solynacea writes

The problem, Jill has learned, is that she doesn’t handle being idle well. Her entire life has been spent working towards goal after goal after goal, sometimes her own and sometimes someone else’s, and the last decade was one of constant motion. Training in the military, training with Delta Force, rescue operations with her team. Even in what little downtime she had, she was filing reports or following up on leads, so this nothingness is nearly intolerable. How many reruns of the same four shows is she expected to watch? 

At least she’s had time to work through grief, she supposes. Losing Brad, Mikhail, and then Tyrell had left her numb when she wasn’t furious, and that doesn’t even begin to cover the nameless emotion that had twisted her up at the loss of so many innocent lives. If they ever let her out of here, the first thing she’s going to do is hunt Wesker down and put a bullet between his eyes, and maybe one in his black heart just for good measure.

The space from Carlos has been welcome, which is the one small gratitude she can find it within herself to begrudgingly show. Jill has a history of bad relationships, ones that burned too quick and fell apart just as fast, and the last thing she wants is to fall into the same pattern with a guy who’d been nothing but kind to her and put his life on the line to save her ass. So a fortnight to really mull over what she feels as far as he’s concerned was a blessing. Hell, she’d even drawn up one of those lists her friends in high school used to make, the ones where you wrote down all the good and bad possibilities and weighed them out. It had been a short one, not surprising considering how little she really knows about him, but the good had outnumbered the bad. 

He’s earnest, loyal, quick-witted, good-humored, respectful, and brave, not to mention the goofy grin or the ass that looked killer in his black fatigues. Downsides: former convicted criminal, worked for Umbrella, and her knowledge of his life wouldn’t fill the palm of her hand. More pros, but the few cons that she does have are pretty big ones.

Still, she finds that she misses his company as the days drag on. Jill knows he’s probably just as restless as she is when it comes to being cooped up, no matter how nice the room might be, and there’s a part of her that thinks that this time would pass easier if she had him to share it with. Were she more inclined towards being a sap, she might even go so far as to say he’s the only friend she has left in the country. She’s not, but the sentiment remains. Close calls with death make for fast friends, and she’s not about to look this particular gift horse in the mouth for too long.

Not when the amount of people she can trust is less than the fingers on a hand.

Their first day out of Raccoon City had been spent in a temporary camp set up by the Red Cross. Both of them were bruised and battered and suffering from the effects of the shockwave the bomb let off; Jill had a nasty case of whiplash, while Carlos had fractured a few ribs when it knocked him against his harness. Between the medics bustling in and out to check on them and the general mayhem of trying to figure out where they were going to go, there hadn’t been much time for speaking. And despite that—despite her fatigue and his pain and the fact that neither of them slept much for the next forty-eight hours—he’d never left her side. He wasn’t much help when it came to moving things, mainly because the medics tore him a new one whenever he tried, but his company kept her from sinking into a deep depression. When they’d been separated at the hotel, he raised enough hell for the both of them. It was only the repeated reassurance that it was just temporary that finally had him quieting down, and his open care for her touched Jill in a way she wasn’t expecting.

While the officers watching them wouldn’t play messenger, they did bring news back and forth. Carlos’ ribs hadn’t been fractured, it turned out, just bruised and incorrectly diagnosed by an overworked volunteer without an x-ray machine. He was doing fine and, yes, his blood work was coming up clean with every test. Yes, he’d asked about her. No, he didn’t seem happy, but he was at least comfortable, and had taken to joking with his assigned watchers when his mood was cheery enough.

Eighteen days after the destruction of Raccoon City, Jill asks to see him. With the initial fear gone, she has taken to analyzing again and again every step she and the rest of her team took to get to right here, and nothing can keep her from feeling guilty. Guilty for not recognizing the danger, guilty for trusting the wrong people . . . all those lives lost feel heavy on her shoulders, especially since she survived. So the least she can do is make sure Carlos is okay. Two days after that, when the officers decide they’ve taken enough blood and she’s unlikely to be carrying a live strain of the virus—and so can’t infect anyone else—she’s told that they’ll bring him by the next morning. 

"Did you know each other?" the officer asks as she takes her vitals.

"Not before this," Jill admits. "I just want to make sure he's okay."

The officer nods. "It's hard not to feel responsible for the people we save, isn't it?"

Jill agrees, but can't help but wonder: did she save him, or did he save her?

Later she asks for a razor and shaving cream. The kid dropping off her lunch gives her a funny look, but she says it's just for comfort. It has nothing to do whatsoever with seeing Carlos. It frustrates her at first, the age-old idea that a man and woman can’t be close if they’re not fucking, but then it makes her laugh because, hell, she knows she won’t say no if he asks. Which he might. Not that she would ever ask. Maybe. Probably not.

She goes to bed with the three weeks of stubble gone, delighting in the small pleasure of how soft the sheets feel against her smooth legs. Shaving had always been utilitarian for her, done once or twice a month when her uniform pants started to tug uncomfortably, and she’d almost forgotten the little thrill of dolling up a bit for a lover. The thought gives her pause. Is that what Carlos is? Is that what she wants him to be?

