Note: There's a lot of pseudoscience in this chapter. Please just try to suspend your disbelief and pretend it makes sense :P
He wakes to warmth and an unfamiliar weight on his chest. Chris sighs, turning his head into the pillow, and the sharp sting in his neck makes him instantly regret it. As he opens his eyes, it all comes flooding back to him at full force—the mission, the mansion, the monsters, Jill.
Chris feels a sense of relief when he discovers that Jill is still nestled against his chest. Witnessing the slow, soft tide of her breathing as she sleeps is perhaps the greatest form of reassurance he's had in a while. He moves his hand up her back, cups the curve of her shoulder with his palm, and tries to force the memories of the night out of his mind.
For now, this is all that matters. He's here, in his bed, with Jill fucking Valentine curled up against his chest like it's the most ordinary thing in the world. For some reason, he feels like he needs to commit every detail of this to memory. Maybe knowing over half the people in your life are dead does that to you. Carpe diem or some shit.
Jill stirs, eyebrow furrowing as she inhales sharply. Her eyelids flutter open and closed, a quiet groan spills from between her lips, and she opens her eyes to look up at him.
"Hey." He awkwardly says, holding back a smile.
"Hey."
He finds himself thinking that he loves the way she sounds when she first wakes up.
"How'd you sleep?"
His hand stays on her shoulder. Her head stays on his chest. Either of them could end this, but neither of them do.
"Better than I ever could have imagined," she pauses, "Given what happened last night, I mean."
They're quiet as they both reflect on the mention of whatever the hell happened last night. Chris isn't even sure he's remembering it all correctly. The hounds, the cabin, the snake, Jill, monsters, Kevin, Wesker…
"Fuck."
It was all real, wasn't it? Every fucking bit of that nightmare actually happened.
"Yeah," Jill mumbles, "Fuck."
He can still smell the rotten stench of that mansion and feel the chilled lick of wind from the graveyard. When he closes his eyes, he can picture the specimen jars lined up on the shelf in that cabin. He wonders what they're supposed to do next. Is anyone even going to believe them?
"You sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"
Jill traces her fingers along the tender edge of the gash in his neck. He tries not to wince despite how much it stings.
"Yeah, I'd rather not," he admits, "And it's probably too late for stitches anyway."
He gently grasps her fingers and inspects the back of her hand. Her pale skin is bruised, scratched raw and torn in various places as he studies his way up to her shoulder.
"What the hell are we supposed to do now?"
Chris doesn't want to let her go. He slips his fingers between hers and brings their hands to rest on his chest. Jill seems to quietly mull it over.
"I don't know." She confesses. "Joseph has a lot of material we need to go over. I think that's the best place to start."
He nods and closes his eyes. They can get to it later. For now, he wants to appreciate this for what it is. Chris doesn't know what he and Jill are anymore because this sure as hell isn't anything he's ever done with a work partner, but it feels so right that there's no way he's going to end it. What the hell is he supposed to do with her now?
That question seems to haunt him these days.
The loud sound of their apartment door slamming shut interrupts his train of thought. Chris hears Claire's familiar stomp as she makes her way down the hall. She could be mad about a thousand different things, like some dickhead who flipped her off in traffic or whatever social injustice she's passionate about this week, but he never considered that she might be mad at him until his bedroom door is thrown open and she stands there, flushed and furious, in his doorway.
"What the hell is going on, Chris?" She demands to know as she delivers a swift kick to the edge of his bed frame. Jill quickly separates from him and sits upright beside him.
"Claire? What the he—"
"Arklay is on fire and the news says you're probably dead."
She delivers it in a deadpan fashion, almost like she's accusing him of something.
"What are you talking about?" He gruffly asks, craning his neck to look more directly at her.
Claire's gaze darts from him to Jill. Her demeanor softens and an embarrassed look surfaces on her face. Claire averts her attention to the floor and turns on her heel.
"Just…get up and come look." She demands before leaving the room.
When they make their way to the living room, Claire is staring intently at the television screen. Flashes of red and orange light up her face as shots of the burning forest are shown and he can see the wetness of tears glistening in her eyes. In that moment, she looks particularly young, and he swears he can see a glimpse of his little sister from the moment when she found out their parents were never coming home again.
She looks at them briefly before focusing on the news again. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and she has her arms wrapped around them, her hand gripping her opposite wrist so tightly that her knuckles are white. It occurs to him that she's scared and he has no fucking idea what to do. He looks at Jill, silently pleading for some type of advice as he takes a seat beside his sister. The footage abruptly changes from raging flames to a live police briefing.
Chief Irons is standing behind a podium, flanked by officers on either side. His cheeks are ruddy from the summer heat as he surveys the crowd with his beady eyes. There is no discernible emotion on his face and the microphone screeches as he tilts it downward to accommodate his height. It's an uncomfortable contrast to the footage of firefighters desperately trying to quell the flames swallowing Arklay.
"It is with great sadness," he begins, "That I report a tragedy that has occurred in the Arklay mountains."
"He doesn't look very sad." Claire mumbles and he laughs. She's barely even met the man and knows he's an absolute tool.
"Last night, the Special Tactics and Rescue Service was deployed to investigate a concerning report regarding activity in the Arklay Mountains."
Irons pauses, cheeks bloating as he takes a deep breath.
"There is an ongoing investigation, but it appears that an explosion occurred during the night. At the moment, only one live member of S.T.A.R.S. has been accounted for. We are investigating the whereabouts of the missing officers. We ask that you avoid the area as firefighters attempt to contain the fire."
He swipes at the beads of sweat on his forehead with a meaty hand. His starchy dress shirt is visibly damp and plastered to his sides.
"He sounds and looks like an idiot." Claire comments.
Chris confirms that he very much is.
"Have any S.T.A.R.S members been confirmed dead?" A reporter openly asks.
"Yes. We ask that their privacy be preserved at this time for the sake of their families."
"Families? So multiple S.T.A.R.S. officers then?"
Irons doesn't comment and instead gestures towards another reporter, encouraging them to proceed with their question.
"What was the source of the explosion?"
"The investigation is still in progress."
"Is it possible that this is tied to the Lester case?"
"No." He sharply responds. "Lester remains in custody."
There's something about the way Claire's looking at him that takes him off guard. She's sneaking these fleeting glances at him out of the corner of her eye and he doesn't know why. Claire has always been up front with whatever is on her mind, but it seems like she's haunted by something unspoken.
Chris doesn't plan on asking about it because he's sure she'll tell him when she's ready, but he's suddenly thinking about how half his colleagues are dead in the blink of an eye.
"Are you alright?"
She catches his eyes and her face twists into an expression that looks painful. Her nose scrunches up and she clenches her eyes shut. Claire takes in a deep, shaking breath.
"I…"
The way she grimaces makes him feel guilty.
"I thought you might have been dead."
He has no fucking idea how to handle this. The next thing he knows, Claire is crying in that hysterical teenage way after trying to keep it bottled up for just a little too long. There are a few gut-wrenching sobs before she hiccups, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes seem even more blue from the brimming tears.
"Sorry." She sniffles, looking up at the ceiling. He can tell she's embarrassed. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
"I'm sorry." Chris doesn't know what else to say. "I'm really fucking sorry."
All he can do is pull her into a crushing embrace, so he does. He hugs her tightly and thinks about how small and vulnerable she seems. Claire limply wraps her arms around his body in return and he knows he's hurt her in a way he hasn't before.
"I'll kill you if you die." She mumbles in a muffled tone, her face buried in his chest.
"I know."
He looks over at Jill with pleading eyes, hopeful that she might have any inkling of an idea on how to break him free from this horrifying and awkward situation, but she only offers him a warm smile.
They'll call the others later, he decides, to figure out what the fuck they're going to do. Get their stories straight or whatever the hell seems like the right thing to do.
Until then, it's probably best to apologize to his sister in the only way he really knows how—a heaping pile of pancakes from Emmy's Diner and coffee with enough sugar to legally be considered a dessert. As he watches Jill push a pile of egg whites around on her plate, he knows this isn't enough to fix everything, but he naively hopes that it might be a start.
With enough time, everything can be normal again, can't it?
"I've got a bad feeling about all this shit." Joseph says as he adjusts the tie loosely hanging around his neck. "This all feels so…fake."
