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tamingthemuseTitle: Crazy
Fandom: Resident Evil (game 'verse)
Characters/pairing: Chris Redfield/Jill Valentine, Rebecca Chambers, Claire Redfield, Sherry Birkin
Words: 582
Warnings: References to past violence, zombies, non-explicit sex
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Their life was crazy, he’s sure of that.
Prompt: That's life.
Author Notes: This is incredibly AU, set circa 2018. Emma is Chris and Jill's daughter.
He’d thought she was dead, once. Really dead, the forever kind. He went to her funeral and cried for her and mourned her. He’d done the grieving widower thing, the out-of-control drinking. He’d moved in with his sister and nearly lost his job, and then he got over it. Got back on track. Went to Africa and found her there, a stranger, a killer. He’d kissed her clean and lost himself all over again.
“Y’know,” he tells her, underneath the covers breathing hot air out, “this is crazy.”
She nods. She’s biting down on a pillow so Emma can’t hear them, and this is crazy, even now when things are supposed to be clear he’s lost in the madness.
He still calls her Valentine, sometimes.
Even when they’re making love he keeps a loosely possessive grip on her arms. He leaves bruises. Don’t leave me, he begs with his tragic lost-boy eyes, don’t go, not again.
He thinks she’s an angel, or something thereabouts. He never forgets the way she made him feel the loss of her like a fatal wound.
(So many bodies, lining the street. Rebecca playing the piano all wrong. Jill standing by his side with her ridiculous shoulder pads and her army-brat haircut.)
He never believed in God before she came falling back down to him. He bites down on her shoulder, and he knows that it hurts her, knows she’ll complain about it later, but he loves the mark he leaves on her skin. Ownership. He loves her, inside out. All’s fair in love and war. He bites harder.
(Baby, don’t go.)
Once, in that crazy mansion, he had felt dizzy, swaying like lightning had struck him. He felt invincible, he felt buzzed to be alive and killing the undead. He’d almost kissed her, right there and then, in the middle of a viral outbreak. Idiot.
He missed himself more than he missed her. He missed the person he was around her. He missed midnight snacking and S.T.A.R.S reminiscing, he missed their weekend pyjama days and that spooky, cognitive way in which they would lift their guns in unison. He missed her delicious face and the feel of her sleeping beside him, just friends, just partners, just the two of them against the world, a clannish pair of no-good outlaws who always got assigned to one another because that was how it ought to be. Oh Valentine and Redfield? They go way back.
Their life was crazy, he’s sure of that.
Since Emma was born, he’s had flashbacks of the Mansion Incident in increasing number.
He’ll blink, and then he’s cowering with Rebecca by Richard’s side, knocking heads with Jill as they shot monsters back to back, the earthly feel of her breathing keeping him sane. It was pistols at dawn, and the zombies kept coming. He remembers Rockfort Island, adrenaline pumping through his veins, drunk with excitement, saving the world with his baby sister. He remembers flying away in that cramped airplane, the two of them squashed together, watching Wesker step from the destruction below. He remembers Steve, and Ada; Sherry Birkin clinging to Claire’s arms. He recalls Sherry now, all grown up and full of vengeance.
He remembers sitting with Rebecca in the middle of hell, her patching up his wounds almost like she was a real doctor, not a kid with a junior first aid badge. She patted his arm and made him look at her. With a grin she said, “That’s life, Chris.”
Fandom: Resident Evil (game 'verse)
Characters/pairing: Chris Redfield/Jill Valentine, Rebecca Chambers, Claire Redfield, Sherry Birkin
Words: 582
Warnings: References to past violence, zombies, non-explicit sex
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Their life was crazy, he’s sure of that.
Prompt: That's life.
Author Notes: This is incredibly AU, set circa 2018. Emma is Chris and Jill's daughter.
He’d thought she was dead, once. Really dead, the forever kind. He went to her funeral and cried for her and mourned her. He’d done the grieving widower thing, the out-of-control drinking. He’d moved in with his sister and nearly lost his job, and then he got over it. Got back on track. Went to Africa and found her there, a stranger, a killer. He’d kissed her clean and lost himself all over again.
“Y’know,” he tells her, underneath the covers breathing hot air out, “this is crazy.”
She nods. She’s biting down on a pillow so Emma can’t hear them, and this is crazy, even now when things are supposed to be clear he’s lost in the madness.
He still calls her Valentine, sometimes.
Even when they’re making love he keeps a loosely possessive grip on her arms. He leaves bruises. Don’t leave me, he begs with his tragic lost-boy eyes, don’t go, not again.
He thinks she’s an angel, or something thereabouts. He never forgets the way she made him feel the loss of her like a fatal wound.
(So many bodies, lining the street. Rebecca playing the piano all wrong. Jill standing by his side with her ridiculous shoulder pads and her army-brat haircut.)
He never believed in God before she came falling back down to him. He bites down on her shoulder, and he knows that it hurts her, knows she’ll complain about it later, but he loves the mark he leaves on her skin. Ownership. He loves her, inside out. All’s fair in love and war. He bites harder.
(Baby, don’t go.)
Once, in that crazy mansion, he had felt dizzy, swaying like lightning had struck him. He felt invincible, he felt buzzed to be alive and killing the undead. He’d almost kissed her, right there and then, in the middle of a viral outbreak. Idiot.
He missed himself more than he missed her. He missed the person he was around her. He missed midnight snacking and S.T.A.R.S reminiscing, he missed their weekend pyjama days and that spooky, cognitive way in which they would lift their guns in unison. He missed her delicious face and the feel of her sleeping beside him, just friends, just partners, just the two of them against the world, a clannish pair of no-good outlaws who always got assigned to one another because that was how it ought to be. Oh Valentine and Redfield? They go way back.
Their life was crazy, he’s sure of that.
Since Emma was born, he’s had flashbacks of the Mansion Incident in increasing number.
He’ll blink, and then he’s cowering with Rebecca by Richard’s side, knocking heads with Jill as they shot monsters back to back, the earthly feel of her breathing keeping him sane. It was pistols at dawn, and the zombies kept coming. He remembers Rockfort Island, adrenaline pumping through his veins, drunk with excitement, saving the world with his baby sister. He remembers flying away in that cramped airplane, the two of them squashed together, watching Wesker step from the destruction below. He remembers Steve, and Ada; Sherry Birkin clinging to Claire’s arms. He recalls Sherry now, all grown up and full of vengeance.
He remembers sitting with Rebecca in the middle of hell, her patching up his wounds almost like she was a real doctor, not a kid with a junior first aid badge. She patted his arm and made him look at her. With a grin she said, “That’s life, Chris.”