Jill draws a picture of him in her mind’s eye. It’s his grin that comes first, a little crooked and, when paired with those soulful brown eyes of his, a little reminiscent of a pup looking for affection. That leads to his lips, soft and just the right side of full and surrounded by a neatly-trimmed beard that would probably scrape nicely over her skin if he kissed her. Her body quickens, grows warm. She rolls onto her side and presses her knees together as a dull ache pulses between her legs; coupled with the fluttering in her chest, she feels like a schoolgirl dreaming of her crush.

That makes her smile a little. Sure, the world’s gone to hell and everything is shit, and here she is wondering what his mouth would feel like if he buried his head between her thighs. It’s normal, and it makes her feel like maybe things will be alright as long as they’re together.

Every knock on her door the next day has her nerves jumping. It’s just the routine things—personnel coming in to check her vitals or bring her meals—and she feels more and more ridiculous each time. When one of them comes to grab the dinner cart from her room, she stops him and asks what the hell is taking so long. The officer laughs a little, tells her to wait and see, and then disappears into the hall and leaves her standing in front of her little table with a frown. Trying to keep herself occupied, she moves about and tidies up, hiding things in closets or drawers and straightening the bed until everything is gleaming.

Wouldn’t want him to think I’m a slob, she muses, and then snorts.

Finally, at a quarter past eight, there’s a knock before a keycard clicks in the door and Carlos steps inside. He looks good dressed in civvies, the black t-shirt clinging to his broad chest and the sweatpants hanging just low enough on his hips to be delicious, his hair still damp from a shower. She stares at him, her heart jackhammering in her chest and her throat tight. His gaze locks on hers and there are so many things swirling there, some of them she recognizes and some of them she doesn’t, and the air between them grows thick, heavy.

Then she’s moving and he meets her halfway. He grabs her, those strong arms curling around her back, and she laughs when he lifts her off her feet in a hug so tight that it almost hurts. Jill doesn’t care; she grips the collar of his shirt and presses her cheek to his, breathing in cologne and soap and the cheap scent of his aftershave. His head turns, lips whispering along her jaw.

Before it goes any further, he sets her gently on her feet, though he doesn’t let her go. “Hey, supercop.”

“Oliveira,” she replies.

“Sorry it took so long. Couldn’t get a razor for damn near four hours, and then dinner was late and the health check dragged on and on, and they kept askin’ shit about handcuffs and—”

She finds her grin growing the longer he goes. “Sounds like a rough time,” she says.

He chuckles, and they smile at one another for a long moment. Jill tries not to check him out, but it is really, really hard; the clothes that don't fit exactly right do show off just how good looking he is. She stares into his eyes, admiring the long lashes and kindness in them. It's a rare thing to see: people like them, who end up on the front lines, often get jaded from all the death and destruction. But she can tell Carlos isn't that way, and his expression almost speaks to her, saying you're safe with me.

Jill swallows a bit uncomfortably, not really sure how to be on the receiving end of that. But Carlos is openly admiring her, which only makes her face grow a bit hot. "You look good," he comments softly.

"Do I?" she chuckles.

"Yeah. Glad that they took good care of you. I was worried."

Her chest tightens a little at that. "I was worried about you too."

Carlos' lips curl upwards at her confession. "You already eat?”

“Mm-hm. Slop and slop.” Jill smooths a hand over his chest, telling herself it’s just to wipe away the wrinkles she’d caused in his shirt. “Better than what we got in Delta Force, but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t kill for a steak.”

“I know a place.”

The offer hangs between them. Startled by it, she peers up into his face to get a read on how he’s feeling, and the only thing she sees there is earnestness. It shakes her, brings to mind the emotions of the night before, and her cheeks heat. “Yeah?” She licks her lips, trying to sound light-hearted. “Lemme guess, pool tables in the back and cheap beer?”

“Hey, I like cheap beer!” he protests with a laugh. “Pitcher for five bucks, can’t really beat that.”

“Sounds like you’re asking me on a date, Oliveira. You sweet on me?”

It’s a genuine question hidden beneath a taunt, and the way his lips twitch comes as a relief because it means he’s just as nervous as she is. “Maybe I am. Kickass supercop with killer aim? You’re a lady after my own heart.”

“That why it’s beating so hard?” 

He looks at her silently, his brows a little pinched, and she wants to reach up and smooth away the crease there. Wants to kick herself, too, because while the teasing and shared glances and all that other shit could have been played off, swept under the rug, she’s just shoved both of them well beyond the point of no return. If she’s read this wrong, she’s going to sour a friendship she’s terrified of losing. And if she’s read it right, and he gives any sort of affirmative response, well . . . there’s only one way to go from there.

His answer comes in a way she isn’t expecting. Carlos cups the back of her head, threading his fingers softly through her hair, and she closes her eyes as he leans down and his breath puffs across her cheek. He hesitates, his nose grazing hers. She’s fairly certain that she might have a heart attack soon with how hard her pulse is racing and, not wanting him to back away, not wanting to lose his warmth, she closes the gap and seals her mouth over his. 