Chris has felt on edge since their return to the Raccoon Police Station. He didn't expect the pieces to magically fall into place, but he thought things would start to make a hell of a lot more sense than they currently do. No one has asked them a damn thing and Irons hasn't requested so much as a single report. Everything feels surreal and he doesn't know how to process it. All this fucked up shit is going on in the world and everyone's just blissfully living their lives.
"We have two hours before the reception ends." Jill advises and Chris can hear her unspoken demand for them to be quick.
"Speaking of," Joseph laughs, "That's the shittiest memorial I've ever seen."
The impromptu memorial service for the fallen S.T.A.R.S. felt more like a formality than anything. None of them believe Irons mourns the loss of lives and the fact that no one truly knows the circumstances surrounding their deaths feels like a crime. He couldn't bear to sit through one more second of the scripted bullshit coming out of the mouths of Irons and his pencil pushing lackeys and, thankfully, neither could Frost or Jill.
Instead, they were going to break into Wesker's apartment. With so many questions left unanswered, they decided it would be best to get to his place before anyone else might have the opportunity.
"If Wesker was orchestrating all this like Barry said…" Joseph begins to postulate, "Then do you think fucking with S.T.A.R.S. was all his idea?"
Wouldn't that be the shit icing on the shit cake? As much as he'd love to believe it, Chris isn't sure that it's possible. Wesker had an impressive history with the Raccoon Police Department. It would have been an impressively long con if he'd joined with the sole intention of covertly developing a special tactics unit to someday test the efficacy of his scientific abominations.
"Wesker has been with the RPD for a long time. Army before that. Maybe he was paid off or something, I don't know. I doubt it was his motive all along."
"Yeah, you're probably right." Joseph sighs. "Greedy motherfucker probably wanted some big money to buy more sex robots or something."
"Sex robots?" Jill asks in disbelief.
"Well, yeah," Joseph rolls his eyes, "Do you think there's any woman on earth who might be attracted to that creepy fuck? He definitely had to get off with kinky sex androids."
The entry to his apartment is as nondescript as one could imagine. Apartment 450 was hidden behind a towering black door at the end of a hallway, boasting no warm welcome or semblance of personality. Jill takes a careful look at the silver lock.
"Do you think…?" Chris asks as he vigilantly watches the hallway for any sign of company.
Jill exhales through her nose, like she's holding in a laugh, and he hears the lock lift with an audible click. Under different circumstances, he's sure he would have found her talent to be incredibly hot. Hell, it seemed like everything about her impressed him lately.
Chris doesn't know that he's ever wondered what Wesker's living conditions were like, but he admits that he isn't even remotely surprised by how boring the reality of it is. The apartment seems more like a demo in a furniture store than a place that someone lives in. It feels staged, like it's all some kind of front to trick them into believing someone actually did live here.
"I bet the price stickers are still on the damn dishes." He comments.
Jill seems uneasy. He can see the tension in her body and he almost wants to tell her to forget it, but he knows this is something that they have to do. Even if they don't find anything, it's worth it just to kill their curiosity.
Joseph isn't shy about wandering through the apartment. He wastes no time in strutting down the hall to peek his head in each room.
"Jill, you check the office. Chris, you look in the bedroom. I do not wanna see the weird shit Captain was up to."
Chris doesn't protest. Maybe it's a result of Joseph's influence, but Chris almost expects to find a coffin in lieu of a bed when he flips on the lights. In a way, the perfectly made bed is even more jarring than a coffin would have been. Did Wesker iron his goddamn sheets?
Despite his thorough search, he can't find any evidence that Wesker was up to much. Hell, he can't even find evidence that Wesker even lived in the place…no stray hairs on the sheets, a bone dry toothbrush with pristine fibers, a perfectly kept closet full of blues and blacks, and no secrets hidden away behind vent covers or wedged between the mattress and box spring.
"Are you fuckin' serious?!"
He follows the sound of Joseph's voice to the office, finding him peering over Jill's shoulder as she sits at the desk. There's an open lockbox on its surface and as she takes a sheet of paper out of it, the color drains from her face.
"What's going on?" He worriedly asks, standing beside Joseph to read over her shoulder.
The name is blacked out, but he can tell it's some type of medical record. Blood type, lab tests, physical exam…
"What's the big deal? Does he have a venereal disease or something?"
Jill hands it to him and reaches for another paper.
"It's mine." She simply says. "All of this is…mine."
He's momentarily rendered speechless as he watches her rifle through the paperwork inside. There's a copy of her ASVAB scores, personality profiles, more medical records, an IQ test for entry to the Special Forces Operational Detachment. He doesn't understand why Wesker would have any of this. Did he have a file on all of them?
"Wesker…Wesker's the one who broke into my apartment."
She sounds a little shaken up.
"This…all of this came from my apartment."
"God," Joseph gasps, "What a creepy motherfucker."
Chris places his hand on her shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. He's angry, but it's not the reaction she needs right now. Was Wesker fucking stalking her? Had he been keeping tabs on her the whole time? For fucking what?
"He's gone." He tries to reassure her, swallowing the building rage inside of him as best he can. "Whatever he was doing, it…he can't do it anymore."
Even he can admit that it's a shitty attempt at reassurance. Jill doesn't acknowledge him, but instead retrieves a handheld tape recorder from the bottom of the box.
"February 11, 1998…"
Wesker's voice is even more disturbing from beyond the grave.
"The screening process has begun. Given the results yielded from previous studies, it is apparent that the prime candidate must be female. At this point in time, all applications have been rejected on the basis of physical and intellectual inadequacy."
A pause.
"February 20, 1998. I have received three applications with high potential. The first candidate, A.S., bears the most promising intellectual abilities; however, the subject's physical prowess leaves much to be desired. Genetically, there is a permutation of ANK1 that requires further investigation. Trials are being conducted to determine its compatibility with Progenitor.
The second candidate, C.W., lacks the optimal blood type for this study. It has not yet been determined if Progenitor will accept Rh positive typing, but trials have been approved. The subject's level of fitness is optimal. Body fat percentage is 11%. Further examination must be done to adequately assess the subject's intelligence, but initial assessment raises concerns regarding critical thinking abilities.
Though the youngest applicant, J.V. seems to be the most hopeful of all candidates…"
"What the fuck…?" Joseph whispers.
"It seems J.V. is above the 90th percentile in both physical and intellectual studies. The candidate's age is of concern, but the genetic profile seems impressive at a glance. There is little doubt that Progenitor will accept this host, though it has not yet been determined if the candidate has the physical endurance to survive the mutation."
"He's talking about Jill, right?" Joseph nervously asks.
Neither of them respond.
"February 22, 1998. There has been a delay in genetic studies. Lester has fully succumbed to his madness…"
The irritation in Wesker's voice is obvious.
"Shameful. His talents certainly would have been appreciated for this study. Nonetheless, the study will proceed. We have chosen to accept J.V. as our optimal Host."
He had been listening so intently that the audible click of Jill abruptly stopping the tape catches him off guard. She stays seated at the desk, posture rigid, and it feels like the whole world is starting to collapse on top of them.
"Wesker…knew Lester." Joseph whispers. "I don't…"
"Wesker was working with Lester," Chris clarifies, "Lester was a part of…whatever the hell Wesker was doing."
Jill doesn't say a word and it worries him.
"Fuck…fuck." Joseph runs a hand over his face, briefly hiding his bewildered expression. "I…how?"
He doesn't fucking know. They'd missed it the first time around, but how the fuck were they supposed to know? How the hell could they have known any of this was happening? It's all so ridiculous that he still hasn't really processed it.
"I can't listen to this right now." Jill quietly admits, voice so soft he can barely hear it. He feels it in his chest, like a twist of a knife. She sounds afraid.
They all seem to be in agreement. The day has been exhausting and the reveal leaves them all with more than enough to process. They agree to meet at the station in the morning.
Jill is silent on the way back to her apartment. Chris knows her well enough to recognize that this is standard for her when she has too much to think about, but he doesn't know if it's right to grant her the quiet she needs to mull it all over. He wonders if he should interrupt her, if he should stay the night and insist on pretending there's some semblance of normalcy left in the world by making her go to dinner with him or something.
As he sits at her desk, chair turned towards her bed to watch her as she sits cross-legged on the mattress while lost in thought, he thinks her apartment feels way too small. The black fabric of her dress is pooled in her lap and she's sitting with her elbow resting on her knee, chin cradled in the palm of her hand as she stares out the window at the brick building across the alleyway.
