FalonWithBenefits

Jolting, you awaken, gulping down fresh air as though you've just remembered how to breathe again, and your lungs expand gratefully, welcoming it. The waking world is bathed in the glow of your television, an infomercial trying to sell a glorified, overpriced vegetable chopper, the salesman's boisterous voice far too much for—you glance up at the clock hanging on the wall—3:29 A.M.

From one end of the sofa, you gaze across to the other side, where Leon is still sleeping peacefully, arms crossed over his chest, which rises and falls in time with soft snores he'll deny in the morning. In the middle, your legs tangle together, and if it weren't for the sudden feeling of cotton along your tongue, you might have tried to calm your racing heart enough to get a few more meager hours of shuteye, but instead you extricate yourself from him bit by bit.

Unsteadily, you lurch to your feet, limbs still heavy with the lethargy of sleep. As you shamble past Leon, he clumsily grabs your hand, causing you to jump. "Where you going?" he murmurs, peering up at you through a single, squinted eye.

"Getting water," you answer, your voice a hoarse rasp. "Go back to sleep."

He hums in easy acceptance, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your hand before letting go and rolling over to his side into a more comfortable position. The snores resume in an instant as you plod into the kitchen, navigating by only the dim cooktop light above your oven. Still, you expertly maneuver the space with minimal noise, grabbing a cup from the cabinet and filling it at your sink.

You greedily swallow the room-temperature water, the relief instant as it soothes your throat all the way down. Sighing, the glass clinks as you set it against your countertop, and as you stare into the sink, Jill's face from your dream—nightmare—flashes in your mind like a mental self-flagellation ritual.

Sleep has long since become a battle—one you seem to be losing—but over the past three years, instead of conjuring images of ruined cities overrun with zombies or murderous cultists in a remote village in Spain, it's Jill you constantly see. It's always the same: she's dangling over a ledge, a black void beneath, and before you can reach her, she's falling, down, down, down, hand outstretched toward you in a desperate plea for help—help you cannot give her as you're wrapped up in the vindictive arms of your father, forced to watch the death of your best friend like it's for your own good.

A lesson on the cruelty of the world, delivered to you as if you were ten years old again, your father crushing a bird mauled by a neighborhood cat under his boot. A mercy, he told you with a sneer. Belittling you when you cried and cried and when you wouldn't stop, he showed you that it wasn't only mercy that came in the form of a boot.

Rubbing the heel of your hand into your eye, your vision turns dark and spotted, a welcome reprieve, as you push away from the counter, leaving the glass there for the morning, then make your way to the couch. As you settle into the cozy cushions, you pull the blanket draped over the back down to cover both you and Leon, then close your eyes, only to realize the futility of it. Soon, you're staring up at the ceiling, focusing on the water spots left by your neighbor's bathroom flooding four years ago. Any exhaustion you felt before has vanished, leaving a miserable, wakeful buzz in its place.

With a huff, you curl up on your side, and several minutes later, you rotate once more, now unable to find a comfortable position. For a moment, you think maybe you should just get up and finally fold the basket of laundry that's been haunting the corner of your bedroom for the last three weeks. Just as the motivation to do so begins to form, your phone vibrates, inching across the coffee table with a daunting bzz, bzz, bzz.

Frowning, you once more check the clock—3:43 A.M.—and you hesitantly grab it, reading the unknown number like it's personally offended you. You debate ignoring the call, sending it to voicemail and dealing with it in the morning, but something in the recesses of your mind urges you to pick up. Swiping across the screen, you answer in a hushed whisper as you sit up, "Hello?"

The sound of Chris Redfield's voice instantly makes panic tingle up your spine, shoulders tensing as if bracing for impact. "How soon can you be in London?" he asks, forgoing any greeting.

You blink at the question, wishing you could blame the early hour for your lack of understanding as your mind spins like a compass trying to find north. Words turn to mush in your mouth, and the only coherent thing that comes out is a dumbfounded, "What?"

"I can't say much over the phone," he says. "I'll explain when you get here."

Standing up, you balance your phone between your ear and shoulder as you make your way into your bedroom, dragging out your suitcase from under your bed. "Chris, what is going on?" you ask.

He sighs your name. "It's better if you see it for yourself."

You dump the contents of your laundry basket into the suitcase unceremoniously. "I'll try to catch the first flight out," you say.

"I'll send someone to meet you at the airport." With that, he hangs up, and you hold your phone away, staring at the words 'Call Ended' on the screen, your brow pinched and your mouth hanging open. There's no time to dwell on it as you fling more clothes into your bag before heading to your bathroom to grab toiletries.

"What's going on?" Leon asks, his voice raspy with sleep, startling you as you look over your shoulder to see him standing in the doorway; you hadn't even heard him get up. "You get called in?"

Zipping your toiletry bag shut, you brush past him to return to your bedroom. "No—" You pause, hesitating. "I don't know. Maybe." At the confusion on his face, you elaborate, or at least, as much as you can given what little information you'd been given. "Chris called. Asked me to get to London as soon as possible."

"For what?"

With a shrug, you close your suitcase, the haphazard packing job sure to be a problem for future you, but you'll cross that bridge when you get to it. "He didn't say—" You look down at your attire, the sweatpants and t-shirt suitable enough for the airport, and you grab a jacket off the back of your door before shoving your feet into some shoes. "Can you drive me to the airport?"

He blinks as if trying to force himself to be more awake before patting at the pockets of his pants. "Yeah, I just gotta get my—" You pluck his keys out of the bowl on your entrance table, your finger looped through the keyring as you hold it out to him. "—right, yeah, lemme get my coat."

You board your flight with seconds to spare, spending the seven and a half hours in the back of economy, near the bathroom, with your knees getting bashed by the guy in the seat in front of you because he couldn't figure out how to recline it. By the time you make it curbside at Heathrow Airport, you're probably looking as haggard as you feel.

The chill in the air bites at your cheeks, your breath escaping your mouth in plumes of hazy white. The world rushes by around you—a young man is wrapped in his mother's arms, gently patting her shoulder as she cries for him to be safe on his trip; a gaggle of women with stacks of suitcases on a trolley eagerly discuss how excited they are to leave London's cold weather behind; others file in and out of the airport in droves, enveloped in the insulated bubble of their own lives.

Your name being called behind you makes you turn, and a man who couldn't be more than twenty-five stands on the sidewalk several feet from you. Despite the casual clothing, his posture screams military—shoulders and spine rigidly straight. "I'm Piers Nivans," he says as he approaches, holding a hand out. "Captain Redfield sent me."

You muster a polite smile as you shake his hand, muttering a 'thank you' as he grabs your suitcase and heaves it into the trunk of a nearby car. As you slide into the passenger seat, you glance over at him, watching as he shoves a key into the ignition. He's young and fresh-faced, carrying himself with the seriousness of someone still trying to earn his place in the world. "I don't suppose you know the reason I'm here?" you ask.

His lips purse as he peers at you. "I'm afraid not, ma'am—" The sigh escapes before you can stop it. "—But there was quite a commotion at headquarters a few days ago. The higher-ups have been keeping it pretty hush-hush."

The drive to the B.S.A.A. Headquarters is delightfully quiet, and you appreciate Piers's ability to read the room. On the way, you text Leon to inform him that you made it, and he tells you to call him later, no doubt worried about you after how nervous you were when he dropped you off at the airport. London's streets blur past, exhaustion vibrating behind your eyelids, and by the time you pull into the parking lot, you don't even realize you've closed your eyes until the car comes to a slow, rolling stop.

"We're here," Piers announces softly, like he knew you were on the verge of sleep.

You lurch your body into motion before it can protest, stumbling out of the car and grateful to Piers for grabbing your luggage as you stand idly at the trunk, spending a few moments trying to mentally puzzle together how to function. He only gestures for you to follow him, and you trail behind him the entire way into the lobby.

Chris Redfield stands inside, cutting an intimidating figure even in a T-shirt and cargo pants. As the door opens, he tilts his head, his gaze locking with yours. At the sight of you, the tension in his shoulders melts, and he stalks toward you. "I'm glad you could make it," he says quietly.

Shrugging, you give a tight-lipped smile. "You didn't leave me much choice."

He breathes a huff of air through his nose as he places a hand on your lower back, guiding you further into the building. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that," he apologizes.

You don't let him get you very far, stopping in the hall to look up at him exasperatedly. "Chris, what is this about?" you ask.

He sighs. "Trust me, you're going to want to see for yourself."

Displeasure settles on your features, but you begrudgingly acquiesce, letting him lead you through the winding halls of the B.S.A.A. The annoyance morphs into curiosity as you peer nosily through conference room windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the daily goings-ons. So distracted, you almost run face-first into Chris's broad shoulders as he comes to a stop just outside of a nondescript room. Without a sound, he opens the door, but only slightly, and as you peek around him, you surmise it's a lab of some kind.

He pauses for a beat, as if bracing himself, or maybe you, before stepping in, motioning you through with a slant of his head. You give him a puzzled glance out of the corner of your eye as you tread tentatively in, spotting a woman in a hospital gown sitting on an examination table, hunched over, mindlessly picking at her nails, her bare legs swinging back and forth. The profile of her face is obscured by a curtain of platinum-blonde hair, but as Chris shuts the door behind you with a definitive click, her head snaps to look at the two of you.

At the sight of her, the world falls away. A ticking clock wedges itself into your throat in the form of your pulse, beating a deafening rhythm straight into your ears. Hesitantly, you take one step forward, then two, until you've suddenly closed the remaining distance and are standing in front of her. Eyes you would recognize anywhere stare at you with equal parts wonder and anguish.

Your nostrils flare, your nose scrunching as your sinuses sting; you croak out, "Jill?"

Like a slow exhale of relief, her expression softens as she breathes out your name, her honeyed voice welcoming you home. Your hands tremble as you cup her cheeks, as if you cannot believe she is real until you feel her skin beneath yours. When you do, you sharply inhale, the air shuddering all the way through your lungs.

"You're blonde," you whisper, voice breaking as the tears that gathered begin to spill over.

She lets out a watery laugh, nodding against your grip as she sniffs. "It's a long story," she says.

Your lip wobbles as you wrap your arms around her, pulling her into a crushing embrace that she returns tenfold, burying your nose in the crook of her neck and murmuring, "I've got time."

The two of you talk until late in the evening, and you're reluctant to go when Chris comes to take you to your hotel, fearing that this is all a dream and that the second she leaves your sight, you're going to wake to a reality without her once more. The older Redfield is incredibly patient, standing there for longer than he should have allowed while you and Jill hugged goodbye, with you promising to see her first thing in the morning.