Soft and slightly chapped, his lips fit perfectly with her own; she sucks on the lower one, teasing its plumpness with her teeth and using her tongue to soothe away the sting, drawing a low groan from his throat. It’s like striking a match. Carlos comes alive, crushing her to his chest as he tugs at her lips, and she can feel him through his sweats as their hips rub together. Jill clutches his shoulders to anchor herself, her knees going weak when his tongue fills her mouth. She’s drowning in him, just like she wanted to, his strong body dwarfing and surrounding her like a cage she never wants to leave. His kiss is almost desperate, his touch feverish as he slips his hand beneath her shirt to feel her skin. She reacts to it, that ache blooming again when his beard scratches her just as she’d hoped it would.

Her hands fumble with the hem of his shirt as his mouth drags from her lips to her jaw, nipping and sucking and sending little pinpricks of pleasure up her spine. She needs to touch him, to map out with her fingers and tongue the body teased beneath his clothes. A frustrated huff leaves her when she gets the fabric no higher than his chest, and Carlos draws away long enough to yank it over his head before returning to her throat. 

Yet when she digs her nails into the firm planes of his back, he pauses. “You sure ‘bout this, Jill?”

The use of her name is enough to cut through the haze. “If I wasn’t, I’d have kicked your ass a long time ago.”

“Yeah, yeah, I just—”

She steps back, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him back until the edge of the bed digs into his knees and he’s forced to sit. “I’m sure. You want to leave, now’s your chance.”

Carlos studies her, then shakes his head with a small smile. “Nah. I’m good. More than, actually.”

“Good.”

With his eyes on her, she peels her tank top off. There’s no bra beneath—mainly because she hated wearing one when all she was doing was lounging around—and his gaze drops immediately to her breasts, his lips parting when she thumbs her nipples. But when he reaches for her, she smacks his hands away. “Nu-uh. Not yet.”

He shifts a bit, though he mumbles, “Yes ma’am.”

When she’s certain he’s not going to disobey, she hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her own sweats and shimmies them down over her hips. Nothing under them, either, and she delights in the way his cheeks darken and his fingers curl into the sheets as he grunts; it’s been a long time since someone wanted her so badly, and it makes her feel powerful. More so when she braces a knee on the bed so she’s kneeling over him and his throat bobs with a heavy swallow, and when she places a hand on his shoulder and leans in to graze her lips over the shell of his ear and he damn near whines.

“I want your mouth, Carlos. Here,” she takes one of his wrists and guides it until he’s palming her breast, “and here,” and she drags it down to cup her sex. “Can you do that for me?”

He strokes her folds—a stolen touch—before splaying his fingers between her shoulders and drawing her towards him. He teases her, pressing light kisses to the curve of her breast, the edge of her nipple, and then he opens his mouth and sucks the bud between his lips, and she arches her back to feed him her body. There’s no gentleness. Carlos suckles with the quick, sharp tugs that drive her wild, his tongue rolling over her sensitive flesh. Her nipples tighten, grow tender. And when he takes the nub between his teeth and gives a careful pull, heat flares from her head to her feet.

A minute ticks by as he sucks on her skin. Jill's head falls back with a sigh, turning her pleasure over to him. The hand between her legs stays still, his palm simply pressed against her as his mouth works on her breast. She can feel her arousal slipping from her body, wetting his palm and making his touch silky. But still he doesn't move, leaving her with a dull throb that grows the more he tugs her nipple.

"Carlos . . ." she whispers.

"Damn you're so hot." His words come out as hot puffs of air on her skin as he drags his mouth to her other breast. "So fucking hot. Fuck. God damn it—"

"Carlos!" she laughs, gripping his locks and giving him a tug. He looks up in a bit of a daze and she smiles. Jill leans down to tug on his mouth with her own, just as her other hand presses against the one between her legs. Carlos groans as she rocks her hips, rubbing her body along his fingers. "Please don't make me wait," she whispers.

He flips her onto her back, making Jill yelp a laugh in surprise. "You got it," he says, leaning over to plant a kiss to her lips as he opens her thighs. He trails his mouth downwards, along the column of her throat, over the curve of her breast, making her stomach twitch when he drags his teeth on her navel. Then down, pressing kisses over her mons until he slides his hands along the backs of her thighs and spreads her open, using his thumbs to gently open her hood as his mouth finds her clit.

Jill arches on the bed with a gasp, drawing her knees up and apart. His mouth is exactly like him, bold and strong. His tongue dips into her opening before sliding back to her pearl, and Jill grips the bed sheets to keep from bucking against his mouth. It’s been forever since she’s done this, and she realizes just how much she’s wanted someone. Not just someone, but him.

Carlos sucks on her body for a moment before glancing upwards. “This okay?”

“Carlos!” she whines. “Christ, don’t stop!”

He gives a little chuckle that has her letting go a huff of amused frustration. “No problem, just checking.”

“Just come here.” 

She looks down and tugs on his arm, and with a grin he slides back up her body, leaning over with his forearms braced on the mattress. “You need something?”

“Stop,” she laughs, dragging her hands along his chest. “You know what I need.”

“Yeah, I think I do.” He presses his mouth to her neck as he moves one hand to her body, dragging his palm along her torso until he can press it to her breast. She wraps her arms around him, kissing him back as she slides her thighs along his sides. They continue like this, kissing lazily as they caress one another, as her breathing goes back to something a bit more normal.

But that does nothing to stop the throb now in her core. “Still want to do this?” he murmurs against her cheek.

“Absolutely,” she replies. 