Chris always cherished the quiet moments at work when Frost actually shut his fucking mouth, but the silence almost feels like a weapon between him and Jill right now. What is the right thing to say? Chris supposes that no one really knows the answer to that. He thinks he can safely assume that no one in the history of ever has ever been in this position before. The snippet of recording that they heard was enough to make him feel filthy. He couldn't imagine what she might be going through.
"Are we just shitty cops?"
Chris is stunned by the question. How could she possibly think that?
"I mean," she laughs bitterly, "All of this was happening right under our noses and we didn't even notice it."
"No, we're not. You're not. It's all convoluted. We did the best we could given the circumstances and what we had to work with."
He knows she doesn't believe him, but he puts it out there anyway because maybe she will someday.
"I guess."
Fuck, he doesn't want her to suffer. He doesn't want her to feel even remotely responsible for what happened. There's no way in hell any of them could have anticipated that any of this was possible. It's all so fucking illogical when he tries to make any sense of it. He fucking witnessed it first hand and still can't believe it happened.
"Jill."
She's still staring at the window, looking so fucking miserable that it breaks his heart.
"I want to stay with you tonight."
He didn't intend to say it aloud, but there's no turning back. Chris owns it. If nothing else, she's finally looking at him instead of brokenly staring out that damn window. He doesn't apologize because he's not fucking sorry. He meant it.
"You don't have to do that." She says, briefly catching her lower lip between her teeth in that anxious way of hers.
"I want to," he insists, "Just as much for myself as for you."
Chris doesn't know how, but they end up in bed together. She's lying diagonally across the bed, the linens beneath her, as she stares up at the ceiling. He sits upright beside her, his back to the headboard with her head resting against his thigh, and they just talk. They talk about it all, about how much they'll miss Kevin and what the hell even was that reptile-looking thing and how awful it was for Wesker to manipulate Barry.
It's therapeutic, both the discussion and the way he can steal glances at her from his vantage point. He makes her laugh, watches her turn her face to bury it in the pillow to muffle her giggles, and he appreciates the way her dress rides up to expose her bare thighs. He tenses up when he sees her eyes brimming with tears and resists the urge to take her hand in his. They're both vulnerable, raw, and real. It almost feels like life could someday be normal again.
The lull in conversation feels comfortable. He's so fucking grateful to be here with her. Jill saved his fucking life that night and he knows there's no way he would have made it out of that mansion without her. Chris closes his eyes and focuses on the present—the quiet sound of her breathing, the faint scent of her perfume, the softness of her mattress beneath him, the warmth of her closeness.
Jill sits upright, running her fingers through her tousled hair as she turns to face him.
"Most of all," she quietly says, "I was afraid of dying without ever seeing you again."
Chris thinks that he must have known she felt this way on some subconscious level, but it doesn't make hearing her say it any less surprising to him. What was she to him? The question hadn't stopped running through his mind since the night before. They were work partners, yes, but certainly something more. Whatever existed between them extended beyond friends. Chris doesn't know what to label it and he decides that perhaps defining their relationship is irrelevant. It doesn't matter what it is as long as it exists.
Despite the dark circles under her eyes and the errant bruises and scrapes in various states of healing, she's beautiful. He doesn't know why he fought that truth for so long. There's something about her that makes him feel at peace and he doesn't know if it's the look in her eyes, the calmness of her demeanor, or the soft expression she sometimes regards him with that elicits the feeling in him. The only thing he's certain of is that it's something he's never experienced before. Jill has a way of making him feel like the only person in the room, like the stupid shit he has to say matters.
Everything is easy and comfortable with Jill. Even in the beginning, he felt a familiarity with her that he could never explain. It didn't take long for everything to feel right. It was as if Jill Valentine had been his partner all along. Why was he such a dick to her in the beginning? Was he afraid?
"Chris?"
She has a concerned expression on her face as she asks, "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I…"
He takes it all in—the bottomless blue of her eyes, the slight pout to her lower lip, the way her dress gathers in her lap, the sculpt of her legs, the subtle perfume she wears.
"Me too." He murmurs. "I was so afraid of it that I didn't even let myself consider that it could be a possible outcome to it all."
Fuck it, he thinks, and the next thing Chris Redfield knows is that he's kissing Jill like his life might end if he doesn't. He leans forward, closes the distance between them, and presses his lips to hers. Chris kisses her gently, hoping she'll reciprocate, and the second her mouth starts to move in tandem with his, he lets go of the final bit of restraint he's clutching onto.
His hand cups the side of her face, the pad of his thumb brushing her cheek, and he moves in a little closer to deepen the kiss. Chris both hears and feels the quiet gasp that escapes her and he smiles against her mouth, loving the way her hands move up the front of his chest to grip fistfuls of his shirt.
He groans softly when he feels her teeth gently graze his lower lip. Chris parts his lips slightly, allowing her more space to explore, and she doesn't shy away from the encouragement. His free hand moves to rest on her hip, keeping her close, and he revels in the taste of her and the way it feels to hold her like this.
The reality of kissing Jill is far better than anything he could have conjured up on a late night in his bedroom. The swell of excitement in his chest makes him brave and he suddenly shifts, seamlessly repositioning them both so that she's beneath him on the bed. His mouth doesn't leave hers as he hovers over her, one hand still cupping the side of her face as the other is preoccupied with exploring the curve of her ribs.
They part briefly, if only for air. He wishes he could commit every detail of this to memory for the rest of his life. Chris loves this, the way her hair pools beneath her, the flush of her cheeks, the intense look in her eyes, the way her lips stay slightly parted in anticipation for more.
He gives her more, mouth finding hers hard and fast. The kiss is hasty and he breaks it off, mouth hovering just above hers as he searches her face to try to understand what might be going through her mind.
"Is this alright?"
She responds by bringing her mouth to his in a slow, intentional motion. Her eyes are still locked with his when they meet and he feels like he might burst. He closes his eyes and reciprocates, kissing her in a way that almost seems reverent. Chris kisses her like he's afraid he might somehow wound her with all the emotion he's feeling right now.
Every second that passes feels like forever and he thinks that, if he were to drop dead in this moment, it all would have been worth it. They kiss like teenagers, as though it might somehow be considered a tragic loss if one of them ends this, and they slowly work up the courage to let their hands begin to wander. He feels her grip his upper arm for leverage and he lets his knuckles ghost over the side of her neck.
She makes a sound, a quiet moan that fills his mouth, and he wonders how much patience a man can truly have. Jill Valentine is the hottest woman he's ever met and knowing that he can coax these noises out of her is dangerous for his pride.
He wants her. Fuck, he wants her. He wants her in a way he's never wanted anyone before. Chris wants to sleep with her, yeah, but he wants more than that, too. It's something intense, this yearning to protect her even though she sure as hell doesn't need it and this ache to be there for her for the rest of his fucking life if she'll let him. He doesn't know how to repay her for the way she makes him feel but he knows he'll happily spend his whole damn life trying to do it. The thought of not having her around makes him feel an emptiness he's not familiar with.
In a way, it's terrifying. He wonders where all of these new feelings are coming from. Is it trauma bonding? Is the shit they went through fucking him up so badly that he feels like he can't be alone? Maybe, or maybe this is something more innocent. Maybe it's love.
Her dress rides up as she bends a knee, her thigh coming to rest against his hip. His hand finds the flat of her belly and he massages the smooth, taut skin just above the waistband of her panties. He feels her fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt, cold fingertips tracing his abs, and he thinks there's no fucking way in hell he has the patience to endure this.
Chris hates himself when he breaks off the kiss. He's hyper aware of his ragged breathing and the way her flushed lips glisten almost makes him crush his mouth to hers again, oxygen be damned. He follows her body, his palm sliding up the length of her, and he tucks her hair behind her ear.
"I shouldn't." He confesses, voice deep with desire.
She seems hurt by his words and he instantly regrets them. Something fleeting passes over her face and she doesn't give him time to figure out what it is. Her eyes, heavily lidded and dark, lock with his and he forgets how to think.
"Why?"
The huskiness in her voice is maddening. He wants her so fucking badly, but he doesn't know if it's the right thing to do. Does she want this too or does she just want to feel alive? Does she want him, Chris fucking Redfield, or does she just want to forget for a little while?