She's being kept at the B.S.A.A. Headquarters for observation before she's cleared to reintegrate into society, which is part of why you're here. While she received an initial basic medical examination, both she and Chris had specifically requested you to serve as her primary doctor throughout this process. Unbeknownst to you until about three hours ago, they'd gone over your head and contacted STRATCOM, working out a deal to contract you out to the B.S.A.A. on an extended basis.

"Good thing I don't have a cat," you said when they informed you of this—lamenting on the inside about your abysmal packing job and the state you left your apartment in.

"Maybe you should get one," Jill teased, and you only rolled your eyes.

Now, as you're sitting in the passenger seat of Chris's car, the rest of the world long since succumbed to the beckoning of night, the exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours finally begins to weigh on you, your limbs heavy with lead, movement sluggish and strained.

The inside of the car feels like a blank page—a silence full of possibilities yet endlessly unnerving. It seems strange not to know how to breach the barrier between you and a man you've known for the better part of the last two decades. But your relationship has always been odd.

At first, you were just Jill's friend, and he was her partner. Tangentially interacting with each other solely through your middleman—stunted conversations about the weather and work when left alone, each of you silently praying for Jill's prompt return to save you from the awkwardness.

Then Raccoon City happened, and in the aftermath you would only hear about his exploits from Jill and Claire, with years between any actual communication with the man himself. Sometimes there would be email exchanges passing along intel on bioterrorist movements, but even then it was professional and to the point.

Three years ago was the most you two had ever talked. After Jill's "death," with no next of kin, it fell to you and Chris to plan her funeral and settle her affairs. After several meetings with lawyers and funeral homes, you found yourselves standing side by side at her empty grave long after the other mourners had left. The only logical conclusion for both of you was to get shitfaced drunk at a random bar on a Tuesday afternoon, bogarting a corner booth to yourselves and opening a tab with the plan to drink well into the night—a plan you were sure Jill would have approved of. The entire time, you regaled each other with tales of Jill Valentine, and it was…nice—cathartic—to hear about her through someone else's eyes, to learn about a different side of her you never got to see, and, more importantly, to hear about her from someone who loved her just as much, if not more, than you did.

Then you both went your separate ways—diving into your work to avoid confronting the truth: that she was gone.

But now she's back, and you still don't know how to talk to Chris Redfield without being several beers deep.

"Thanks for coming." The sudden sound of his voice filling the empty air makes you flinch, as if you weren't expecting him to be the first to speak. Peering over at him, you see he's staring straight ahead at the road, not even glancing your way, so much so that you briefly think you imagined it. But then he continues. "These last few years haven't been easy—for either of us. I'm sorry that I never called to check in on you—"

Regret buzzes in your ear like a mosquito, persistent and hard to ignore. "Chris—" you start to protest.

"No," he interrupts, shaking his head. "I knew what Jill meant to you, and I should've made more of an effort to make sure you were okay afterward."

A lump forms in your throat, and you find it difficult to swallow down the guilt. "We were both grieving," you say under your breath.

His grip tightens around the steering wheel, lips thin with contemplation. "But we didn't have to grieve alone."

You study his profile, wondering how he stands to bear the weight of the world—you're sure if you were to pile your own grief on that even the mighty Chris Redfield would crumble beneath it. "Don't blame yourself," you murmur. "I could've reached out, too."

"Jill always said we were alike, y'know," he recalls with a bittersweet smile, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "Hardheaded, she called us."

Chuckling, your shoulders relax as you recline in the seat, looking out the window as the streetlights smear into a blur outside. "I think the term she used was 'pigheaded'."

He laughs; it's lighter, and when your eyes briefly meet his, you realize it makes him look younger, hard edges softening. "Yeah, that sounds about right." Fondness laces his voice, and an easy quiet falls over you.

When he pulls up to the hotel, right as you get out and are about to close the door, you bend down to peer at him. "Thanks for not giving up on her, Chris."

"She wouldn't have given up on me—or you," he says. "It was the least I could do."

The hotel is a swanky place, not one you would ever splurge for on your own dime, but you're happy to enjoy it if the B.S.A.A. is paying for it. You lounge on the private balcony, your hair wet and tangled from the long, hot shower you took, the strands icing up in the frigid London air. Pulling your sweatshirt tighter around you, you open your phone, skimming through the messages and missed calls from the day. As you gnaw on your thumbnail, your finger hovers over Leon's name in your contacts, and before you can think better of it, you press 'Call'.

He answers immediately, "Hey."

"Hey," you reply, your insides itching with relief at the sound of his voice. Despite that, the events of the day have pulled your muscles taut with anxiety, and you still can't find it in yourself to truly relax yet, like you're holding your breath waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You can hear him shift, as if he's sitting up to give the conversation his full attention. "Everything okay? What did Chris need?" he asks.

"I—" Words fail you as every emotion you've felt over the past twenty-four hours decides to revisit you tenfold. You suck in a deep, shaky breath, your sinuses stinging as tears well up in your eyes.

"Hey," he coos softly, but you can hear the concern in his voice. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"Jill's alive," you manage, and the tears break free as you sniff, rubbing your nose with your sweatshirt sleeve. A sob rises in your throat, making your chest hurt, but you hold it there.

You're met with a long, drawn-out pause, and you can only imagine the look of pure disbelief on his face right now. "That's… that's great news," he murmurs.

A mix of laughter and a cry escapes you, watery and manic. "I can hardly believe it," you admit. "I keep feeling like I'm going to wake up at any moment."

He gives you a minute as you try to pull yourself together, listening to the pathetic sniffles and hiccups until you're able to soothe yourself, and only then does he finally ask, "She's okay, though?"

"That's what I'm here for," you say as you wipe your face even as more tears streak down your cheeks. "Apparently STRATCOM agreed to contract me out to the B.S.A.A. for an extended period to aid in her recovery."

"Extended period?" he echoes. "How long is that?"

"Hard to tell," you say. "Could be a month or so, but I'll have a better idea over the next week once we begin testing."

"A month?" There's a not-so-subtle hint of exasperation in his tone.

It makes you snort back a chuckle, rolling your eyes at the huff. "You'll survive without me, I promise."

He grumbles a bit more, only causing you to smile as he deflects. "We were supposed to have dinner with Sherry next week; she's gonna be disappointed."

You hum a 'mhm' because it's definitely Sherry who will be disappointed, not the thirty-two-year-old man you're currently on the phone with. "I'm sure she'll cope," you say. "Besides, she's supposed to be starting with the N.S.A. soon; she'll have enough on her plate."

He gives a confused noise. "She didn't tell me that."

"She did," you remind him. "It was after you got back from that mission in Kuwait, but I'm pretty sure you were half-dead on my couch when she said it."

The sharp sound of protest he lets out makes you laugh as you curl further into the seat, not caring as the cold starts to seep through your layers of clothes. You and Leon fall into an easy conversation until you notice the faint traces of sunlight peeking over the horizon.

"So, what exactly are you doing with that again?" Jill asks as she eyes the vial of blood you place in the rack, then watches you clumsily try to apply a band-aid to the crook of your arm while maintaining pressure on the gauze you placed over the site where you drew blood.

After several excruciating moments of you fumbling with the band-aid, she slaps your hands away, grumbling, "God, would it kill you to ask for help?" as she applies it with ease.

"Well," you start as you plop onto your stool, rolling over to the desk to take notes on a pad of paper as she follows after you. "We'll be able to compare our blood. Based on the reports Chris had, the t-Virus strain you were infected with in 1998 had mutated and reacted with the vaccine." Setting your pen down, you spin around to face her. "Since we both received the same vaccine, it'll provide a good baseline for what could've caused this mutation, since I was bitten after getting vaccinated."

Unconsciously, you rub your arm; the scar is hardly visible anymore. It had been angry and raised for a long time after Raccoon City, so much so that you thought it would be that way forever—just an ugly, gnarled physical reminder of what you went through. Then one day you looked down and realized it had smoothed and faded to a shade nearly indistinguishable from your natural skin.

It's still there, though, if you know where to look.

"Did they ever find anything odd after poking and prodding you for years?" she asks, crossing her arms and leaning her hip against the desk.

A scowl tugs down your expression as memories you would rather bury rear their ugly head. During the initial tests they ran on you, Leon, and Sherry after picking you up following the outbreak, both you and Sherry were flagged due to anomalies found in your blood. It's the reason she was placed into federal custody and why they were so keen on keeping you as close as possible.

They ran every panel imaginable, multiple times over, throughout the years, convinced there was something in your blood that could unlock the secrets of the t-Virus. But the vaccine had worked as intended, and your body successfully fought off the virus upon exposure, eradicating it completely and leaving not even a trace behind.

You reckon they were likely looking for the same thing with Sherry, especially given the devastation the G-Virus could cause. While you were never privy to the exact details of the testing she underwent, you know how hard it was on her both physically and mentally. There were some visits where she was more withdrawn than usual, wearing long sleeves even in the sweltering heat, looking like she was somewhere else entirely. You're not sure if anything ever came from all that testing; if something did, it is well above your pay grade.

But the one thing you know they didn't have was a sample from someone who had been infected with the t-Virus and then vaccinated. You would be lying if you said a large part of you isn't extremely curious about what you'll find.

"Nope," you answer, swiveling the chair back and forth. "It's going to take a while for the sequencing to be complete—" Pausing, you glance up at her blonde hair, pulled into a ponytail. "You wanna have a little spa day?"

She quirks a brow. "What did you have in mind?"

An hour later, you've laid claim to the women's restroom on the third floor, reading the instructions on the hair dye box for the third time to make sure you don't accidentally make Jill bald, though she's far less concerned about it, sitting there with her eyes closed and insisting it be a surprise.

"Seriously, you're allowed to look," you say as you dump the rest of the dye onto her hair, thoroughly coating it.

"No."

"What if I'm actually dying your hair bright fuchsia and your only chance of stopping me is to open your eyes right now?" you ask.

"Nope," she refuses with a hard pop of the 'p', far too nonchalant about how you're haphazardly smearing hair dye onto her head.

You scoff—and she calls you and Chris pigheaded. Regardless, you continue the application in focused silence until you've used the entire bottle, dye splattering across the tile floor as you try to get the last remnants out by giving it a hard shake. You mutter an apathetic 'oops' before tossing the empty bottle into the trash.

"How's your brother doing?" Jill asks. "Hope you'll extend my apologies for missing the wedding."

You snort as you pull off the dye-soaked gloves with a snap, depositing them in the trash can before hopping up onto the counter. Checking the time on your phone, you say, "I can safely assume all is forgiven on that front given the circumstances. But he's good—him and his wife just found out they're having a baby."

Eyes still shut, a smile spreads across her face. "They must be so excited."

