gun calloused tips while thoroughly enjoying himself just watching brown eyes on his own face, not jerking away. Just standing there in the wet while the drops brought flipped up bangs down. Watering down the drink as well but neither of them seemed to care. Those eyes were soft, and strangely understanding, strangely knowing, and immensely arousing despite how pissed off Chris was. "What are you staring at, huh?" Chris couldn't help but cut off the silence, his words going straight to the chase even though they came out more curious than he'd ever intended them to sound..., even though this kid was still holding his hand like they were having some kind of a moment. His hands were so uncalloused, unused, but still absorbing all the heat out of his bear claw into them.
"You are Captain Christopher Redfield... right?"
At the mention of his name own name Chris snorted, pulling his hand back and the glass, the coy liquid sloshing over the rim and passed Chris' gruff lips, stuffing the glass back into those reassuring slim hands with a grunt. "What are you, some up and comer, wanna switch from boy scouts to bioterror before you're even jaded enough to accept a fucking drink? What are you, nineteen, eighteen? Beat it you little shit. You have no idea what you're getting into." Chris took a chug from the bottle, reeling back with hatred boiling in his body from the day, leaning on the railing again. Last thing he wanted was some little new age brat hanging around looking for a recommendation. Besides kids his age couldn't get into the B.S.A.A. even if they wanted to. "Thanks for the drink kid, now beat it." Chris groaned, not hearing the footsteps, only the rain, then the hand on his bare arm, an unwarranted, completely ill-advised move on the kid's part, except it felt so good. Wet soaked shirt, wet soaked coat, and wet soaked everything, all surmounted by those warm fingertips prodding just under the hem of his sleeve and over he back of his hand. They were still, completely, just for a brief moment before both pulling away at the same time. "What do you want kid? Just spill it already? How do you know me huh?"
"You're the captain of the B.S.A.A., you're starting up a unit called the S.O.U. aren't you? I heard about it from the major, he's not a fan, but... I just... Anyway I wanted to meet you. I followed the Raccoon City incident pretty closely. You were amazing. I'm sorry about your men."
"So you're telling me this kid just had a little round of hero worship and it turned him into a killer? I don't buy it Chris." Jill's voice cut through Chris like a knife, his hands flying up and throwing them to the sides, shoving his chair over backward as he stood. "Oh don't get all defensive Chris, I know you were drunk but I have no idea what you could have said to a fifteen year old stroking your ego to make him into a contract killer."
There were so many things that Chris could have said, but rather, he yanked the bottle out of his desk drawer, picking up the vodka stale glass and throwing himself back into the chair. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me Chris."
Airing Chris' dirty laundry, Jill might not really want him to keep going... but I'm going to!
Drunk Chris is so... drunk...