"I don't…" Fuck, he doesn't know how to say it. "I don't…want you to regret it."
Jill smiles, the corner of her mouth upturned into a little smirk that continues to test his patience.
"I'm a big girl, Chris. I can make my own decisions."
He laughs and buries his face in the side of her neck.
"I'm a fucking idiot." He mumbles against her skin. "And I don't want you to find out."
Her fingers are idly tracing his back in a way that feels so intimate and tender. No one has ever touched him like this before.
"I already knew that."
He kisses his way up her neck, across her throat, over her jaw, and finds her mouth again.
"Just let me sleep beside you tonight." He murmurs against her mouth.
When he pulls away, he feels like she's searching his face for something. He wonders if he fucked up, if he should have just shut his fucking mouth and taken her the way he wanted.
For a while, she says nothing. Jill simply watches him, blue eyes soft with something he doesn't recognize. He watches them move, surveying his face, and he starts to feel anxious. As he begins to debate whether or not he should apologize, she smiles.
"Call Claire and let her know you're staying the night so she doesn't worry."
He wants to kiss her, but he doesn't out of fear that he'll get too carried away. Chris momentarily studies her face before forcing himself to separate from her. He sits at the edge of the bed, looks back at her over his shoulder, wonders how the fuck he managed to get enough luck in life to end up in bed with Jill Valentine, and reaches for the phone.
Of all the things he'd come to regret in his life, he wonders if this will be one of them, but for now he basks in the butterfly-induced high.
Jill doesn't know why she's surprised by Irons' announcement when they arrive at the precinct the following day. An investigation into what occurred was bound to happen, but Irons' history of ineptitude led her to believe it wouldn't happen so soon and she certainly didn't think the FBI would be involved.
"The fucking FBI?" Joseph whispers as they head down to the interrogation room. "Never trust the feds, man. This really doesn't feel right…"
Rebecca looks particularly pale. Jill watches Richard rest a reassuring hand on her forearm as he offers them all verbal platitudes.
"The FBI has the resources to figure all of this out." The lack of cheeriness in his voice suggests that even he isn't certain of it himself. "I'm sure it'll be fine."
They're greeted by Irons and a woman she's never met before. Something about the sly, feminine smile that she greets them with makes her skin crawl.
"Hello," she briefly makes eye contact with each of them, "I'm Special Agent Ada Wong of the FBI."
Jill glances at the badge pinned to the lapel of her black blazer. The bold, navy blue letters almost feel offensive in some way. Maybe Joseph's general distrust of others was beginning to rub off on her. She tries her best to cast it aside.
"You have all been through something terrible," she warmly says, "And I assure you that we will perform to the best of our abilities to make sense of what occurred on the night of July 24th."
No one speaks. She tunes out the empty condolences Iron has to offer them and the formalities Ada has to spout off.
"Jill Valentine," she announces as she glances up from her notepad, "I'd like to speak with you first."
Despite having been in this room dozens of times, it suddenly feels like Jill is sitting on the wrong side of the table. She knows this isn't an interrogation, but she somehow feels like a criminal.
"I'm sure this can't be easy for you." Ada gently begins. "If it feels like it's too much, we can take a break."
"It's fine." Jill coolly replies. "I'm fine."
She watches Ada's eyebrow twitch, like she doubts her, but her expression quickly becomes neutral again.
"When did you receive the order to deploy to Arklay?"
"That night. Wesker contacted us."
"What was the purpose of the mission?"
"Bravo team had already been deployed and communication was lost."
Ada takes notes in beautiful, looped cursive script.
"Were you aware that Bravo team had been deployed?"
"No."
Jill stares at Ada's hands. Her lacquered, crimson nails are impeccably manicured.
"What happened when you arrived at the landing zone?"
Images of Dooley's mangled face flash through her mind.
"We found Bravo's helicopter with Officer Kevin Dooley's body inside."
Ada nods along with her words.
"And he had been mutilated?" She asks.
Jill narrows her eyes.
"How did you know that?"
"Brad Vickers already gave his account."
Jill stays quiet.
"You were attacked by…dogs?" She asks, eyebrow raised once again.
"Yes."
"Brad mentioned that the dogs were…unnatural."
"Rabies, I believe," Jill tries to give a somewhat rational explanation, "They were feral."
Ada urges her to continue.
"We were overwhelmed. We got separated. Captain Wesker and I arrived at a mansion."
"You weren't aware of the whereabouts of the rest of the team?"
"No."
Ada pauses.
"What happened when you arrived at the mansion?"
"I received orders from our Captain to investigate. We once again got separated."
"You and Wesker?" She clarifies.
"Yes."
"He asked you to investigate alone?"
"Yes."
"What were you looking for?"
"Bravo team." Jill deadpans. "Wesker thought they may have taken refuge in the mansion as well."
"Did you find them?"
It seems like an obvious answer considering Rebecca and Richard were present.
"We were reunited at some point that night."
"How?"
"I don't recall."
Ada looks her in the eyes and Jill interprets it as a challenge regardless of whether it's benign or not. Maybe it's the paranoia getting to her.
"Jill," Ada's voice is calm and low, "Grief can manifest itself in many ways."
She doesn't know where she's going with this.
"Seeing so much death that night couldn't have been easy."
The last thing she needed was advice from a stranger.
"I'm fine." Jill reiterates.
"Are you?" Ada gently asks. "I'm concerned about you, Jill."
She reaches into her pocket and slides a small card across the table's surface.
"I'd like to meet with you again at a later time. In the meantime, I believe this might be of help."
Jill lifts up the card.
Annette Birkin, MD, ABPN
Psychiatry and Forensic Neurophysiology
2255 Crescent Street
"I don't—"
"Just a suggestion." Ada replies. "Please take it into consideration."
Jill isn't sure what to say. It's an incredibly uncomfortable interaction.
"Until next time, Jill." Ada smiles. "Take care."
"You are the designated pointman of Alpha Team, is that correct?" Ada asks as she stares at a notepad.
"Yeah."
"What does that role entail?" She smoothly asks, almond-shaped eyes now focused on him with curiosity.
"Scouting and recon." He simply says, settling back into his chair with his arms crossed over his chest.
"Dangerous role." Ada offers. "Your resume is impressive."
Chris laughs.
"Sure."
They stare at one another. She doesn't seem the slightest bit intimidated by his undoubtedly surly expression.
"Tell me how you arrived in the Arklay Mountains that night."
She surely already knew the answer to this.
"Bravo team had allegedly been deployed and communications were lost. We received an order to investigate. I spotted their helicopter in the woods. We landed at the site."
Ada rests her chin in her hand as she listens. A delicate silver bracelet slips down her willowy wrist.
"Brad and Jill mentioned that you were attacked by dogs."
"Yep."
Her light brown eyes remain fixed on his.
"And they were unusual?"
"Rabies or something. I'm not a professional. Maybe you should ask Vickers again."
Ada smirks, apparently humored by his response.
"And you were separated?"
"Yes."
"You were alone?"
"No."
She waits for him to elaborate.
"Joseph, Barry, and myself escaped." He lies.
"To the mansion?"
"An abandoned cabin."
She doesn't seem to expect the response. He watches her write something down.
"What did you find there?"
He doesn't know what she's fishing for.
"Nothing. I said it was abandoned."
Ada's laugh is bubbly and feminine.
"Fair enough."
Chris finds that he feels annoyed by this. The entire conspiracy has left him with a general sense of distrust. Ada is surely unrelated to all of this, but he can't bring to tell her anything. Unless Jill and Frost decide to tell her the details, he has no intention of doing it. They'd figure this out on their own.
"Did you ever reunite with the others?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"The mansion."
"How did you find the mansion?"
How the hell did she think?
"While aimlessly wandering through the woods and trying not to get mauled by dogs. It was purely coincidental."
"Did you investigate the mansion?"
"No, I was too busy trying not to die."
Ada gives him a flirty smile.
"Irons mentioned your sharpshooting prowess. You truly felt threatened by a pack of wild dogs?"
It riles him up a little. Fuck her. He wonders if she's ever been on a mission in her life with her fucking manicure and fancy jewelry. He imagines she's spent her whole damn career behind a desk.
"They were fast and I wasn't necessarily packing an arsenal, Agent."