A lighthearted laugh escapes you. "That's an understatement; apparently, my brother bought damn near every single parenting book he could find."

"He's gonna be a good dad," she says fondly. She remembers your brother as the shy kid, only a semester into college, who would tag along with the two of you on outings during his school breaks, nervously asking for advice on how to ask the cute girl in his Economics class out. He's grown more confident over the years, coming into his own and building a life for himself, but for Jill, he'll always be that kid.

A bittersweet feeling pools in your stomach, rising to the back of your throat like acidic bile. Letting out a slow, controlled breath, you agree. "Yeah, he is."

At that, she finally peeks a scrutinizing eye open. "How do you feel about that?" she asks.

Frowning at the sudden severity in her tone, you bring your legs up to sit criss-cross, and lean your elbows on your knees. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, how do you feel about it?" she reiterates. "You know, I always thought that'd be you—the white picket fence, trophy husband, two and a half kids."

You feel like you've been punched in the chest. "Jesus, Jill—"

"What?" She blinks, both eyes opening, as she looks at you incredulously—studying you in a way that makes you feel altogether too exposed. "You used to talk about it, what life would be like after your residency—"

Scoffing, you wave a hand dismissively. "I was twenty-two, Jill."

She purses her lips at your flippancy. "And now you're thirty-four, so I'm asking again—how do you feel about it?"

You break eye contact, unable to stand the way it seems as though she can see right through you in this moment, and instead stare down at the now stained, tiled floor. "God, I don't know, what do you want me to say?" you ask.

"You could start with the truth," she answers, not unkind, but insistent in a way that tells you she's not going to let this one go. She's a dog with a bone—it's something you usually admire about her. "I mean, c'mon, you must feel something."

"I—" You pause, because of course you do, but how do you say it all aloud? How do you put these complicated emotions into words when most of the time you're not even able to identify them yourself? "I don't know."

She frowns, her brow twitching with annoyance at what she perceives as feigned stupidity. She knows for a fact you're not stupid, and she knows you don't think she's stupid either, so she's not sure why you're trying to deflect. "Don't try that bullshit with me," she chides. "I know you—"

You interrupt her, throwing your hands up. "Okay, so you tell me how I feel then," you retort, your voice growing louder without you meaning it to.

Her shoulders tense, her fingertips digging into the fabric of her pants. Her volume rises to match yours as she says, "I don't know how you're feeling; that's why I'm asking."

Irritation plucks at you. You have nothing to inventory here, no mental shield you can safely tuck behind to hide. Your brain's defense mechanism has failed you, and you are left staring at Jill as she pleads with you to just be honest, of all things. But your irritation isn't with her; it's with yourself, because why is it so hard to just tell her the truth? Why is it so hard to tell anyone the truth?

"What do you want to hear?" you ask, your voice already shaking like you know this is the beginning of the end. The word vomit gathers at the back of your throat and for the first time, you find yourself unable to stop it. "Do you want to hear that I'm happy for my brother, but I'm also so fucking sad because the life he has is one I so desperately wanted? And then I feel guilty for feeling that way because it's not his fault and I feel like the worst fucking sister in the world for being resentful."

Tears well up in Jill's eyes as she stares at you, mouth agape, listening.

You don't know when you stood up, only that your own body feels impossibly heavy in this moment, your knees trembling as you force yourself to stay upright. "Or do you want to hear how it feels like the world is constantly moving around me, like time keeps marching forward and I'm just a fucking ghost stuck in 1998? Like sometimes I think I died along with everyone else and this is some purgatory I'm stuck in. Is that what you want to hear, Jill?"

Murmuring your name, she doesn't hesitate to grab your hand, lacing your fingers together. The anger simmers away under her gentle touch, leaving only sadness in its wake. You know she doesn't deserve to be spoken to that way, and the regret is instant, so you hold her hand a little tighter. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I just wanted to know how you were doing, is all."

"Shitty, Jill," you say, no more bite in your tone, just a somber resignation as you lean against the counter. "I'm doing shitty." She doesn't say anything, just rubbing her thumb over your knuckles, and then after a long pause, you add, "I missed you."

Things with Jill always felt easy, even the hard shit. She's never been unkind, but she's also never tiptoed around your feelings. Maybe that's what you've been missing—what you need. Someone who will force you to face the ugly facets of yourself that have been steadily building up inside you over the last decade.

"I missed you, too," she says with a small smile as she hops up from her seat to rest against the counter next to you, her shoulder pressing against yours and your hands still firmly intertwined. The conversation turns to lighter things—ones that don't dig so deep—and you're grateful for that.

An hour later, you've washed the dye from her hair, staining the bathroom sink and your jeans, and are finishing the cut with a pair of scissors that definitely aren't meant for hair. "You wear a lot of hats, huh?" she says as she watches you snip, snip away with fascination.

You roll your eyes in annoyance at her. "You remember how dirt poor I was when we first became friends; I used to cut my own hair all the time."

"Is that why it always looked so bad—OW!" She flinches away as you pinch her side. "Ugh, that hurt," she whines.

You point the tips of the scissors toward her. "I will remind you that I currently have scissors in my hands."

"Are you threatening me?" she asks with a quirked eyebrow and mild amusement.

"No," you reply definitively as you return to work. "I'm just saying that if you don't want to leave this bathroom with a bowl cut, you'd better behave."

She sticks out her tongue but stays quiet the rest of the time as you comb your fingers through her damp hair, already beginning to dry, trimming little strands here and there. After maybe a tad too much pruning, you step back, admiring your work.

"What do you think?" you ask.

As she stands, she leans over the sink to get a better look in the mirror, running her fingers through her damp hair. Slowly, a smile spreads across her face. "I love it," she says, unable to pull her gaze from her own reflection like she's seeing it for the first time.

Your heart feels lighter at the sight. "Looking more like yourself already," you joke.

"Feeling like it, too," she says.

After the two of you clean up the mess you made to the best of your ability, you step out into the hall and nearly run into Chris. "Was wondering where the two of you went—" He stops short when his gaze falls on Jill. Whatever else he was about to say vacates his brain as his hand instinctively comes up to tug the ends of her now-short, brown hair. "Your hair," he mutters dumbly.

Jill, seemingly unaware of the flush making its way up his neck as he retracts his hand, grins up at him. "Spa day," she says.

Coughing to clear his throat, he averts his stare to you as though it's the safer option, which he's swift to realize isn't as you smirk at him knowingly. "The uh—The lab said the analysis is ready for you to review," he informs. "Whenever you're ready—no rush."

And then he's off, fleeing from the two of you as you're left looking smugly at an oblivious Jill.

The sequencing results are indeed interesting.

"So what does that mean?" Jill leans over your shoulder to look at the monitor as you scribble on the notepad in your lap. When she glances down at your writing and sees it's illegible, she rolls her eyes, muttering a soft, exasperated, "Doctors."

Drawing yourself away from your notetaking, you tap the screen with the tip of your finger, leaving smudges across the surface. "This is the sample from me," you explain as you hit play on the recording—the lab exposed your blood to the base strain of the t-Virus. "Notice anything weird?"

Her eyes narrow as she watches the antibodies bind to the viral surface antigens, neutralizing the infection. Your white blood cells then destroy the foreign bodies, breaking them down and leaving the debris for the scavenger cells to clean up. "Not… really?" she answers, her face pinched and hesitant, as if you've asked her a trick question.

"Exactly." Clicking to the next slide, you lounge in your seat, gnawing on the end of your pen, which has become a gnarled piece of plastic over the last half hour spent reviewing the findings. As the next video begins to play, you say, "And this is your sample—" The video starts the same as yours: the t-Virus begins to invade, but instead of the standard immune response, the antibodies rapidly divide and, within seconds, completely eradicate the virus, expanding and consuming the invading cells.

"And that's… not normal," Jill concludes with a frown.

"It is not," you confirm, tossing your notepad onto the desk. "Based on the reports Chris found, we know that there was a mutant strain of the t-Virus that was dormant in your body until you were put into the coma. When it was activated, it's likely that the antibodies produced by the vaccine overcompensated in an attempt to fight it off, causing them to mutate. It's… novel."

"Novel?"

"I've not seen this particular reaction before—" You point with the end of your pen at the screen. "It certainly would explain the accelerated rate of healing that you've reported…"

She's quick to pick up on the way something else lingers on the tip of your tongue. "And?"

Sighing, you spin in your chair to face her. "And we'll need to run more tests to determine any other side effects. Like I said, this is novel—unprecedented—we have no way of knowing what to expect." Her eyes flick down to the space in between you, shoulders dropping just a fraction of an inch. "I'm sorry, I know this isn't what you were hoping—"

Shaking her head, she interrupts, "No, it's okay. I knew this was a possibility."

A lump forms in your throat as your mind flashes to five years ago, when you were peering down at Albert Wesker through your crosshairs, your finger twitching against the trigger. The ricochet of your bullet off the floor beside him rings in your ears, and suddenly you're a ship taking on water as your hull is breached, sinking lower into the depths.

Falling down, down, down.

How many times have you agonized over your inaction these last three years? How might the course of Jill's life have changed if you'd just taken the fucking shot?

A sting builds in your sinuses, one you disguise by brushing the heel of your palm against your nose as if brushing an itch, before turning away once more, to review the rest of the report. Clearing your throat, you say, "The good news is there doesn't seem to be any trace of the P30 drug they used on you in your system. That doesn't mean there won't be any long-lasting effects; we'll still run tests to make sure—" You pause. "Actually, I was hoping to speak with someone about bringing a member of my team here to assist."

She crosses her arms. "Why?"

"My knowledge of the Progenitor virus is limited to what I know about the t- and G-Virus," you explain, drumming your pen against the desk in a rhythmic tap, tap, tap. "I'm also not a biologist, and having someone who had a hand in the research behind the engineering of those viruses would be a boon."

Her back straightens, and she narrows her eyes. "'Who had a hand in?'" she asks with a dangerous edge to her voice, one you respond to with a cheeky grin.

Swinging the duffle bag over his shoulder, Luis Serra stares up at the nondescript building in front of him as London's cold air tints his cheeks red. He glances down at the scrap of paper he'd hastily written the address on, then turns to the cab driver. "You sure this is it, amigo?" he asks as he shoves the paper into his pocket and pats the front of his jacket until he finds his crumpled pack of cigarettes.

The driver squints at the building and shrugs. "It's the address you gave," he answers as Luis tilts the pack and plucks a cigarette out with his teeth. The driver looks at the meter, then to Luis. "That'll be £27."

With the unlit cigarette still hanging from his lips, he grabs the wallet from his back pocket and grins sheepishly as he pulls out a twenty-dollar bill. "You don't happen to take dollars, do you?" he asks.