He pushes up to stand, and Jill slides back against the pillows as she watches him pull the string on his sweats. Carlos tugs them down with a teasing jerk of his hips, and she presses her lips together to keep herself from laughing. The rest of his body is just how she had pictured it: tanned skin, solid muscle, and her eyes go immediately to the trail of dark curls and his erection beneath. 

He surprises her by pulling a condom from his pants pocket before tossing them away. “Did you really come prepared?” she asks, bursting into laughter.

“I was a Boy Scout. We’re always prepared.” Her mouth is nearly watering as she watches him open the package, and then roll the condom down his thick length. “Luckily one of the guards had a few to spare.”

Carlos climbs back on the bed as she spreads her legs to accommodate him, giving him a narrow gaze. “So you expected this, hm?”

“Expected? No. Wanted? Hell yes.” He presses a firm kiss to her lips as his hand glides along her thigh. “Since the second I saw you.”

Jill murmurs her agreement, her arms going around his shoulders as he sinks into her. From the moment he saw her? She had to admit the same: ever since meeting Carlos, it seemed inevitable, that no matter what happened she was going to end up wanting him. He thrusts slowly, his kiss on her neck just as greedy as it is reverent. Her legs lock around him as she cards her hands through his tousled hair, letting him take the lead, enjoying the sounds that escape him and the way his arms and shoulders flex with each roll of his hips. 

Not that there is a cafeteria, at least not that she can find. While Carlos had taken care of the infected and mutants, leaving her path relatively clear, the journey is no less fruitless. Almost every door is sealed behind a keypad or keycard terminal, and those that aren’t are barricaded from within, leaving her with nowhere else to go but deeper into the hospital. At one hall, gouges run deep into the drywall and the metal doors are ripped from their hinges. A pile of debris barrs her way; when a low, rasping growl resounds from somewhere far beyond it, she quickly moves on. Could just be some pipes, but she’d rather not stick around to find out.

Not when her mouth still tastes like rot.

Not when her vision is still blurry.

Not when death is still looming over her shoulder.

Fucking Umbrella.

Following the only path that she can leads her to a set of electronically locked doors. Unlike the others, however, the keypad’s light is blinking green, so she pushes against it with her shoulder and keeps her hand on the butt of her gun in case there’s something nasty lurking on the other side. Yet the room—a laboratory of some sort—is remarkably immaculate in comparison to the rest of the hospital: a few papers and folders litter the floor, and the lights do not work, but the walls are clear of damage. The only thing out of place is the corpse slumped in a swivel chair with blood pooling beneath the wheels, its expression one of furious terror. A robbery? In the middle of the goddamn apocalypse? Jill snorts as she steps fully inside. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

Her cop instincts have her checking the body first. An ID tag pinned to the label of his coat reads Dr. Nathaniel Bard, Research & Virology, and the small photograph matches the man’s face as it probably was five or so years ago. The computer behind him is useless thanks to a bullet hole in the middle of the screen, but a low beeping draws her attention to the back of the lab. She finds another terminal there next to a door marked Restricted Access; accessing it pulls up a list of emails between Dr. Bard and a senator full of increasingly desperate pleas for rescue and promises of a cure for the virus ravaging Raccoon City.

Her brows pinch as she reads the messages again and again. Then she pulls the radio from her belt and turns it on. “Tyrell, you there?”

A crackle of static. “What’s going on, Valentine?”

“I’m in Dr. Bard’s lab. Guess he made a vaccine, but I don’t see it anywhere.” Jill pauses to take a deep breath, her next question setting a pit in the depths of her stomach. “Don’t see a recipe or guidelines to replicate one, either. So how did Carlos manage to make it and give it to me?”

“He didn’t,” Tyrell replies flatly.

“Well, I’m not trying to bite the shit out of you, so he—”

“Don’t get me wrong, he injected you with the cure.” There’s a long pause before Tyrell sighs. “There was a vaccine in the lab, off in the restricted section. Carlos grabbed it and used it on you. Guess Nikolai missed it on his way through. Saved your ass, even if we lost Bard.”

Despite the humor he’s forcing, Jill only feels angry and defeated. Grateful, yes, because Carlos rescued her from the nightmare that’s been plaguing her since the Spencer Mansion, but at what cost? “Did he stop to think how many more could’ve been saved if he got it out of the city?”

“Probably not,” Tyrell admits. “Guy’s got a one-track mind. You were in trouble, he reacted.”

“Goddamn it!” She braces her hands on the desk, struggling to control her temper. This whole shitshow isn’t Carlos’ fault, and she knows that, but all she can think of is Brad holding that fucking door shut so she could get away, his screams of agony as the undead on the other side broke through and tore him apart. “Tell me why, Tyrell. Why choose one over thousands? Millions? This thing is only going to spread, and now we’ve lost our one chance to get ahead of it!”

The answer comes quietly, almost lost in the static. “You really gotta ask?”

“Yeah,” she snaps, “I do. Because otherwise all I’ve got is someone working for Umbrella to get rid of any chance to kill their virus, and that’s not a pretty fucking picture.”