"Special Agent." Ada corrects him with an amused expression.
He doesn't bother to address it.
"What are you asking me for?" He snaps. "We went looking for Bravo team. We got attacked by wild dogs. We did the best we could to find one another and get the hell out."
Ada nods.
"Reasonable."
She's pissing him off.
"So what are you asking me for? Because this sure as hell is starting to feel like an interrogation."
"Oh, that's not my intention at all," Ada smoothly replies, "I apologize."
He doesn't bother responding.
"How did you escape?"
"We waited until sunrise and walked back to the city."
Ada nods. She leans back in her chair, nails thrumming against the table, and watches him.
"Do you believe that rabid dogs killed all of those S.T.A.R.S. members?" She asked. "How many are suspected to be dead? Six?"
"Something like that."
She doesn't miss a beat and asks again, "You believe six highly trained special forces officers were killed by rabid dogs?"
"I thought you said this wasn't an interrogation."
Ada shrugs.
"It's not. I'm asking for your professional opinion."
"Didn't Irons say the mansion burned down? I think a fire could have easily killed six men regardless of their combat training."
If nothing else, he can tell that Ada is smart. There's an amused look in her eyes as she neatly rests her chin in her hand and watches him. He wonders if she's trying to provoke him. There's no way in hell she's buying all of this.
"Fair." She forfeits with a smile. "Please, do reach out if you feel there's anything more to share."
"Don't count on it." He remarks as he stands, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You probably already know more about it than I do."
He can feel her eyes on him as he leaves the interrogation room, but he saunters out like it doesn't bother him in the slightest.
The flicker of the candlelight, the stale stench of rot, and the dust particles floating in the air are enough for her to recognize the god forsaken mansion. She's standing in the dining room listening to the deafening ticking of the grandfather clock. The flames raging within the fireplace cast shadows that dance along the hearth. The cobwebs between the arms of the candelabra look pearly in the moonlight.
She tries to focus on the pat of her boot soles against the tile as she approaches the door, intentionally keeping her attention focused on the handle to avoid a glimpse of the blood on the floor. Jill knows what's behind it, knows it's that awful creature, but she can't will herself to stop. She's moving like her body isn't her own and she thinks that might be ironic because they were essentially Wesker's marionettes the entire time, weren't they?
The click of the door handle as she pushes it. The soft sound of her soles finding carpet. The peeling wallpaper in front of her. The warm glow of the sconce nearby. The horrible squelching sound. The crunch when she steps in the dried up gore. Jill knows it all like the back of her hand.
She has her handgun clasped in trembling hands as she slowly moves around the corner. As much as this feels the same, something about it also feels different. She sees the silhouette of the monster, shrouded in shadow this time, and this part doesn't seem quite the way she remembered it.
"Hands up."
Her knuckles are aching from the tightness of her grip. Jill didn't even realize she had taken aim.
"I swear I'll shoot."
She doesn't know why she's talking to it. It's obvious that it can't understand her, but the sound of her voice makes it stop. She hears blood drip against the floorboards as it leans away from the body and begins to rise to its feet.
The first shot she takes pierces it in the left shoulder, entering right through the shoulder blade and exiting out of the front of its chest. This isn't the way it played out before and she acknowledges that, but something else still feels off. There's something different about its stature, the way it sways on its feet, the contouring left by the shadows cast across its frame.
"Jill."
She doesn't see it move. Jill blinks once and it has already turned around. It takes a clumsy step forward into the moonlight that spills in through the window and she feels like she's going to vomit because this isn't a monster at all. At least, not really.
It's Kevin.
"Jill."
His skin is grey and peeling from his face, leaving frayed little cracks that expose yellowing bone underneath. The grooves between his teeth are saturated with dark blood that glistens in the pale light when he grimaces.
"It's a…test of some kind."
She looks at his bared arm and the deep bite wound left behind. It's swollen around the edges and weeping a slow, steady stream of blood. The discoloration around it is angry and red. It looks like it itches.
"I know."
Jill is conflicted. Kevin looks like she should shoot him, but instead she's trying to converse with him like nothing is out of the ordinary. He maintains his distance, standing about eight feet away from her near the window. Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the room before it's swallowed by the night once more.
"Wesker did this."
"I know."
"Wesker did all of this."
"I know."
He twitches, shoulders lurching as he stumbles forward. Now, he's close enough to be caught in the light provided by the sconce on the wall.
"And you…did this."
Kevin gestures towards the front of his uniform where blood begins to bloom, saturating the fabric over his chest.
"Why didn't you just shoot him, Jill?"
Everything feels like it's spinning. She takes a step back and he staggers forward.
"Why, Jill? Why didn't you shoot him?"
Kevin lunges, grabbing her by the shoulders. She hadn't anticipated it and drops her gun as she's shoved backwards. His fingers are digging into her and frothy red blood drips down his chin. She thrashes, attempting to shove him back, but he remains steadfast.
"You did this, Jill."
It's not Kevin anymore.
The monster closes in, snarling, as its teeth dig into her neck.
She wakes drenched in a cold sweat with her legs tangled in the sheets. Pressing a hand to her forehead, she groans and brushes her hair away from her face. Jill shifts and turns onto her side, trying to find a decent enough position to drift back to sleep.
It doesn't happen. Every time she closes her eyes, she pictures the way the candlelight made shadows dance across the dining room walls. She envisions the pool of blood slowly congealing on the tile floor and the way it blossomed across the front of Kevin's shirt when Wesker executed him.
Thirty minutes pass, then an hour. She can't keep from recounting every detail that she can. It still feels surreal, like the product of a fever dream, and she starts to wonder if she's even remembering it all correctly.
One thing is for certain—Wesker had them all fooled. All this time, he had somehow been involved in every bit of it. How could she have missed this? It seemed so comedic that she considered Irons' lechery to be the workplace threat this entire time while Wesker was slowly orchestrating their deaths.
How had they managed to make it out alive? She chalked it up to mere luck. Jill certainly didn't believe that her survival was a product of her talents. Nothing could have prepared them for that. Plenty of talented people were lost that night. She was lucky, not special.
Jill felt guilty. She felt so guilty for making it out alive. Kevin died right in front of her and she didn't do a damn thing about it. Had she reacted sooner and just shot Wesker on sight, it never would have happened. Kevin would still be alive.
She doesn't realize she's crying until she feels the warm tears drip down the side of her face and wet the sheet beneath her. Did Chris feel this way too? Does he blame himself? Does he blame her? Did he ever wish it had been her instead?
It doesn't occur to her that the thought is absolutely ridiculous. She's catastrophizing, a victim held captive to her own mind. Chris had just made out with her like a teenager and she was wondering if he wished she were dead. What the hell was wrong with her? What happened to the rational woman she used to be?
She feels restless, like something is about to happen and she doesn't know what. It eats away at her, keeps her mind spinning with a thousand thoughts about Arklay, nightmarish creatures, and Chris. Sometimes, it seems like he's the only constant in her life these days, a familiar rock that keeps her grounded in this new, bizarre world of uncertainty. Who else can she really trust?
Jill glances over at the phone sitting on her nightstand and realizes just how badly she wants to talk to him. She wants to turn the dial back, to speak to the man she spent time with the night before the Arklay Incident occurred. She wants to talk to Chris, her Chris, her partner, without the strangeness that seems to envelop him these days.
She pauses when her hand finds the receiver. It's already past midnight and he has plenty of his own problems to deal with without her waking him up in the middle of the night. She shouldn't do this. She knows it.
Jill rearranges the twisted sheets, lies back against the mattress, and closes her eyes.
She never falls back to sleep that night.
Just looking at the box of cassette tapes sitting on his coffee table makes him feel like he needs to take a shower. They seem out of place in his apartment, like he'd committed some great heist in order to get them here, but Chris supposes that breaking into his dead police captain's apartment wasn't exactly legal. In his defense, however, it wasn't legal to blackmail subordinates or conduct some fucked up life-threatening experiment on them either.
He leans back into the beat up couch, arms outstretched along its back, and stares at the ceiling. The snippet he heard back at Wesker's apartment was enough to clue him in on how fucked up the contents of the tapes would likely be and he needed to psych himself up to summon the courage to endure it. Surely alcohol would help.
Chris takes a deep breath, cracks open a can of beer, and hits play before he can convince himself not to.