The driver gives him an exasperated look. "Mate, you're in London."

"You see, I was called away here rather suddenly—" He begins his tale as he flicks the shitty BIC lighter he had shoved into the half-empty pack in fear that his good one would be confiscated by T.S.A. "—and in my haste to get where I needed to be, I forgot to exchange my money at the airport."

After several attempts, a flame eventually ignites; the driver glowers at him, watching, unamused, as he lights his cigarette. "That's all well and good, but you still gotta pay me."

Just as he prepares to take a deep inhale, the sweet relief of nicotine on the tip of his tongue, the cigarette is snatched from his mouth, and he is left to watch in pure devastation as it is thrown onto the dirty sidewalk and squashed beneath the heel of a scuffed boot.

"You can't smoke here."

There's a frown on your face as you hand the driver a few notes, send him on his way with a wave, and Luis is left staring at you with his mouth still partially open from where a delectable cigarette had just been hanging. "Says who?" he asks.

"Says me, right now," you answer, your lips pursed, though your attempt at derision does nothing to make you any less endearing to him. "I told you those things are going to kill you."

He grins, closing the distance between you with a single long stride. "Ah, but I have a guardian angel on my side—" He taps you on the nose with a wink. "With you watching over me, I'll live forever."

Scoffing, you slap his hand with reproach. "That's only if you actually listen to my medical advice and stop smoking."

"No," he denies, throwing an arm around your shoulder and drawing you close to his side. "You have this healing aura about you, corazón. It must be your endless beauty; even in this hazy gray London smog, I feel rejuvenated just by your mere presence."

Letting out an undignified snort, you roll your eyes, but do nothing to push him away as you stroll into the building, making small talk about his flight and listening to him go on about how the T.S.A. agent at Dulles Airport was trying to get frisky with him.

The members of the B.S.A.A. don't pay you any mind as you navigate the halls, though they do send Luis an odd look or two. Once you come to the lab door, you swipe in with the temporary access card provided to you. "So, you were pretty vague on the phone," he says as the door shuts behind him with a click. "There was quite the hubbub about your sudden leave of absence. Dark, nefarious rumors swirling about that you ran away with a secret paramour and got married in Vegas—" He grasps at his chest with a dramatic gasp as if the very thought brought him physical pain. "I must admit, I was very jealous; I always thought you and I had a certain connection… one teeming with unresolved sexual tension."

As you take a seat at the desk, you gesture for him to do the same. "I'd hardly call it a leave of absence," you say, ignoring the latter part of his impassioned speech as you grab a manila folder and slide it over to him. "Here—"

With a raised eyebrow, he wordlessly takes it and begins to read the report inside. Silence envelopes the room, and you sit patiently with your legs crossed, watching for any minute change in expression. He doesn't rush, reading every single word on the page and analyzing each graph and data point with a scrutinizing eye. It's amazing to watch the flip from relentless flirt to brilliant researcher take place in real time, but you've grown used to it over the last few months since Luis was placed under your charge at STRATCOM.

It would be a lie to say you weren't worried at first. Dealing with Luis and his eccentricities is often a task in itself, and you had reservations about how you might manage him in the field, especially given the events in Spain. However, he's surprised you. He's proven to be incredibly insightful and adept, with a keen intuition for when to switch between work and play.

You've come to value his expertise and opinion, which is why you specifically requested him, even though a few of the higher-ups at the B.S.A.A. insisted their contracted biologists were perfectly suitable. It wasn't that they weren't qualified—you're sure they were among the most celebrated and decorated minds in the field—but you don't know them, so you don't trust them.

For the next ten minutes, time is marked only by the ticking of the clock and the turning of pages, until he finally closes the folder and glances up at you. "Thoughts?" you ask, keeping your voice deceptively neutral.

"I agree with your initial assessment based on the data provided," he says. "We would need to run full DNA sequencing to determine whether there are any genetic changes in the subject, but it's probable that there have been, given their exposure to the Progenitor virus—nasty business."

You fold your hands together in your lap to keep from fidgeting. "Do you agree with my determination that these effects are likely irreversible?"

He hums thoughtfully, then, after a beat, says, "Yes, I would agree with that. Trying to reverse the changes could lead to further mutations; it's better to manage what we know now than to roll the dice in hopes of a better outcome."

Most people would not be able to spot the fracture in your perfectly crafted facade, but Luis is not most people, and he catches it straight away. His dark eyes scan your face, and he squints. "What is it?"

You're quiet, unable to stop yourself from picking at your nails now, chewing the inside of your cheek. "I wanted you to tell me I was wrong," you murmur.

You hate being wrong. It is one of the first things Luis learned about you, and it isn't due to arrogance or delusions of grandeur, but because you approach problems like puzzles to solve. It's fun for you. But when you're wrong, it means that something slipped by you without you noticing, and that is infuriating more than anything for you.

Frowning, he taps a finger on the report. "Corazón… who is this?" he asks cautiously; he can't mask the concern in his voice.

Your lip quivers as you adjust in your seat. "Jill," you answer.

Luis exhales and slumps in his chair, his gaze dipping as he considers Jill Valentine and what he knows of her, and the irrefutable fact that stands at the forefront is that you loved her—love her.

Love is a wondrous and splendid thing—it is the twinkle in your eye when you recall fond memories, the ease with which you fall into each other no matter the time or distance, and the fingerprints you have left upon one another's souls. The devastation left by the loss of a love like that is one he's seen in the hollows of your cheeks when you forgot to eat for days and in the way you sometimes got lost in thought, staring off into a crowd as if you were looking for her in every person passing by.

He asked you how you were doing, once, months after, and the sadness in your eyes was enough of an answer, but then you said something that's stuck with him. "She wasn't the first friend I've lost, you know. But she was the first person to ever hold my heart without expecting anything in return."

He wonders who else could loom as large as Jill Valentine—maybe that shadow on your shoulder the Merchant mentioned, the one that made your spine go rigid like you'd seen a ghost. He's seen it a few times, how a dark cloud would descend upon you, dousing the usual fire you had with a torrent of rain.

Luis did not know what could cause such a thing, and maybe one day he would be brave enough to ask. For now, though, he can only offer small comforts. "We'll run more tests," he assures, reaching across to lay a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Leave no stone unturned."

The introduction of Luis to Jill and Chris goes about as well as you expected, and you're only grateful that Chris doesn't start throwing punches. Luis, to his credit, is on his best behavior as he goes over which additional tests he would like to run on Jill; not a single flirtatious look is directed at her or Chris the entire time. When they have questions, they direct them at you instead of him, and he takes it in stride. He isn't a stranger to being kept at arm's distance given his past.

You're prepping Jill for the next batch of bloodwork, and she watches you apply the tourniquet to her arm and wipe the crook of her elbow with an alcohol swab—the familiar, biting scent still makes her crinkle her nose. Needle in hand, you murmur, "Just a pinch here."

As you're about to prick her skin, she gasps—a sharp, quick inhale—and jerks her arm from you. Instinctively, you hold the needle away, afraid of accidentally stabbing her, but then she slaps your hand, sending it clattering to the floor with a clink, clink, clink. Your attention follows it for a split second, but that distraction is all it takes for Jill to seize you by the throat. It catches you so off guard that you're frozen in place until she yanks you up. Your chair falls over before she slams you to the ground with remarkable strength. You gasp as your back hits the cold linoleum with a thud, knocking the wind out of you as she straddles you.

When your brain catches up, you try to pry her hands from you, fingernails digging into her skin, but it's as if she can't even feel it as she tightens her grip around your neck. As you stare up at her, you see her face twist in agony, eyes rimmed red as tears flood them, her lip trembling as she repeats, "No, no, no, no."

"Jill—" She presses down harshly on your windpipe, cutting off what little air you had, leaving you gasping frantically as you try to wrestle her off of you to no avail.

Your vision begins to darken and blur at the edges, leaving you with only the image of her anguished expression as you feel yourself teeter closer and closer to unconsciousness despite how desperately you're fighting against it. Faintly, you think you hear the door open, then your name being yelled, but it's muffled, like you're in a fishbowl. Your eyes begin to roll to the back of your head, just as Jill is hauled off of you and you're granted the sweet respite of air filling your lungs once more. Gasping, you gulp it down with such fervor that your chest burns, and you realize someone is kneeling on the floor next to you.

When you inhale a warm, earthy scent, you whisper hoarsely, "Luis."

"It is me," he assures, hands cupping your cheeks as you sit up with extreme care. A loud thud, thud, thud echoes in your ears, and you recognize it as your own frenzied heartbeat as your vision finally returns, the world sharpening around you. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," you assure, your voice raspy as you weakly bat his hands away, stumbling to your feet despite his protests, but he remains next to you, ensuring you do not fall, with firm hands on you.

On the other side of the room, Chris has Jill by the shoulders; any indication of aggression has left her body, and when she looks over at you, horror floods her features. She covers her gaping mouth with a quivering hand before shaking her head back and forth. "No, no," she murmurs. "I didn't—no, I'm sorry, I—"

Then she's running, footsteps hurrying out of the room, leaving Chris to call out for her forlornly. As the door slams shut behind her, his gaze meets yours, and his shoulders slump as he sighs. "I'm sorry," he mutters. "I should have mentioned that."

"You mean this has happened before?" Luis asks, scowling as if he's biting back a scathing remark at the other man.

"She was doing better," he says quietly as he looks at you. "She hasn't had any episodes since you got here. I—I thought she was doing better."

"Are these outbursts usually aggressive?" Luis asks.

"Sometimes," Chris answers. "Sometimes she just screams."

"This is something you should have told us about before," Luis says. "She could have seriously injured—"

"Stop," you interject. "I'm fine."

He rounds on you, expression more grave than you've ever seen before, even when he was knocking on death's door. "Only because we came back in time. What would have happened if it was thirty seconds later—a minute? Hm?" He slants his head, eyebrows raising as if he's waiting for an answer from you.

You swallow it down instead of letting it out. The truth feels like razor blades in your throat, but you still don't want to voice it, as if keeping it inside wouldn't make it real.

Because Jill would have killed you.

Luis's lips form a thin line, and he crosses his arms as his attention turns to Chris. "Anything else you would like to tell us before we continue?"

Frowning, Chris shakes his head wordlessly, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"Go check on her," you say, cutting the tense silence before it could develop. "We need to discuss the plan moving forward with this new information."

He seems like he wants to say something, but stops himself when he realizes you're giving him an out and takes it with a quick nod. Both you and Luis watch his hulking form until he slips out of the room, leaving the two of you in a quiet you'd never experienced with Luis before.