Tyrell’s silence stretches on so long that, for a moment, she thinks he’s put down his comm or plans to ignore her entirely, and she grits her teeth and debates whether or not she could force him to answer. Then, wearily, he says, “You gotta understand this first: all that shit about Umbrella? The viruses, the experiments, the bioweapons? We didn’t know. Every single one of us who got recruited to U.B.C.S. viewed it as a second chance. Not like they were putting their plans on pamphlets, you know?”

“You really think I’m that stupid?”

“Honest to God, Valentine, we didn’t know.” His fervor makes her hesitate, makes her doubt, and she bites her tongue as he continues. “Hell, they offered me the job of a monitor once. Same shit Nikolai is doing. But when they wouldn’t tell me what the hell that meant, or what I’d be expected to do, I turned it down. We were always in the dark, thinking we were just meant to help people. Which, believe me, we wanted to do after the shit we got up to before Umbrella found us.”

Her misgivings and her need to trust somebody war within her. “What shit?”

“You really want to know?” He sounds amused, but it’s hard to really tell through the comms. “Even if it sullies the view of the guy who busted his ass to save you?”

“For my own sake.” Jill swallows her pride. “Please, Tyrell. I need to know.”

He sighs, and she thinks she hears the sound of fingers drumming on a tabletop. “My story isn’t new. Joined the Foreign Legion, got caught selling black market weapons, wound up court martialled and waiting to die. Umbrella pulled me outta that after I tried to contact one of their recruiters. Offered me the chance to turn my life around, and I took it.”

“I see,” she murmurs.

“As for Carlos? Guy was a guerilla fighter somewhere in South America. Got captured and slated for execution. He’s a damn-near wizard when it comes to heavy weaponry and vehicle maintenance, so Umbrella bought his freedom and relocated him.” 

She doesn’t know what to say to that; it’s too far from the image of Carlos she has in her mind of a man who’s good-hearted and warm. But he’s a soldier, so is it any surprise that his past is checkered? 

“Satisfied now? I mean, as a cop, you’re probably itching to arrest us both and send us to pay for our crimes, right?” Tyrell sounds mocking now, and she doesn’t care for it much,

Still, she says, “No. I should, you’re right. It’d be the correct thing to do. But . . .” Hell, she was never good at this emotional stuff. Never good at sharing her thoughts and feelings, even when she was with S.T.A.R.S. and considered them friends. It’s easier to brush it off and keep going. Putting words to it makes it dangerously real, after all, and she’s always lived in a man’s world, where that sort of weakness would get her mocked. “Out of all you U.B.C.S. guys, he was the only one I could trust from the start. I have to hold onto that, or I’ll have nothing left.”

“He’s a trustworthy sort,” Tyrell agrees. His voice is kinder, less defensive. “Dedicated, too. Once you’ve earned his loyalty, it won’t waver. I mean, unless you pull what Nikolai did and start murdering the people he cares about, anyway.”

“Right,” she murmurs. “Listen, I’m gonna work through the lab, see if there’s anything Carlos missed on his sweep. Valentine out.”

Before Tyrell can respond, she cranks the volume on her radio down to a whisper and hooks it to her belt. She’ll still be able to hear him if he calls for help, but right now what she needs is what little quiet she can get to think. The last forty-eight hours have done more to upheave her world than that night at the mansion ever did; what is she supposed to do against a corporation as far-reaching as Umbrella, one that has the ability to wipe out populations on a whim?

Oddly, though, her mind doesn’t linger on the danger. No, it turns towards her mother.

Jill hasn’t thought of her parents in years, not since she moved out at eighteen to try her hand at college. Her mother always wanted her to go, keeping a critical eye on her studies and doling out punishment whenever a grade slipped a little too low for her liking—not that Jill had ever failed a class, but to her mother, anything lower than perfect was cause for shame. At least she’d had the comfort of knowing it came from love. Neither parent had attended any sort of university, even for a technical degree, and her family had always straddled the line between middle class and poverty. Midwestern America wasn’t kind to immigrants, and it took her parents’ sweat and tears with glee.

So she’d gone. Majored in economics like a good daughter and visited home every weekend without fail so her mother could coo to that small circle of knitting friends she’d made about how her daughter was doing so well, was so smart, was bound to marry a doctor one day and take care of her poor, beleaguered folks. Love and resentment colored Jill’s view of her mother in equal measure. Maybe that was why she’d enlisted in the military right after graduation; it had broken her parents’ hearts without a doubt, though the promise of money sent back weekly helped smooth that over a bit.

Then they died.

It wasn’t expected, which would have been still horrible but bearably so. No, it was an accident, hit and run from a drunk driver that killed her father on impact and her mother in the ambulance, wham, bam, here’s some grief to go on top of drill sergeants shouting all day. She’d buried them, sold their house, and drowned her grief in her work. And that led to notice from Delta Force, and a unique offer, and learning how to pick locks and dismantle bombs and keep her cool when someone had a gun pointed at her face. She’d done well. Survived, anyway, but a call that came too close to being fatal was almost more than she could take. Luckily—or not so luckily, all things considered—someone else had taken notice of her, too, and in 1996 she’d been transferred to a new unit: S.T.A.R.S., right in her hometown of Raccoon City.