"March 2nd, 1998…The Host has continued to meet all expectations."
"Highly intelligent and in peak physical form. We will present the Host with a series of challenges in order to determine its potential weaknesses. Given its premature age, its emotional stability is in question. We have opted to explore this domain with a particular obstacle. I will personally oversee this challenge and observe its response."
"March 5th, 1998…The Host is meeting expectations at this point in the study. It appears to have a handle on its emotions. We will continue to perform threshold testing to ensure it is capable."
"March 28th, 1998. There has been a disappointing development in the study."
His tone is dry, laced with a hint of annoyance.
"The Host appears to be responding in an unanticipated manner. Its ability to regulate its emotions has been brought into question. It does not seem to be handling its assignment with the degree of finesse we had desired. I question its degree of impressionability. This is certainly not an optimal trait."
The way he speaks about Jill makes him uncomfortable. It's disturbingly scientific and impersonal. Had Jill really been nothing but an experiment to him?
"April 1st, 1998. There are no words to illustrate my disappointment. It appears that the experiment's outcome is far more loathsome than anticipated."
The disdain is palpable.
"Deplorable, truly. Chris has managed to corrupt the Host entirely."
A sigh that seems wistful interrupts his monologue.
"A shame…all genetic and physical components were ideal. This is the closest we have ever been and yet the emotional component is inadequate. It begs the question…could disengaging the mind be a point of study? Were this a possibility, the subject certainly would have been perfect."
Chris stops the tape to digest it all. It's damn near the most disturbing shit he's ever heard. In all the years he's known Wesker, he's never seen this much emotion come from the man. His disappointment and sick, scientific fascination with Jill are palpable and he fucking hates it. Would he be this disgusted if anyone else had been the object of Wesker's obsession? He can't be sure.
"April 13th, 1998. Despite the Host's emotional regulation being in question, my partner remains optimistic. We have managed to acquire test subjects of similar ethnic descent and have decided to perform preliminary testing. It is our hope that overlap in genetic profiles will exist. We will pursue the hypothesis that disengaging the mind will be key to our success."
"April 17th, 1998. As expected, the test subjects are not optimal candidates. Nonetheless, we have isolated some similarities in relevant genetic sequences. Our initial experiments have been less than successful. All subjects were rejected by various strains of Progenitor. The side effects were…to be expected. Subject A presented with manifestations reminiscent of Ebola and rather swiftly succumbed to hemorrhagic shock."
"Of all strains, Epsilon has been the most successful. Subject B underwent peculiar changes. As seen with earlier strains, reanimation after death occurred. Upon extermination, it was noted to have reanimated a second time after two hours had passed. We determined that, in order to inevitably put the creature to rest, the brain must be destroyed. This suggests that some degree of cerebral activity is vital for the virus to thrive."
"April 19th, 1998. We attempted to destroy higher level functioning in Subject C. By severing the brainstem and leaving it intact, we were hopeful that the corpse would reanimate. This was not the case. We have not yet determined which aspects of the brain are needed to facilitate reanimation. Administration of high doses of benzodiazepines has been proposed. Its propensity to enhance gamma-aminobutyric acid activity may provide enough dissociation to achieve complete control of the mind."
Wesker was researching ways to control Jill's mind. The creepy motherfucker had every intention of using her for his experiments…and he had a partner for his fucked up plans. It occurs to him that, even though Wesker is dead, the threat potentially isn't. There's some other fucked up motherfucker out there with his eyes on Jill.
Chris has to make a conscious effort to remind himself that this isn't only about Jill. Though Jill was the apparent object of his obsession, it wasn't about her. It was about this…virus, the whatever-the-hell it was that he was experimenting with. It wasn't only Jill who was in danger. Wesker had already killed others with his bullshit.
Regardless, he couldn't get the threat out of his mind. If his partner was as fanatical as he was, it was very possible that Jill was still in danger. Hell, they all could be in danger. There was no telling at this point. They were all test subjects to some degree. The Mansion Incident had been nothing more than a game.
He's irritated. His thoughts are all over the place, flying at a thousand miles a minute, and he doesn't really know what to do with any of them. Chris has no solutions for anything. He doesn't even fucking understand what's happening and maybe that's the most annoying thing about it all. What the hell is he supposed to do with all this information?
He knows that this is something far larger than all of them. There is absolutely no way in hell that they'll be able to handle this. They need to escalate this.
Chris thinks of Ada. Does he trust her? No, not really. Should he? He isn't sure, but he knows that fancy badge she brandishes means she has a fuckton of resources that he doesn't. Maybe coming clean with her was the right thing to do. If anyone could figure out what's going on in Raccoon, surely it would be the FBI.
He sighs. The moral conflict is heavy. Handing it over to the FBI is the last thing any of them want, but he doesn't know what else to do. The dead deserve justice and he'll be damned if he watches another one of them get slaughtered. Barry had already left Raccoon with his family, but the rest had stayed behind, and he couldn't help but feel like they were all walking around with targets on their back.
They'll be mad at him. He knows it. Jill will be livid, but what the fuck else is he supposed to do? They can't do this alone.
Chris meets Ada in the park the next morning. He finds her sitting on a bench, watching geese lazily soak up the morning sunshine on the pond's surface. At his request, she agreed to meet him off the record. The envelope of microcassettes feels heavier than lead in his hand.
"Good morning." Ada greets him with a portrait-worthy smile.
"No." He sits on the edge of the bench, as far away from her as he can manage. "I just want to get this over with."
With a heavy sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration, and hopes to hell and back that this isn't a fucking mistake.
"Wesker left these behind." He can hear the large envelope rustle as he passes it over to her, not bothering to look in her direction. "He had a part in everything that happened. It was all orchestrated."
He tells her everything—the monsters, the mansion, the deaths, Wesker's apparent fixation on Jill.
Ada doesn't say anything.
"You don't have to believe me. I know it sounds fucking insane. Once you listen to the tapes, you'll believe it."
He slides to the edge of the bench in preparation to stand and leave, but she reaches over and rests a warm hand one his forearm.
"I believe you, Chris," she calmly responds in a sincere way, "I'm glad you came to me with this."
Chris is silent. She continues.
"This is off the record, of course," Ada reminds him, "But I want you to know that I've been looking into Albert Wesker. Despite what you've told me, I believe he is very much alive at the moment."
He feels his blood run cold.
"How?" He stares her down. "How do you know?"
Ada smiles sympathetically.
"I'm sorry. It's confidential."
"No, fuck that." He angrily hisses. "Tell me. How do you know that?"
"I'm sorry. I can't."
"Are you fucking kidding me? There are lives in danger."
He glares at her. She meets his stare, unintimidated.
"Please, Chris. Just let me do my job."
"And how the fuck do you suggest I do that?" He counters. "How the fuck am I supposed to let this go when everyone is fucking dead and you're telling me the threat is still alive?"
She's extraordinarily calm when she says, "You'll just have to trust me."
He wants to. Fuck, he wants to, but he isn't sure that he can. He'd love to just dump it all in her lap and let it go. He'd love to just pack up and leave the fucking city behind like Barry had.
Chris isn't proud of the way he storms off without a word, but he feels utterly powerless and the last person he wants to witness his breakdown is Ada fucking Wong.
They meet at Jill's apartment to postulate over dinner.
"I know you guys are gonna be annoyed, but hear me out…" Joseph says it like a kid about to be scolded by his parents, "I found this web forum…"
He rifles through his papers to find a handwritten list of notes.
"There's this controversial reporter. I mean, she used to be super respected, but it looks like she lost credibility after she started looking into some of the shit going on in Arklay. Her name is Alyssa Ashcroft and she was posting about rumors about people being kidnapped and forced to take drugs as an experiment up in Arklay."
A couple months ago, she would have written it off as conspiratorial nonsense. Now, she's more than willing to hear him out.
"I went digging through her post history and holy shit, you wouldn't believe some of the shit I found…"
He pulls out a grayscale print out of posts she had made.
"She talked about two doctors. Greg Mueller and…fucking Albert Lester. She thinks they were implicated in this weird experimental shit and, get this…"
He points to one of the text boxes.
"Her work partner, this guy named Kurt, went missing. She said he was attacked in the mountains when he started investigating the old Arklay Hospital that was shut down years ago. She thinks…one of the mauled bodies was his."