It makes you nervous even to look at him, and when you eventually muster the courage to do so, you hate the concern you see marring his expression. He reaches out for you once again, the tips of his fingers brushing against the marks Jill left on your neck, and the chill of his touch is only a relief.

"You are sure you're okay?" he mutters.

"I promise, I'm fine," you answer, and you're not lying. Shaken up? Obviously. But your worry is making sure Jill will be okay.

She's always been an immutable figure in your life—stalwart and strong in ways you could only admire. Every trial and tribulation in her life has been met with a stiff upper lip and determination to get through it to the other side. She's never complained about the hand she was dealt, not once. But you've not once seen her look so agonized as she did before, like she were in a mental tug-of-war battle and losing.

He studies you, eyes scanning you as if gauging the truth of your reply, but he knows you well enough to realize that even if you weren't okay, you would never say. Instead, he sighs with reluctant acceptance, grabs the file off the desk, and flips through it. "You've noted there are no traces of the P30 drug in her system due to how quickly it metabolizes—"

"That's right," you confirm with a nod, stepping to his side as you cross your arms and peer down at the report with him. "The device implanted in her chest was meant to keep her steadily dosed. No addictive properties were noted, but if she were on it for an extended period, it's entirely possible she became dependent on it. Do you think this is some sort of withdrawal symptom?"

He closes the folder and sets it back down before turning to face you, his hands coming up to grasp your shoulders, his gaze soft as he considers you. "I think some scars aren't physical," Luis says as gently as he can, delicately, as if he's handling something fragile. "You know that, corazón."

You find Jill on the roof.

She stands there with her back to you, gazing out on London's skyline. Her head tilts slightly when she hears the scuff of your boots approaching, but she doesn't turn to look at you, keeping her eyes forward.

"Cold up here," you note, coming to a stop a few feet behind her and shoving your hands into your coat pockets to keep them warm as the frigid air bites at your nose. When she doesn't answer, you say far too casually, "Not gonna jump, are you?"

Her shoulders shake as laughter escapes her in plumes of white air, and only then does she glance toward you, the light of the setting sun illuminating the profile of her face with a sharp outline of gold. "Don't worry, doc, you're not gonna have to scrape me off the floor."

You shrug as you step to close the distance between you, coming to stand next to her and take in the view she seemed so fixated on. There must have been some version of you who would have been awestruck by the view, but she's long gone, and it's just you now, staring with a lackluster expression—too jaded by the years spent dealing with the worst this world has to offer to even appreciate its beauty.

"I'm sorry," she says so abruptly and loudly that you flinch. "I don't know what happened. It just felt like I was brought back to—" Words get caught in her throat, and she shrinks into herself, crossing her arms and inching away from you.

"I had an eighty-year-old geriatric patient who did more damage than you did in my first year as a resident," you scoff, lighthearted and flippant. Her gaze snaps to you, like she thinks she's misheard you. "It comes with the territory. I've been choked out more times than I can count; you just caught me off guard."

"But—"

"Do you want me to yell at you? Hit you?" you ask, cutting her off. "What would make you feel better?"

She's quiet for a moment before turning to face you. "Hit me," she says.

Moving without a second thought, you swing around, winding your hand back. She scrunches her eyes shut, bracing for impact, only to wince slightly when your palm instead tenderly pats her cheek. Her eyes open, and she stares at you, confused. You keep your hand there, your thumb tracing the high point of her cheekbone. "Luis and I spoke, and we think the best course of action would be to bring in a psychologist for you to speak with." Her lips purse as she listens to you, but her gaze remains on yours. "The effects of the P30 are likely something we aren't equipped to handle."

"So you want me to see a shrink?" she asks incredulously.

You snort and withdraw your hand, stuffing it into your pocket. "As your primary care physician, I recommend that you be formally evaluated by a psychologist and follow the care plan they propose." Her nose scrunches, the telltale sign she's about to argue, and you add, "If it doesn't work, then it doesn't work, but at least we can cross one more thing off our list."

She lets out a huff of acceptance and mutters a gritted "Fine."

"This place is swanky," Luis comments as he settles into the armchair in your hotel room, a glass of whiskey in his hand, courtesy of the B.S.A.A.'s generous compensation package. "I could get used to this… You think they're hiring?"

You snort into your cup, sipping the wine and feeling the day's tension practically melt away as it warms your blood. "Getting tired of me already?" you ask.

He gasps. "You? Never," he says. "The U.S. Government's abysmal per diem? Absolutely."

"Trust me, I'm sure the only reason the B.S.A.A. is treating us so well is because a lot is riding on us producing results—"

"Ah, so you suspect they have nefarious purposes?" he asks, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Have you sniffed out the ne'erdowells?"

Rolling your eyes, you stretch across your plush bed, propping up against the headboard. "They're expending far too much time and resources for a soldier," you say. "If this were any other situation, Jill would be sent off with a pat on the shoulder and 'good luck out there!'" You give a thumbs-up in mockery before taking another seething sip. "They see something to be gained here; I just don't know what yet, and I don't think they do either."

"Do you not think you are just paranoid, corazón?" he asks in a teasing tone.

You level him with a look as you tip your glass to him. "Being paranoid keeps you alive," you answer.

"Here, here," he agrees, raising his own glass in salute before downing the rest of the drink. Whatever else he is about to say is cut off as your cellphone rings, and you don't know what shows up on your face as you check the caller I.D., but he slyly asks, "Sancho?"

Scowling, you slide off the bed, not answering him as you slip through the door to the balcony, then slide it closed behind you and answer your phone. "Hey," you greet.

"Hey," Leon breathes your name in relief. "How you doing?"

You hum as you lean against the railing, staring down into the street below where people mill about as night starts to creep in. "Today was… eventful," you settle on.

"Got anything to do with Luis being pulled?" he asks casually, like he's not prying for information, when you know full well he is.

"Paying attention to the rumor mill now, are we?" you retort. "Never took you for a gossip."

"It's not gossip if it's true," he says.

"He got here this morning," you inform. "I requested he be brought on."

He's quiet on the other end for a moment, and you have no idea what's running through his mind. Behind you, the glass door slides open. "Is that Sancho?" Luis asks as he steps into the cold, the liquid in his glass, which he must've refilled, sloshing around. "Tell him I said 'hi'!"

Sighing, you mutter into the phone, knowing he wouldn't stop until you acquiesce, "Luis says 'hi'."

"Isn't it like 12:30 A.M. there?" Leon asks.

You glance down at your watch. "12:23," you correct. "…Why?"

"Shouldn't you, I don't know—be sleeping, or something?" His tone takes on a grumble—a pout, if you will.

"Like I said, today was eventful, so we're just having a drink," you say.

"Yeah, Sancho," Luis says, leaning over your shoulder to talk into the phone. "Can't a man and a woman have a drink together in her hotel room?"

"You're in your hotel room?" Leon asks. "Alone?"

You throw a glare over your shoulder at Luis, who is trying to hide his shiteating grin by taking another sip of his drink. "Yes, but he was just leaving," you say as you kick Luis's shin, eliciting a sharp gasp of pain from the man.

"That hurt!" he whines.

You ignore it and push him back into the room toward the door despite his protests that he hasn't finished his drink yet. "My heart bleeds for you," you mutter.

On the other end of the phone, Leon lets out a slow breath. "Listen, I was just calling to check in and let you know I might be radio silent for a bit. I'm being sent to China in the morning."

You pause just as you're about to open the door, and Luis looks at you curiously. "All right," you murmur. "Be safe."

The only reply you get is a faint 'yeah', before the call ends with a click. Glancing down, Luis notices your frown and tips back his drink. "So I see that's gone nowhere," he notes. When you kick him again and fling the door open to shove him out of the hotel room, you can hear him on the other side as you slam it shut. "You two are so sensitive."

A month seems to pass in the blink of an eye.

Reclining in the uncomfortable metal chair, you blow on your shitty break room coffee, feeling the heat through the flimsy paper cup and grimacing before you even take a sip, already knowing how acidic it's going to be. On one side of you, Luis lounges, flipping through the newspaper he picked up on your way here, claiming he was going to read it, but so far he's only spent the morning agonizing over the sudoku puzzle. On the other side, Chris sits rigidly, eyes ahead, staring through the window into the examination room, providing a rhythmic tap, tap, tap with the heel of his boot against the floor.

The window is a two-way mirror, one you're almost positive Jill clocked the second she walked into the room, given how she shot you a flat look through the glass. You voiced your opposition to the whole farce, but were outnumbered by the B.S.A.A. higher-ups, who thought your and Chris's presence would influence Jill too much throughout these tests.

As such, you've been relegated to the observation room while other doctors take over administering the examinations. They've already poked and prodded her for another round of bloodwork, and now she's in the middle of an endurance test to assess her physical conditioning. After this, there will be even more medical exams, including a CT scan and a battery of neurological tests. Later on, she'll meet with her psychologist for an evaluation that will take no less than four hours to complete. Once that's done, you and Luis will meet with the rest of the medical team to review the findings.

Needless to say, you have an incredibly long day ahead of you.

Peering over at Chris, you slurp down some of the sludge in your cup, trying to ignore the grating sound of his anxiety. With every shred of self-control, you turn forward again, until he shifts in his chair, the metal giving an ear-splitting creak. With it, your patience snaps. "Chris," you hiss sharply.

Instantly, he ceases movement, shoulders slumping as he sheepishly apologizes with a muttered, "Sorry."

"It's going to be fine," you assure. "These tests are just to see how much progress she's made—"

"What if she hasn't made any progress?" he asks.

Scowling, you look over at him. "She has," you insist. "We both know that."

He sighs, threading his hands together in his lap. "I know, I'm just—"

"Nervous," you finish for him. "I get it."

"Aren't you?" he asks.

"There's no point in worrying," you answer, lying because you are worried. "It won't change the outcome."

Chris stares at you with pinched brows, seeming as though he wants to say more, but then Luis curses out loud in Spanish, flinging the newspaper and pen to the floor in a flutter of pages. "It is impossible," he whines, and you can see the hasty scribbles on the puzzle he was trying to solve—in pen.

You told him to use a pencil.

Rolling your eyes, you glance at Chris, sympathy filtering into your voice. "Is there anything I can do to help?" you ask.

"No," he replies quickly, and then, "I don't know. Maybe just talk?"

Pursing your lips, you find yourself wishing he hadn't said that—you and Chris don't exactly have the best track record of holding a conversation. Regardless, you exhale. "How's Claire doing?" you find yourself asking.

He blinks in surprise. "What?"

You flail your arms indignantly, not caring when your coffee sloshes over the rim of the cup onto the ground. "You asked me to talk, I'm talking—"

"I could talk?" Luis suggests with a sly grin.

"No," both you and Chris say in unison without even looking at him.