S.T.A.R.S., of course, led to Barry and Chris and Brad and Rebecca, led right to Umbrella’s front door because Wesker hadn’t been the kind, dedicated leader he’d made himself out to be. In fact, he’d been so cruel that Jill sometimes wonders how they never saw through him, how that mask of his never slipped. It took a real heartlessness to lead the people who trusted and looked up to him into that slaughter, and she knows that none of them were meant to make it out alive, that they were nothing more than tools to test Umbrella’s weapons. Shit, with that bastard chasing her around Raccoon City, it seems like all joining S.T.A.R.S. did was paint a nice little target on her back. 

The real question, she supposes, staring at the blinking cursor on the screen, is was it all worth it? She’d grown. She’d learn to trust her instincts, how dangerous the world was outside of her parents’ sometimes smothering love, and she’d found a place for herself, if only for a few years. S.T.A.R.S. might be broken, but some of its former members are still alive and fighting back against the monsters lurking in the dark. 

And now there’s Tyrell, with whom she’s found a wry kinship. Tyrell who works best behind the scenes, but will stand his ground in a pinch and is damn handy when it comes to his rifle. She’s seen bravery time and time again: Barry standing up to Wesker, Mikhail staring death in the face and refusing to be cowed by it even when it meant sacrificing himself. 

That doesn’t even begin to cover Carlos, but those feelings—trust and a dangerous sort of longing that she’d sworn never to feel in a world gone to hell—aren’t something she can deal with right now. He’d saved her life without concern for risking his own, had come to her aid time and time again with no expectations of a reward other than, presumably, knowing she was still alive and kicking. Hell, he’d used the one chance they had of stopping the T-virus in its tracks on her. Safe to say that it’s all a bit muddled, but maybe . . .

Static hisses from her radio. Jill twists the knob and catches, “ . . . reception, pronto!”

The urgency is what has her snatching it from her belt and pressing the button so hard her finger turns white. “Tyrell?”

“Jesus, Valentine, you fall asleep?” He sounds angry, and without giving her time to bite back he snaps, “Get your ass to reception. We’ve got trouble.”

“Great,” she mumbles.

After one last, quick search of the room that leaves her frustratingly empty-handed, Jill retraces her steps and follows the few undamaged signs back to reception. Tyrell is still there, but he’s no longer fixated on the computer behind the desk. His body is turned to the television in the corner, and she joins him as the Breaking News Alert finishes blaring its grating tone.

From behind the static screen, a female voice says, “Attention all citizens. Following the outbreak of an unknown pathogen in Raccoon City, the government has decided to use a nuclear warhead in an attempt to stop the infection from spreading. It has a fatality rate of one-hundred percent, and no attempts to contain or cure it have been successful. The missile strike on Raccoon City will occur in just hours. The payload is designed to eradicate all biological material. You will not survive if you remain in the city. Evacuate now. Repeat: evacuate now. This is not a test. Evacuate immediately.”

Her blood runs cold. “What the fuck?”

“You missed the part about blockades,” Tyrell replies grimly. “It’s nice of them to tell us to get the hell out when there’s tanks out there to make sure we don’t.”

“They can’t do this!”

He shakes his head, returning to the terminal. “They can. Umbrella has them in their pocket, and I’d wager they all but demanded a missile strike. How else are they gonna make sure none of this shit reaches the public?”

She can’t accept that. She refuses to, because she’s survived this long and she’ll be damned if Umbrella is going to kill her now. “What can we do? There’s gotta be something!”

There’s an uncomfortably long pause. In it, she realizes that Tyrell has gone pale beneath the grime on his face, that his eyes are a little too wide and his fingers tremble the tiniest amount when he tries to type, and she knows that he’s afraid. Finally, he says, “Carlos went underground a few hours ago. There’s a lab beneath our feet; guess he was thinkin’ he’d make more of the vaccine. I have some government contacts I can try to reach to buy him time, but—”

“I’m going to help him.” Jill spies an extra magazine on the table and takes it before checking the ammo in her gun. “Two hands are better than one.”

“Yeah, sure. But you’ll have to be quick, Valentine, you hear? Even if I get through, there’s no guarantee that they’ll listen or make a deal.” 

“Make them listen,” she barks. 

He considers her for a moment, and then his lips curl into a dry sort of grin that, oddly enough, settles her nerves a good deal. “Yes ma’am. In fact, I’ll put a boot in their ass, just for you.” 

“Better use two,” she remarks. Following his gesture, she finds a small stash—herbs, bandages, knives—and gears up. “The comms should work underground. If not, I’ll leave markers for you to follow in case you have to . . .”

She trails off. In case he has to come after her? Why? Either both of them will succeed, or one of them, or neither of them, and in every scenario all him finding her would do is put him in danger. If he fails, wouldn’t it be better not to know? To live thinking she has a chance until the very last second? “If you need me,” she finally says.

“Sure thing, super-cop.” When she looks up, she finds Tyrell watching her, his expression unusually kind. “Listen, before you go? You need to know that Carlos wears his heart on his sleeve. The guy can’t hide what he’s feeling to save his life, and it’s clear that however he feels about you, you’re more than just a comrade or friend or any of that nonsense. I wouldn’t be surprised if he made a pass if things get hairy down there. Get what I mean?”

Jill can’t tell if he’s being genuine or yanking her chain. She stands, finishes strapping a knife to her thigh, and cocks her gun. “I’ll worry about that after I save his ass. Catch you on the other side.”