"Greg Mueller?" She asks. That name was new to her.
"Yeah, I looked him up..he's like, this neuroscientist and tenured professor at Raccoon University. He did a bunch of research into memory processing and shit. Some of his shit was pretty radical and caused some controversy. Like, he proposed these studies to selectively remove memories but people argued that you need bad memories for a lot of philosophical reasons. Anyway, that doesn't matter, what does matter is…"
"Yoko." Chris gruffly interrupts. "That girl."
"The one you guys found in Arklay?"
"She said a friend of Lester's did brain surgery on her."
Jill's heart skips a beat.
"And she couldn't remember anything." She whispers. "What if…?"
"Oh damn." Joseph whistles. "What the fuck, man?"
Chris's silence concerns her.
"It can't be a coincidence, Chris." She softly says. "Not with everything that's been going on."
He sighs heavily.
"This is fucking exhausting."
"I really…think we should talk to her, guys." Joseph suggests.
Chris shakes his head, instantly shutting down the idea.
"We don't know who the hell we can trust, Frost. Maybe she's a mole."
Joseph isn't convinced.
"I dunno, man. Some of these posts are dated way back before we started publicly investigating Arklay."
"Can't shit on the internet be faked?" Chris asks. "We can't trust it."
There's a degree of alarm in his voice. He seems paranoid and Jill isn't entirely sure that all of it is justified. Before the Mansion Incident, Chris would have been all over it. She understands healthy skepticism given everything that has happened, but aren't they desperate for answers?
"I think it's worth looking into, Chris." She confesses. "Carefully, of course."
"Maybe."
Joseph discusses what he gathered from the diary he found in the cabin, but the conversation isn't particularly fruitful. It confirms their suspicion that experiments were being conducted in the mansion, but offers no particular suspects.
"I'm still working on going through all of it. It's pretty heavy."
"Yeah, I get it." Chris assures him. "Just take your time."
Joseph is first to depart. Chris lingers behind by insisting on doing the dishes. Jill sits at her table and watches him hover over the sink. His back is to her, his broad shoulders and tall stature making her tiny kitchenette seem even smaller. He looks entirely out of place, but then he turns to face her and leans against the counter with a crooked smile that makes him seem like he belongs.
She can't really imagine anyone else being in that space. In her space.
"I guess I'll get going." He says, but doesn't move. His fingers are still curled around the edge of the counter.
"Alright."
She doesn't move either and just watches him. Truth be told, she doesn't want him to go, but she doesn't know how to ask him to stay. She has no excuse and she can't bring herself to ask him outright.
Wordlessly, they study one another. He's vigilantly watching her with a particular intensity that she feels compelled to question, but she doesn't. Jill simply stares back as she sits there, one knee drawn up to her chest and an arm resting on the table.
"This is all fucking absurd." He eventually says, forcing out an exasperated sigh as he lets his head loll back to look up at the ceiling. "How the fuck is any of this real?"
She wishes she had an answer.
"I don't know," she glumly admits, "There is something very corrupt going on in Raccoon City."
Chris clenches his eyes shut, like thinking about it is a noxious experience.
"Is it possible that Irons knew? He wasn't particularly worried about Yoko."
"No," he says with a shake of his head, "I don't think so. I think Irons is just a fucking dumbass."
Whether he was complicit or not, Jill could certainly agree that Irons very much was a dumbass.
"I just keep thinking about Umbrella. Surely they had the funds and means to conduct these extensive underground science experiments."
He doesn't say anything.
"I don't know, Jill."
Something about him changes. His posture stiffens and he's staring at the ground.
"It only makes sense, Chris. Why did Umbrella relocate to a sleepy city like Raccoon if they didn't have something to hide? Wesker wasn't even willing to entertain the idea that they could be involved in the Arklay murders when we brought it up before."
"Maybe. I really don't know."
This isn't like him.
"Are you alright?" She asks. "You seem—"
"Yeah, Jill, I'm fine." He interrupts, sounding annoyed. "I'm just tired of all of this."
She's astonished. He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. She can't read his face. His jaw is set hard and his stare is deep and dark.
Jill feels strangely offended by his remark. Wounded, perhaps.
"You're tired of this? Don't you think we're all tired of this?"
She's embarrassed of the way her voice cracks mid-sentence.
"Maybe we should let it go then, Jill. Hand it over to the FBI or something."
The fact that he's even suggesting that is heartbreaking.
"Really? Hand it over to the FBI? After all this?"
He says nothing.
"Don't you think they deserve justice? Don't you think Kevin deserves justice?"
Jill can tell he's furious. It was a low blow. She can acknowledge that, but she's heartbroken. She's heartbroken and hurting and miserable and feels guilty and, for once, she doesn't know what the hell she's supposed to do with all the emotions brewing inside of her.
"I'm trying to fucking protect you, Jill!" He steps forward, towering over her as he closes some of the distance.
"I don't need you to fucking protect me, Chris."
She spits it like venom and she sees something in him change. His face softens, if only momentarily, and he swiftly moves. Chris is in front of her, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from his body, and he takes her face in his calloused palms and kisses her.
The way he's kissing her makes her dizzy. It's rough, heated, and frantic, like he's clinging to something he's afraid of losing. He towers over her, leaning forward to keep his mouth pressed firmly to hers, and he groans when she parts her lips to allow him to deepen the kiss.
She kisses him back with a similar fervor, spurred by a hurricane of emotions that she can't isolate. All Jill knows is that she's more than willing to lose herself in Chris tonight and the way he's kissing her gives her every intention to do so.
Her arms loop around his neck and she stands on her tiptoes, wanting to eliminate every last bit of space between them. His hands find her hips, slowly sneaking upwards to the small of her waist, and she presses her body flush to his. Another groan reverberates through his chest and he leans in closer, hands slipping down the backs of her thighs.
She doesn't expect him to sweep her legs out from under her, but he does it so effortlessly that she hardly notices it. Chris lifts her as he stands upright, their mouths still crushed together, and she wraps her legs around his waist for leverage. With her newfound height, she hovers over him, and she breaks off the kiss to study his face.
The slightest space exists between their lips as she looks down at him. His eyes are wild and warm and he immediately moves back in, capturing her mouth with his. She's vaguely aware of the fact that they're moving, but she doesn't investigate. Jill kisses him, her tongue and teeth drawing groans out of him that kindle the impatient heat of arousal in her.
She's cradled in his arms when he leans over, placing her on the bed. He never leaves, stays just above her with one knee pressed into the mattress. With one arm still looped behind her back, he moves her, repositioning her higher on the mattress so he can properly join her.
Chris hesitates. He's on top of her, bodies hardly apart, and all she wants is to close the gap between them. He's watching her, studying her face with this gentle expression that makes her heart ache in a peculiar way. She doesn't know what this is, but she knows that no man has ever regarded her with such reverence.
When he touches her, it's electrifying. His hand slips beneath her shirt, his rough palm resting against the flat of her stomach. He kisses her with wild abandon and it makes her feel alive. She craves it, chases that feeling, the reminder that despite what was left behind in that mansion, a part of her is still here in the present.
Jill insistently pulls at the loose fabric of his shirt in an attempt to persuade him to discard it. He's slow to break off the kiss—reluctant, perhaps—but he ultimately gives in. He pulls himself away from her, reaches over his shoulder to grab a fistful of his shirt, and he sheds it without a seeming second thought. She appreciates the view for mere seconds before he's back on her, hungrily nipping at her lower lip as his hand dips back under her shirt and travels upward.
His fingertips find the depression between her ribs, following it along the midline of her chest. They move at an agonizingly slow pace and her breath hitches in her throat when they hesitate at the band of her bra. She wonders if he's teasing her when he prematurely ends the kiss to stare at her.
Just as she's about to say something, he gathers the hem of her shirt in his hands and drags it upward. She lifts her arms, arches her back, and stares right back at him as he takes it off. Jill can hear the way his breathing staggers and sees the desire in his eyes. He admires the sight of her and kisses her as his hands slip beneath her to fumble with the clasp on her bra.
Being bare in front of him makes her inexplicably nervous. Jill can feel the anxious fluttering of her heart as he stares down at her. He's straddling her hips, sitting upright on his knees to keep his weight off of her, and his eyes are dark, shimmering with warmth. He parts his lips like he has something to say, but nothing escapes him.