"Ugh, you people are no fun," he complains, grumbling as he bends over to pick up the discarded newspaper and pen to divert his efforts to the crossword instead.

"She's fine," Chris answers. "You would know that if you two just talked to each other."

Annoyance prickles up your spine, and you sink further into your seat, taking a begrudging sip of your drink. "And that's the end of that conversation," you mutter as you swallow the bitter liquid down with your irritation.

"Well, what else am I supposed to say?" he asks. "Neither of you will talk about whatever it is that happened between you—"

"Professional differences," you interject.

He sputters. "What is that even supposed to mean?"

As if by divine intervention, a knock on the door interrupts you, and one of the lab assistants peeks her head in. "The bloodwork report is ready if you'd like to review it," she tells you.

"Saved by the bell," Luis teases. As you walk by him, you snatch the newspaper from his hands, crumpling it and tossing it into the garbage as you leave the room. "Oy!" he cries out as the door slams shut behind you.

It's almost nine hours later, and you're sitting at your self-designated desk with your head in your hands, exhaustion grating against your eyelids like a cheese shredder. You're surprised your corneas aren't bleeding yet. When the door opens, you don't even look up, already knowing who it is from the steady, light footsteps. "Take a seat," you say.

"Sounds like I'm in trouble," Jill jokes as she plops into the chair next to you. You can tell by the tightness in her shoulders that she's nervous despite her genial tone.

With a sigh, you lean back, spinning around to face her. "Opposite actually," you say. "We've reviewed the findings from today, and there's been significant improvement with your physical and cognitive functioning."

"That's… good," she replies carefully, eyes studying yours like she's searching for the bad news she expects to be there.

"It's been recommended that we start taking the steps toward social reintegration," you say. "Dr. Shaw believes a slow reintroduction would be best—"

"Like a walk outside?" Jill offers, a hopeful glint in her eye. She's been cooped up in the headquarters for well over a month now—the lack of answers about long-term side effects and the volatility of her mood cited as the reasons. But with her lab results showing steady readings and progress in her therapy sessions, it's been agreed by all members of her medical team that she's ready for the next step.

"Yeah, like a walk outside," you say with a huff of laughter. "The idea is to start with a ten-minute walk and build from there. The higher-ups have insisted that you still be kept under watch, but you'll be allowed to take whoever you want with you so you're comfortable."

She doesn't even think for a moment, just asks, "How about just you and me?"

A tender feeling grows in your chest, and you nod, smiling. "Just you and me."

Steam fills the bathroom as you swipe a hand across the mirror, smearing the condensation in uneven streaks. Your skin is tinged red, evidence of the extra-long, hot shower you indulged in after the last several hours spent traversing the cold, damp streets of London, scouting areas for Jill's big day out tomorrow. There are several factors you need to be mindful of, including the distance from the B.S.A.A. Headquarters, how crowded the area is, and how easy it will be to secure the surrounding buildings, which proved to be a nightmare. Luckily, you found a nice, quiet area only a ten-minute walk away that Chris assured would be easy enough for him and his fellow agents to maintain a perimeter around, ensuring not only Jill's safety but also the safety of any civilians if something were to go wrong.

Wrapping yourself in a fluffy hotel towel—you've already made a mental note that one or two of these would be going home with you—you go about your after-shower routine: spreading lotions, serums, and oils onto various body parts until you look reminiscent of a glazed donut and smell just about as good as one. As you towel-dry your hair until it's damp and no longer dripping down your back, you walk out of the bathroom, shivering as the cooler air hits you. You walk over to the dresser, which you finally sorted your clothing into after living out of your suitcase for the first two weeks here, even spending a Saturday shopping after discovering you did indeed not pack enough socks, or pants, for that matter. Just as you're about to grab something comfortable to wear for bed, your phone starts to ring from where you have it charging on the nightstand.

Padding over, you pick it up, unplug it, and glance at the Caller I.D., your heart speeding up as Leon's name flashes across the screen. It's been a month since you last spoke, his mission running longer than anticipated after several setbacks, though you only know that thanks to Hunnigan, while Leon, unfortunately, was off-grid for the duration.

"Are you okay?" you ask as you answer, forgoing any normal greeting.

A laugh is your reply. "Hello to you, too," he says.

"Leon—"

"I'm fine," he assures. "Tired is all, but glad to finally be home."

Taking a seat on the edge of your bed, you keep the towel secure with one hand. "Wish I could say the same," you say.

He hums a noise of disappointment. "Cassie said they extended your stay."

"Keeping tabs on me?" you tease.

"As much as you were keeping tabs on me," he answers. "Don't think Hunnigan didn't tell me how you called her every day for like a week."

Your face flushes as you huff. "Where is her sense of loyalty?"

He lets out a bark of laughter. "She's my support operative!"

"I meant as women," you correct, smiling as you hear him laugh even more. "Sure you're okay, though?"

His voice gets softer. "Yeah, for how much shit hit the fan, I'm surprised I made it out of there with only a few scrapes and bruises," he says, and then, after a pause, "How much longer are they keeping you?"

"Another month," you reply. "Jill's made a lot of progress, and they're worried me leaving might hinder that."

"That doesn't seem fair," he says.

"I don't mind," you murmur. "I'd stay a whole year if it meant she makes a full recovery."

"I know," he acknowledges. "I just miss you."

Your mouth goes dry, and when you open it to force words out, you find none have formed on your tongue. Then you blink, and you're stuttering over yourself, the words slipping out in a messy rush. "O-oh, that's—well, yeah, you know, of course—yeah—" Sucking in a sharp breath, you try to calm your racing heart. "I miss you, too."

Several moments pass between the two of you, neither of you saying anything. "So what are you wearing?" he asks.

Blinking, you can't help the words that come out of your mouth. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

You can hear him sputtering on the other end. "Sorry, that was stupid," he says in a hurry. "Just a couple of the other guys were talking about how they deal with long-distance stuff and—" He coughs to cover up the way his voice cracks. "It's nothing, never mind, forget I said anything."

Gnawing your lip, you hate the uncomfortable silence that starts to build between the two of you. "A towel," you say in a soft tone.

"What?" he breathes.

"I'm wearing a towel," you clarify. "I just got out of the shower." On the other end, Leon inhales sharply, and you nervously toy with the towel's edge, skin prickling with apprehension, unsure whether you've said the wrong thing. This is an entirely new experience, but you're not an idiot; just as men apparently engage in locker room talk, so do women, and you've heard many a salacious tale before.

As a teenager, you were surrounded by older classmates in the back of a lecture hall, discussing their weekend exploits while your ears turned red at the vivid details being thrown around. At twenty-one, wide-eyed, you listened to another med student talk about how she was working as a sex phone operator to help pay off her student loans. Years spent in the offices of STRATCOM, nodding along in the break room as you tried to enjoy your lunch while coworkers regaled you with their latest conquests, with such specifics that you might as well have been in the room with them.

You're no stranger to vulgar conversation or discussions of the human body—you're a doctor, for Christ's sake—so you're not sure why you're feeling timid right now, especially since Leon has already seen you flipped and bent every which way. Biting the inside of your cheek, you force yourself to be bold—if you embarrass yourself, well, it wouldn't be the first or last time.

"Do you want me to take it off?" you ask, feigning a casual tone.

"Yes," is the immediate, breathless response.

The cool air in the hotel room pricks goosebumps along the newly exposed skin as you pull the towel away, or maybe it's Leon's groan when you ask him, "How do you want me?"

"Lay down," he orders, and faintly in the background you can hear the sound of a belt being undone. "On your back."

Obediently, you lay down, not caring about the pillow getting wet from your damp hair, far too concerned with the warmth pooling in your gut at the way his voice deepens with want. Towel tossed to the side, you cradle the phone with one hand, your other trailing down your breasts to your stomach, anticipatingly. "So, what are you wearing, Agent Kennedy?" you tease.

"Shut up," he murmurs, and you know his cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, but he answers you anyway, only a hint of petulance in his voice, "Not much anymore."

The image of him lying shirtless in bed conjures in your mind right away, jeans pushed down over his thick thighs as he palms his hardening cock over his briefs, a wet spot already forming from the precum. "Well, that's hardly fair," you say. For a moment, you wonder whether he would send you a picture if you asked for one, but you shake your head, your face heating up at the thought.

"Do you want fair or do you want me to fuck you?"

Thrill licks up your spine at the vulgarity, and your thighs clench together. "Is that what you're going to do?" you ask lowly. "Are you going to fuck me, Leon?"

He huffs. "You're always so mouthy." He says it like it's a complaint, but you know it's not.

"You've never complained about my mouth before," you needle, already knowing the reaction it will elicit. "In fact, I seem to remember you begging me to—"

He groans your name, cutting you off. "Fuck, don't bring that up," he says.

"Why not?" you hum, tracing unsteady circles on your stomach with your nail, leaving a soft tingle in its wake as you inch lower, guided by a self-restraint you weren't aware you had.

"'Cause all I'm going to be thinking about is your mouth now," he says.

Chuckling, your hand slides down, so tantalizingly close to the destination, but you're having far too much fun with the verbal foreplay to give in to temptation now. "You know, Leon, it sort of sounds like you want me to fuck you." A whine escapes from the back of his throat as he pants into the phone, and you can feel the slickness that pools in your core from the sound. You imagine him rubbing his clothed clock, chasing the same rhythm and pressure as when you climb into his lap and grind against him. "Is that what you want? I know how much you like me on top."

"Jesus," he gasps. "Sweetheart, you can't just say things like that—"

"Isn't that why you called?" you ask innocently, even as your fingertips skim over your exposed cunt, feather-light and noncommittal, as if testing the waters. "You said you missed me—so what do you miss more: my hand, my mouth, my cu—"

"You," he hastily interjects. "I just miss you."

You pause, mouth going dry as your insides swirl once more at the confession. There's a nagging part in the back of your head that urges you not to latch onto it, but you can't help yourself. "How much?" you ask, quieter than you intend, the confident facade fleetingly falling to the wayside.

"Been thinking about you every day." The words come out in a jumble, frantic and needy.

You like him like this. You've always enjoyed how pliant he can be, how a simple bat of your lashes and well-placed hand can make him melt for you. "Yeah?" you murmur, restraint slipping as you slide a single finger through your folds, brushing against your clit as you spread the wetness that's gathered there, causing you to let out a small whimper. "What have you been thinking about?"

"Fuck—" he chokes. "Been thinking about that; all the sweet noises you make. Can't get how you sounded when I had you spread out on the couch eating your pussy out of my head."