How he’d tracked her down she’ll never know. There had been a knock on her hotel room door and she’d opened it to find him standing in the hall, still dressed in his combat gear, and there’d been a brief, nonconsequential argument before their clothes were off and he’d pressed her into the mattress. She’d had the best orgasms of her life then, by his hand and mouth and cock. And that had set the tone for the rest of their encounters.

There was never any seeking. They didn’t look for one another while on their assignments, didn’t communicate their whereabouts to see if a tryst was possible. Usually Ada would spot him off in the distance, or catch radio chatter that mentioned his name, and she would track him to wherever he was staying and let herself in through the window. He never seemed quite happy to see her, but he never turned her away, either.

Of course, everything had changed after Lanshiang.

Knowing what Simmons had done, how her name had been used to hurt countless innocents, Ada had destroyed all evidence in Carla’s laboratory. What she had saved—the communications between herself, Simmons, and Carla, along with two brief videos about the cloning—she had sent to Chris anonymously months after the outbreak. Then she had gone on her way, knowing that he would still see her face whenever he thought of the men he lost. Their relationship, if it could even be called such, had simply reached its conclusion. And there would be others to fill her bed whenever she wanted company.

Those thoughts meant she was quite surprised when, six months later, she’d gotten a message from none other than Chris himself: In Trondheim. You here?

Yes, she had sent back, as a matter of fact, I am.

Trondheim had been a rekindling of a sort. She found his hotel, as she always did, but this time his grip had been tighter, the bruises on the insides of her thighs slower to heal. There had been desperation in his touch, and anger, and as they shared a cigarette afterwards he had told her of the PTSD, the brain injury, the realization that he would never be able to leave the BSAA. She’d sympathized with him as best as she could. After all, they were both nothing more than pawns to their respective organizations.

But that admission, too, had been odd and out of place. They had agreed early on to never discuss work; it was simply too messy considering the opposing nature of their allegiances (or convenient allyship, in her case) to ever lead to anything but a fight. To hear him speak of it freely jarred her. Were his emotions shifting? Did he view her as more than a respected rival?

The questions troubled and haunted her long after they parted ways. 

Now, sitting in the dark with a cigarette held loosely between her fingers and the sounds of the city disrupting the stillness of the night, Ada tilts her head back and closes her eyes. Chris will be here soon. She’d watched him head off to the mobile command center for a debriefing, and knows that it should only take him an hour or so to complete. It’s peaceful in the quiet room; no lights save for those far below on the streets pierce the blue shadows, and the tip of her cigarette is a pale halo flickering over her knuckles. Six months, she thinks, blowing out a plume of gray smoke. Hell of a time to keep a girl waiting.

Boots thud on the floor outside before a keycard beeps in the lock. Ada extinguishes her cigarette as the door swings open, the light that spills in from the hall brightening only the edges of Chris’s body, the glint of a knife at his hip sharp and deadly, the sweat glistening on his arms arousing. If he’s surprised by her presence, he doesn’t show it. He merely closes the door, and she watches the shapes of him move to set his bag in the closet.

“It’s been a while,” she says teasingly, letting the syllables purr from her throat.

Chris’ head turns in her direction. “Has it?”

She listens to the quiet clicks as he strips out his tactical gear, and the thumps as each piece drops to the floor. There are soft, metallic clangs that she assumes are his knife, gun, and spare clips being placed on the table, and then the mattress creaks when he sits down, followed by the soft whisper of shoelaces being untied. Each noise sends the anticipation within her thrumming a little higher. Ada knows this routine. She knows that there is brief talk while he undresses before his hands tug at her own clothing, and she wonders if it will be his mouth first or if they’ll skip the foreplay. Heat pulses between her legs as she crosses them.

“Six months,” she sighs, “and not even a call. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“I was busy,” he replies shortly.

Her lips curl, hidden by the night. “I heard.”

There are no questions of how she got in, or what she’s doing here, or what she wants. Chris merely stands, and her ears catch the soft murmur of fabric as he undresses, knowledge of his habits telling her that he’s folding each piece of clothing and setting it methodically on the dresser. Sometimes she wishes that they would turn on a light; she can count on one hand the number of times she’s been able to properly admire him, and her eyes strain to catch even a glimpse of the broad planes of his chest. Yet neither of them reach for the lamp. Chris pads towards her on surprisingly quiet feet, and his hands settle on either side of her head as he leans down.

“Are you going to kiss me?” Ada taunts softly.

With a growl, his mouth covers hers. The kiss is hungry, angry; with every sharp tug on her lips or plunge of his tongue into her mouth, her toes curl, and she’s panting within minutes. She grabs his shoulders, digging her nails into the muscle there, and his fingers tangle in her hair and yank her head back so he can lavish her throat. Ada closes her eyes. Behind their lids flicker every time the two of them have been together, extracting and piecing together information in an attempt to figure out which Chris she’ll have tonight. Will it be the attentive care? Or the dominating passion that leaves her breathless and aching for more?

He sinks to his knees, forcing her thighs uncomfortably against the arms of the chair to accommodate his bulk as his mouth trails from her neck to her chest. Her skin throbs in his wake, no doubt due to the bruises that will stay there for days as reminders of their tryst. And when his fingers grab the hem of her shirt, she starts working on the buttons even as he rasps, “Take it off, or I’ll tear it.”