She wants to ask him if he's alright, but she doesn't dare speak in fear that it'll bring them both back to crippling reality. It's like he's looking through her for a moment, staring so intently that she's not sure he's really seeing much of anything at all. Chris is somewhere else and she wonders where that might be.
Jill takes his hand in hers. It's enough to startle him from his daydream. His eyes soften and he leans forward to kiss her once again. He does it so gently that she feels like her heart is swelling out of her chest. She doesn't know what this feeling is and she's left wondering about it as he kisses his way down the side of her neck.
Her thoughts evaporate when he makes his way to her chest. The tease of his mouth and tongue make it impossible to consider anything but the overwhelming physical sensations he's gracing her with. He travels lower, over her ribs, and she feels his hand slip between her thighs. He touches her through her jeans with gentle strokes of his fingertips and he fumbles the button with his thumb.
Chris wastes no time in removing the rest of her clothes, insistently pulling as she lifts her hips in cooperation. He discards her clothing onto the floor and kisses her hard as his hand snakes between her thighs once again. His fingers brush against her, hot and wet, and he moans. She impatiently shifts her hips, forcing him to move, and she blindly gropes her way down his chest to find the waistband of his own jeans.
It's clumsy, the way he discards the rest of his clothing, and he watches her as he does it. He shifts from one knee to the other, supporting his weight on an arm that's pressed against the mattress beside her. His gaze is hot and intense, enough to elicit an excited shiver that runs up her spine. She'd be lying if she said she's never wondered if they'd ever end up like this.
She feels him at her entrance—hot, hard, and probing. Jill sighs, parting her thighs a little more to accommodate his hips, and he buries his face in her neck. She can feel his breath against her skin, ragged and hot, and she reaches out to grip his shoulders for leverage in preparation.
He makes a sound, like he's starting to speak, and she knows he's starting to doubt himself.
"Stop. I don't need you to protect me." Her voice is husky, a little commanding with her annoyance. "I want this."
His face stays nestled in between her shoulder and neck when he thrusts forward, filling her with the entirety of him. Jill gasps, partially in discomfort because it's been so long since she's done this, and he doesn't restrain his deep moan. They stay like this, learning the feel of one another without moving. Were she feeling more romantic, she might have thought they fit one another perfectly.
She rolls her hips forward and he grunts.
"Jesus, Jill…"
She feels his arm slide beneath her, pulling her toward him. He holds her in a single-armed embrace, grabs the headboard with his free hand, and starts to move. His hips meet hers again and again, a loose screw in the bed frame squeaks, it's not romantic, and she has an ephemeral thought that Chris Redfield might be perfect.
Neither of them last particularly long. When the rhythm of his movement begins to disappear, he reaches down to touch her. He rubs her confidently, with a firm touch and calculated movement, and she finds herself coming undone as he bottoms out in her. It's intense, the kind of nerve-igniting, overwhelming orgasm that makes one feel boneless, and she can't help but whimper as she comes down from the high. She's vaguely aware of when his strength falters and his weight presses into her while he comes, hissing her name and gripping the sheet in his hand as he trembles.
For a moment, it feels like they've pressed pause on the universe. He stays there, softening inside of her, as they exchange tired, contented smiles. There's a bit of shyness between them in the aftermath and he averts his eyes, looking down at the floor as he slowly withdraws from her.
He drops onto the mattress beside her a little unceremoniously. His sweat-slicked shoulder brushes against hers and his breathing is erratic. She feels his fingertips explore the back of her hand before he laces them between hers, holding it tight. His palm is hot and rough against hers.
They stare at the blank expanse of the ceiling as the sweat on their skin dries. When his breathing evens out and his death grip on her hand loosens, she turns onto her side and rests her head against his chest. He wraps an arm around her and she swears she can feel him press a kiss against the crown of her head.
They don't exchange words before falling asleep and instead just revel in this tiny moment of reprieve in which they're both undoubtedly alive and the world feels like it just might be alright, if only for a short while.
"Hellooo? Earth to Jill?"
The sight of Joseph's hand waving in front of her face brings her thoughts to a dead stop. She takes a breath and redirects her attention to him. The S.T.A.R.S office feels a little too cold and strangely foreign, like she has no right to be sitting in it.
"Sorry," she says, voice devoid of inflection, "What did you say?"
Joseph regards her with narrowed eyes and a slightly upturned nose, like he's suspicious of her in some way, but he doesn't question her.
"Nothing, you just looked like you were somewhere else."
She picks up on the subtle, serious concern in his voice. There's something lingering between his words and she wonders if he meant to say, 'I thought you might have been in Arklay.'
Jill forces a smile and steals a glance at Chris. He doesn't seem to be paying them any mind as he glares at the wall with a surly expression. She wonders where he is—Arklay, her bedroom, or elsewhere—and if he imagines her being there too.
There's some kind of discussion going on between them, but she has trouble keeping up with it.
"I don't know. It feels weird going to Jack's now." Richard says it like he's making a confession. "It doesn't feel right without everyone."
"Yeah, I get that." Joseph sighs. "Man…"
The way Chris is bouncing his knee up and down isn't like him. He doesn't contribute.
"I really miss everyone." Rebecca quietly murmurs.
An uncomfortable silence fills the room. Brad shifts in his seat.
"We have to try to stay positive, guys." He encourages. "One day, things will be okay again."
A chair scrapes against the floor and Jill is rendered speechless when she hears the horrible sound of his fist coming into contact with Brad's face. She watches Brad stumble to the ground as Chris retracts his fist. Rebecca's chair topples over, crashing to the ground as she rushes to Brad's side. She can see the rapid rise and fall of Chris's chest as he breathes heavily, brows furrowed in an expression of rage.
"Chris!"
She's calling his name as she moves to stand in front of him, using herself as a barrier between him and Brad. There's something wild in his eyes as he looks down at her, jaw set hard, but she rests her hand on his chest and he relaxes. She looks back over her shoulder, sees the blood dripping from between Brad's fingers as he clutches his nose, and she takes a gentle fistful of Chris's shirt.
"Come on." She softly says as she attempts to lead him out of the room.
He doesn't resist. She takes him away, outside of the precinct and down the sidewalk with no particular destination in mind. All she knows is that he needs to be out of there, that he needs to be removed from all of it. They walk in silence with nothing but the warm sun and the tickle of the late summer breeze on their skin.
She takes him to the bench overlooking the water by the clock tower. For a while, they just sit, watching the shimmer of the sunlight on the water's glassy surface and the gentle sway of the colorful flowers planted nearby. She occasionally steals glances at him from the corner of her eye.
"Relax." She finally says, almost annoyed by his uncomfortable posture.
He does. Chris leans into the bench, taut muscles going slack, and he sighs.
"Why did you do that?"
"I'm fucking sick of seeing him around. He doesn't know a damn thing that happened that night. He left us, Jill. He doesn't deserve to be here."
"What was he supposed to do, Chris?" She counters. "What could Brad have done differently? Stay behind and die just like the rest of them?"
He says nothing.
"Dammit, Chris. Cut him some slack. I would have died too if you hadn't been there."
His demeanor changes. Chris sits upright and shakes his head, "No, Jill, that's diff—"
"No, Chris, it's not. We all made mistakes that night. Maybe if I would have just shot Wesker on sight like he deserved, Kevin would still be alive."
She can see his face light up with rage. Chris grips her hand and says, "No, don't you fucking dare say that."
"Why do you give me so much grace and afford Brad so little?" Her eyes are hot and brimming with tears. "Why forgive me and not him?"
"It's not the same, Jill. Kevin was…Kevin was going to die regardless."
"You don't know that." She whispers as she wipes away a tear that makes its way down her cheek.
"Yeah, Jill, I do." He looks away from her, down at the pavement, but slips his fingers between hers. It's a gesture that feels intimate and she doesn't understand what it means. She doesn't understand what any of this means anymore.
"I read about it. At the mansion. The bite…it would have killed him. It would have turned him into one of those things. Nothing we did mattered. In fact, I…in a way, I'm glad he died the way he did. He never had to…"
He shakes his head and laughs darkly.
"What does that say about me, Jill? Not much of a life-saving hero after all."
What is there to be said in response to that?
All Jill does is watch the water and wonder if this is the way the world ends—not with a bang, but the smothering sensation of regret.