Biting your lip, you're reminded of the last time you and Leon were together over a month ago. He had your knees pushed up to your ears as he knelt in front of you on the couch, working in earnest to pull your third orgasm from you, your slick from the previous two dripping down his chin and neck as he pumped three thick fingers in and out of you. You were whimpering, so overstimulated, but far too greedy to tell him to stop, the band inside of you slowly twisting and pulling taut in a way that made your vision blur until it snapped and you were left gasping and writhing, Leon's name the only thing on your tongue as you came on his.

"Are you touching yourself?" he asks, pulling you from the memory, voice hoarse and strained.

"Is that what you would do if you were here?" you ask, fingers stalling where they are, waiting for his answer. "Touch me?"

"I'd do anything you ask," he answers, desperate enough that you believe him.

"What if I wanted you to touch yourself?" you question.

"W-what?" he stutters.

"What if I want to watch you get yourself off?" He stammers your name, as surprised by your boldness as you are. "You said anything, Leon."

He whimpers on the other end, and you can hear the shuffling of clothing, no doubt finally tugging himself free of his briefs. "Touch yourself—" He pauses, swallowing thickly. "Please."

Sliding your fingers through your core, you tease your entrance, breath hitching in your throat. "Now your turn," you say.

"Shit," he groans, deep and guttural. The sound goes straight to your pussy, as you work one finger in, surprised by how wet you are and the ease it slides in. As you moan, his own breathing turns heavy, swearing under his breath.

"You touching yourself?" you ask as you work another finger into your cunt.

"Mhm," he answers, a barely stifled whine. You think about how he might look, eagerly pumping his cock as he thinks about you, brows crinkling with concentration. "Wish I was buried in your pussy though." The confession pries a slight whimper from you that eggs him on. Just remembering how he stretches you open, you don't even mind the smugness in his voice as he continues, "You'd like that, too, huh? Being stuffed full of my cock?"

Thrusting a third finger inside, your legs fall apart, hopelessly chasing the feeling of fullness, but the angle is all wrong, and your fingers are a poor substitute for his, never mind comparing them to his cock and the way you can feel every inch of him as he ruts into you.

"Say it," he murmurs, less of an order and more of a hungry plea. "Need you to say it, please."

Any thoughts of teasing him further have vanished from your head, the ache between your legs too great to deny yourself or him any longer. "Wish you were here fucking me," you keen. "Want you so bad."

"Fuck," he whines. "Want you too. Nothing can compare."

You abandon your attempt to replicate the feeling of him inside you and instead focus on your clit, the pads of your fingers sliding through the abundance of slick that's gathered at your cunt to swirl messy circles that spiral you closer to the end so quickly you feel lightheaded. "Shit, I'm close."

"Me too," he moans. "Can't wait for you to get back home. Gonna spend hours eating that pussy and then fuck you until you can't walk—fuck." The picture he paints makes you press down harder onto your clit, your nerves on fire as you think about the feel of his hot mouth on you, not caring how depraved it may be to want nothing more than to have him take you every which way until you're so overstimulated you're crying.

"Ah, Leon," you gasp, abdomen seizing as your toes curl. Your vision goes spotty as the edges of the world close in, and all you can focus on are the steady waves of your orgasm rocking over you as you buck up into your hand, your fingers not stopping until you've worked yourself completely through it.

On the other end, Leon whimpers your name again and again as he cums. "Oh God," he whines. "Shit."

You lie boneless on the bed, the sound of your heart pounding in your ears syncing with Leon's heavy breathing through the speaker of the phone. "Was that okay?" he asks softly as he regains his bearings.

Nodding, you remember he can't see you and manage to choke out a faint, "Yeah." Your voice is hoarse, and you swallow thickly, coughing to clear your throat. "Yeah, that was great. Definitely going to sleep good tonight."

He chuckles tiredly. "Happy to be of service." After another pregnant pause, he says, "If you're staying another month, maybe I'll try to swing some vacation time."

Despite your body protesting, you sit up, stomach fluttering. "Yeah?" you ask, not caring if you sound eager or desperate.

"Yeah," he repeats, and you can tell he's smiling from the sound of his voice. "Told you, I miss you."

Gnawing the inside of your cheek, you gingerly admit without any fuss this time, "I miss you too."

It's an honest feeling—just not the one that's lingered at the tip of your tongue all these years.

"You sure you're okay?" you ask, glancing over at Jill. "We can go back if you're feeling overwhelmed."

Frowning, she shakes her head, shoving her hands into the pockets of her flimsy sweatshirt. She refused the coat you insisted on, saying she would rather be cold than stuffed into a coat, sweating and overstimulated from anxiety. "I'm fine," she insists, despite the way you see her shoulders bunching up toward her ears. "We're only two minutes in."

"Two minutes is still something," you say. "It's alright if you're not ready yet."

"I am ready," she argues, tone rising for a moment before she pauses and takes a deep, calming breath. "Just… talk about something else."

"I—Like what?" you ask.

She huffs exasperatedly at you. "I don't know, like what's got you in such a good mood this morning," she says. "What did you get laid last night?"

You sputter, feeling a flush crawl up your cheeks, and she whips her head around to stare at you with wide, scrutinizing eyes.

"Did you get laid last night?"

"Well—" God, now you're feeling stuffed and overstimulated in your coat. "Sort of."

"Sort of?" she spits incredulously. "How do you sort of get laid?"

"It was phone sex," you mutter, peering down and away from her to avoid her observant gaze, maybe hoping she didn't quite hear you and would maybe, by some miracle or divine intervention, change subjects entirely.

Instead, she gawks at you. "Phone sex?" she loudly repeats, garnering the attention of several passersby in the street.

"Jill!" you hiss. "We're in public!"

"Yeah, and I didn't know my best friend was such a little minx!" she teases as she goes to pinch your side, laughing as you swat her hand. "So, who's the lucky guy?" Tossing her hands up and waving them frantically as you open your mouth, she briskly interjects. "Wait, don't tell me—it's Leon." When you purse your lips and stare forward, she laughs. "C'mon, you guys have been—what's Claire say, 'goo goo for gaga' for each other for years now."

"Yeah," you halfheartedly agree.

She furrows her brows. "What?" she asks, coming to a stop on the sidewalk, and when you go to keep walking, she grabs your arm, stopping you in your tracks. "Hey, it's me. What's wrong?"

Sighing, you look at her. "We're not really… anything."

"What are you talking about?" she asks.

"I mean, we're not anything—we're friends," you say. "… Who sometimes have sex often."

She crosses her arms, observant eyes scanning your face. "And are you happy with only being friends?" she asks.

"I don't know," you say noncommittally. "But I would rather have him as friends than not at all."

She sighs. "But are you happy?"

You're quiet for a long time, staring at a puddle on the ground like it's the most interesting thing in the world, feeling very much like the gnarled, waterlogged leaves barely floating at the surface. "I'm not sure if I know how to be happy."

Jill says your name softly, looping her arm through yours and thankfully continuing the walk. "Maybe you should try therapy," she suggests. "I mean, look at me, only going a little crazy on a super casual walk with my best friend."

"I don't need a therapist, Jill," you say with a roll of your eyes.

She scoffs. "What if I said that to you, huh? Told you I didn't think I knew how to be happy and then said I didn't need a therapist? You'd kick my ass all the way to the psych ward." You purse your lips and shoot her an irritated look, one she promptly ignores. "You know I'm right. You're the first person to offer help to others when they're in need, but the moment you are, you think you're—I don't know, unworthy of it or something."

That hits you somewhere deep in your chest. "I don't know, Jill," you murmur.

She tugs you closer. "I won't push you," she says. "But you know when I was being a grumpy bitch about having to go to therapy, Dr. Shaw asked me if I wanted to get better." Her voice softens as she recalls the memory. "She told me I could attend all of the sessions, go through all of the motions, but if I didn't want to get better, it was never going to work." Looking over at you, you feel like you're twenty-one all over again, being seen for the first time as the kind S.T.A.R.S. member tells you how impressive you are as you patch her up—not in a demeaning or condescending way you were used to, but earnest and sincere. "Do you want to get better?" she asks.

A lump forms in your throat and silence is your answer. She tries not to let herself frown; instead, she nods with understanding, and just in time, your watch beeps, signaling an end to the ten minutes.

A foul mood descends on you over the next two weeks. If anyone notices your change in demeanor, they don't comment on it, but that doesn't mean you don't see the concerned glances Luis sends you or hear Jill and Chris whispering about you when they think you can't hear them.

You're not even sure why it feels like a dark cloud is hanging over you.

It all comes to a head one night as you're lying in bed in the throes of a fitful sleep. Sheets tangled around your body, drenched in sweat as you toss and turn. An empty wine bottle sits on your nightstand, the glass that was brought up with it untouched.

You're dreaming.

You know you're dreaming because you're back in Raccoon City, and you watched them drop a bomb on the place. But here you are, standing in the R.P.D., staring down at Jill, who lies motionless on the floor, black veins spreading from the puncture wound on her shoulder. She doesn't have long, but the hospital is so far away, and Carlos is nowhere to be found.

But you're dreaming, you remind yourself.

The details are wrong. You didn't find Jill here; you found her a mile away in an alley, wearing your burgundy scrubs, not the oversized T-shirt you went to bed in. As you look around, you try to spot anything else amiss, as if finding enough would wake you from this dream. Instead, your eyes land on an empty chair.

That's where you left Marvin. It's still covered in his blood from the wound you treated on his abdomen, the viscous liquid fresh and glistening in the warm light of the station.

"You're dreaming," you whisper to yourself as fear begins to spread through you like a thick, creeping frost settling into the hollow part of you and freezing you in place. You want to move—you try to—but your body won't cooperate as panic crawls up your throat. "Jill," you call out to her, trying to keep your voice steady. "You have to wake up." The infection continues to spread, black veins branching out every which way beneath her deathly pale skin. Then, she begins to shake, her body convulsing as foam gathers at her mouth. You're left to watch in horror, unable to move even an inch toward her. "Wake up!" you shout at her—at yourself. "Wake up!"

Abruptly, hands, cold and calloused, cover your eyes from behind, but you can't move, forced to stand still as a voice nearly lost to the confines of your memories whispers in your ear—it's full of pain and resignation. "I told you to save yourselves, why did you come back?"

"Marvin," you gasp.

He drags you backward, and for a moment, you feel like you're underwater, weightless and floating, until hands, tender and careful, smooth over your cheeks and you realize your eyes are closed. Cautiously, they flutter open, and a kind face greets you, one you thought you would never see again. "Dr. McKay—" You choke on the name.

The woman who taught you what it meant to be a doctor—a good doctor.

She smiles at you, and it makes you feel warm, chasing the cold from your bones. You want to live in this feeling. "I gave you a fighting chance," she coos. You focus on her crow's feet and the way her hair curls against her temple. So many details you never knew you kept track of, but you're glad you did. You don't even realize her hand has wrapped around your neck until it squeezes, and you gape, mouth floundering open as you desperately try to inhale. Her features crumple with disbelief and sadness and rage as tears flood her waterline. "And you wasted it!"

When her hand leaves your throat, you don't even have time to relish the air filling your lungs as she shoves you with trembling hands. Stumbling, you lose your footing, teetering until you hit the floor with a hard thud, wincing. When you open your eyes, you realize you're staring up at a sky, gray storm clouds rolling in as thunder rumbles in the distance, the first droplets of rain beginning to fall, plopping all on the ground beside you.

"So, have you?" A smooth voice asks, and your gaze shifts to the person you didn't realize is standing there.

"Ada," you murmur as though she's a wonder.

As she glances down, her stare meets yours, and the line between sympathy and apathy blurs along the soft edges of her face. Even as she crouches next to you and presses the muzzle of her gun to your forehead, her finger hovering over the trigger, you can't tell whether she really intends to pull it.

She considers you with a tip of her chin. "Have you changed?"

The answer tumbles out of your mouth before you can think about it because it's one you believe to be true: "Yes."

A frown tugs at her lips like you've disappointed her. "Pity," she mutters and squeezes the trigger.

A flash of white blinds you, a loud bang ringing in your ears. Faintly, you hear your name being called, and without warning, you're standing. It's a jarring experience, to be on the ground one second and standing the next, but familiar hands reach out to steady you.

A young Leon Kennedy stands in front of you, dressed in his R.P.D. uniform. You stagger away, wide-eyed, though he doesn't let you leave his orbit. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he jokes, his voice higher—lighter—than it is now.

Now—you're dreaming, you remember.

But Leon is standing in front of you, looking at you as though you're something precious, and you think maybe this isn't so bad a dream.

"You're—"

You reach up, fingertips hesitating to brush against his cheeks, youth still clinging to them. When you don't close the distance, the smile falls off his face. "I'm what?" he asks. Blinking, you try to retreat, but his fingers dig into your shoulders, keeping you in place. He says your name, a dangerous edge to it as he draws you closer, tilting his head as he looks down at you. "Tell me what I am," he demands, shaking you. "C'mon, tell me something!"

You try to push him, palms pressing to his chest, but he only spins you in a dizzying flurry, and as he does, you realize you're standing in the middle of a labyrinth of mirrors. Each of them reflects every single version of Leon you've known over the last decade, and they're all watching you, repeating again and again, "Tell me, tell me, tell me."

"Stop," you beg, fists pounding against him as you try to pry yourself from his grip.

"Not until you tell me!" he screams, and slams you into the mirror behind you.

Startled, you glance over your shoulder and meet eyes with Leon—your Leon—and he looks at you so sadly as the surface of the mirror begins to crack and splinter, cutting through his visage.

"Leon," you whisper, reaching a hand out, pressing it against the cold surface, and when he reaches back, you swear you can feel the warmth of his skin. Then, the mirror shatters, bursting open, and you scarcely have time to cover your face as broken pieces fly past you.

The continuous, unbroken tone of a flatline on a heart monitor rings through your ears, vibrating straight through to your molars. The distinct smell of antiseptic and death coils through your nose, and you wonder for a moment where you've ended up.

"Time of death, 8:13 A.M."

Slowly, you pull your hands away. Around you, the nurses give you sympathetic looks as the doctor smooths the sleeve of his white coat back over his shiny, expensive watch. Your brother stands from the chair beside you. You call his name, your voice tired and broken, sounding younger than you ever remember feeling, but he ignores you, walking out of the room without a word, leaving you sitting there.

"Is there anyone you want us to call, hun?" one of the nurses asks as she lays a compassionate hand on your shoulder. She's always been so nice to you, and you've always appreciated that kindness. When you say nothing, she smiles sadly, tenderly smoothing the hair back from your forehead. "We'll give you some time, okay?"

Soon after, they all file out, leaving you to stare at your father's dead body.

He's skin and bones; the disease that has been eating away at him has left him unrecognizable from the monster who used to loom so large in your nightmares. Even still, even now, you look at him like he might lash out at you—you're a rabbit in the jaws of a snake, the venom taking hold, waiting with bated breath for it to deal the killing blow.

But something came along and cut the head off the snake before it could.

When he found out he was sick, you thought for a long time you would feel relief when he died. Instead, you're left with venom coursing through your veins, angry that you are meant to suffer even further. It's bubbling up inside of you, burning you from the inside out the longer you stare at his peaceful face.

"Painless," the doctor assured when they administered the morphine. "He won't feel a thing."

But you? You felt everything.

You felt your skin bruise under his vice grip as he dragged you through the house, knowing you would have to wear long sleeves the next few weeks to cover them up.

You felt the bite of his steel-toed boot against your ribs as he kicked you again and again, leaving you a bloody mess on the floor as you tried to crawl to the perceived safety of your bed.

You felt his spit on your face as he held you up against the wall by the throat and yelled at you until your eyes were swollen shut from crying so hard.

You felt the burn on your scalp as he grabbed you by the hair and slammed your nose into the bookshelf the one time you dared to fight back.

And now? Now you want to feel nothing. You don't want the relief, or the sadness, or even the anger. Nothing is preferable—nothing doesn't fester and rot you from the inside out for days, weeks, months, years, decades. Nothing doesn't burrow into your bones, suffocating you as it weighs you down. Nothing doesn't make you look in the mirror and wonder who it is staring back at you.

Instead, you're left to carry everything. The pain, the fear. Every single memory steeped in blood and battered in bruises. That's your inheritance, the legacy left to you. It is a rotten tree that bears no fruit.

The smell of Marlboro Red hits you like a kick to the teeth as a deep chuckle echoes from behind you. Still, you stare ahead, teeth clenched as the base of your skull throbs. A shadow falls over you, growing and morphing into every monster you've faced, every nightmare you've fought. You feel yourself begin to shake, nostrils flaring as you grimace. Then it ultimately settles into a form, a tall, imposing silhouette you're intimately familiar with.

"You're never getting rid of me now," your father jeers, rough hands grabbing you by the shoulders.

Only then do you scream.

It's early in the morning, just before dawn, and streaks of pink and orange begin to bleed across the bruised canvas of the eastern sky. The quiet of the night will gradually give way to the bustle of day, but for now there is placid stillness, broken only by the first birdsong and the churning of water in the river below.

Jill is next to you, the two of you standing shoulder to shoulder on a bridge watching the sunrise. You take it all in, not glossing over any details. How liquid gold begins to pour through the streets, warm and welcoming, chasing away the harsh, cold dark, or the way the water glistens and glitters, spokes of light erupting at the surface.

"Pretty," Jill murmurs as she tugs her sweatshirt tighter around her, inching closer to you and your body heat as a chill bites through the air.

"Yeah," you find yourself agreeing.

It's beautiful.

That realization plunges into your chest and settles there, though you don't yet know what to make of it. Instead of ruminating, though, you focus on what's in front of you. "Hey, Jill," you murmur, staring ahead. She lets out a thoughtful noise, and you both turn to look at each other. You're struck by the sight of her bathed in the glow of the rising sun. She is here and alive. Alive, you remind yourself—you're alive, too. You've survived; the both of you have, but now comes the hard part.

The look of doubt he cast at her when she confirmed she wanted the mark of Mythal, she pretended not to notice. She spent months in contemplation, hours in meditation, and in the end, she saw a great tree looming over her. Its limbs stretched out far and wide, a lush canopy that offered protection to anyone who might need it.

Her past failures haunt her—a guilt so profound that it gives way to a grief turned sour; a rage that she thinks she may never outgrow. But if she is to carry all of this anger inside, she might find a way to give it purpose.

She wants to protect.

Despite Keeper Talas’s doubts, Iona sat still like a stone during the ritual, and when it was done, Rhion was the one who quietly congratulated her.

The Keeper’s First is kind to her—kinder than she thinks she deserves. She is a starved dog biting the hand that feeds, with misplaced anger that burns and singes anyone who dares to get close enough. But even when she barks, and barks, and barks, wanting—hoping—for him to strike back, she’s met only with a tender, understanding hand instead.

It is customary for those who have received the rite to remain under the Keeper’s watch so that their fresh vallaslin can be cared for. Beyond the thick curtain in the Keeper's aravel, they speak in hushed whispers to one another.

As quiet as they are, Iona can still hear them. “She did well,” Rhion comments lowly. Keeper Talas only hums in reply; it is disapproving, and she is not surprised that Rhion picks up on it. “Do you not think so, Amelan?”

“I am only surprised she chose to bear the mark of Mythal, da’len,” Keeper Talas replies, carefully. He would be a fool not to notice the way his First is taken with the young hunter, and even if he strongly disapproved of it, the will of youth would scratch and claw against the steady hand of guidance. “That girl’s rage is more befitting of Elgar’nan than the All-Mother.”

Iona’s nostrils flare, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes that she refuses to let fall as she gazes up at the ceiling of the aravel. It isn’t the first time Keeper Talas has spoken harshly about her, nor will it probably be the last, but it still hurts just as much every time. To have the person who pulled her from her mother’s body, who cradled her as she was red-faced and screaming, think such things about her.

Although she can’t see Rhion’s face, she senses him frown, and he goes silent, as if he were pondering the Keeper’s words. “Perhaps she wishes to be more than her rage.”

She blinks, and the tears break free of the dam. Her breath hitching up into her chest as her heart swells as his words ring in her ears.

“Perhaps she wishes to be more than her rage.”

Keeper Talas lets out a resigned laugh, full of disbelief and doubt. “Mythal make it so.”

Her eyes scrunch close, and she inhales deeply, trying to will the sobs that threaten to start away, but her chest threatens to cave in under the pressure.

“Perhaps she wishes to be more than her rage.”

She gasps, hands coming up to her mouth to muffle the cry. Tears gather in her eyes quicker than they fall, and her vision blurs. The salt burns at her fresh vallaslin, but the pain is nothing to her.

“Perhaps she wishes to be more than her rage.”

The curtain opens, and Rhion moves around the cot where she lies, holding a jar of salve. He doesn't speak, not commenting on her tears or the sobs that start to hiccup out of her. Gently, he takes her hands away from her face, presses his lips to her knuckles, and carefully wipes her face before dabbing the ointment onto her vallaslin with a tenderness she has not experienced in a long while.

She doesn’t flinch, even though it hurts, and stares up at him with tear-filled eyes, lower lip trembling. The warmth in his gaze burns more softly than her rage—it is the rays of light peeking over the horizon, the promise that the sun will rise to chase away the shadows of night.