“It’s Gucci,” she rebukes him.

“I don’t give a damn.”

“Of course you don’t.” With a sigh she leans back, the fabric parting to reveal her bare chest and stomach. “You’re always so impatient.”

Chris bites the curve of her breast, leaving a pleasant sting. “You want patience, go to Leon.”

Her mouth purses at the reminder. It’s not jealousy on his part, because she knows that he couldn’t care less about who she sleeps with when he’s not around. It’s only a taunt meant to get under her skin, and she hates that it finds its mark. “Why don’t you put that mouth to better use, huh?”

She can’t see him looking at her, but she can feel it like the gaze of a predator on her skin. One of his large hands curls around her hip while the other cups her breast, a slow and reverent touch that makes her unprepared for the ferocity with which he draws her nipple into his mouth and suckles it. Ada’s back bows, a sharp moan spilling from her lips as he teases her flesh with his tongue, soothing the scrape of his teeth with hard swipes before doing it again and again in a cycle that leaves her breathless. The fingers wrapped around her breast shift to find its twin, and another cry leaves her when he plucks her nipple between them.

Liquid heat pools between her thighs and soaks the lace covering her sex as he continues. Sometimes the fervor slows, but it’s only ever for a minute at best before it resumes or he switches his hand and mouth to keep her teetering on the edge. Once, years ago, he’d made her come from this alone. Now, she feels that peak rushing towards her, the climb fed by every delicious, half-painful press of his lips. 

“Chris,” she groans, her hips lifting.

He reads her need in the motion; the hand on her hip presses between her legs, the heel of his palm grinding on her hood over the fabric of her pants. Ada rolls into him, chasing the friction, and her skin grows tight and hot as her orgasm looms closer. Chris pulls away from her breast and kisses her furiously, tweaking and rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The pleasure pulses, sharpens, and the sting of his teeth on her lip have her tumbling over the edge with a wanton cry.

Through the waves that rush through her, she’s aware of him unbuttoning her jeans and his fingers slipping within her underwear to find her soaked clit. She writhes against him, pinned between his body and the back of the chair as he rubs her pearl with firm, quick strokes. It stretches her pleasure.

It makes her angry.

Ada digs her nails into his scalp and grabs his wrist, pushing his fingers farther down until they probe her opening. He had caught her off guard, wrested control away from her, and it infuriates her that he tried, that he succeeded, that she let him. He grunts, the scent of her arousal thick in the air between them. The sound sends another shiver through her, and she rocks her hips until his broad fingers slip within her sex, uncaring of the bliss still lingering against her mind. The rest of this will be on her terms, not his. And if he doesn’t like it, he can find someone else to fuck tonight.

She drags her hand down his neck, groping his shoulder before continuing down to pinch his nipple. His hips surge, digging into her thighs, and she laughs against his lips and moves her touch down to the hair beneath his navel. There’s no denying that he’s a work of art—handsome in a rugged way, his body built by years of combat—and even through her anger she admires the sheer strength of him. He could fold her in half, and he has, and the thought of him doing it again has her searching between their bodies until her hand finds the rigid length of his cock.

“Aren’t you excited?” she purrs, toying with a bead of moisture at the tip. “Did you miss me?”

Chris curls his fingers and presses his thumb to her hood. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you come so fast,” he rumbles, and it wipes the smile from her face.

“You—” “Should’ve used my mouth,” he continues, stroking those thick fingers over her walls and pushing on a spot that has her biting her lip. “You always moan so prettily when I do.”

“Why don’t you use it now, instead of irritating me with it?” Ada retorts.

His laughter vibrates against her cheek. “‘Cause then I wouldn’t get to fuck you.”

She works a leg between them and uses it to kick him, sending him sprawling onto his back with a shout. Before he can push himself up, she rises from the chair and presses her boot to his stomach, staring down at him as a flash of lightning brightens the room. “Don’t get cocky, Redfield. It isn’t attractive,” she drawls.

He cups the back of her calf. “You play too many games, Wong.”

“Don’t act like you don’t enjoy it,” she replies.

Slowly, she drags her foot down until the heel touches his pelvis. Chris draws in a sharp breath, his grip tightening, and for a moment she wonders how he would react if she pressed her boot against his cock. It always turns Leon into a needy mess, but something tells her that Chris would just drag her to the floor. So, with a soft laugh, she steps away from him and sits on the bed to take her shoes off. 

Chris moves in front of her, and she lifts her hips to let him pull her pants and thong down her legs, half-hoping he will use his mouth next and half-wanting him to bend her over the mattress. She winds up getting a little of both; he kisses along her thigh, sliding his tongue briefly over her slit, and then he climbs over her and presses her back on the bed. His cock rests long and thick against the crease of her hip, his chest hair tickling her breasts as he bears down to pin her. Ada reaches over and grabs a condom from the bed that she’d tossed there earlier and hands it to him, and draws her knees up and apart as foil crinkles.

He grabs her thighs and pushes them up so far that her knees almost bump into her shoulders. “Watch it,” she says.

Chris snorts. “You’re awfully bossy today.”

Ada opens her mouth to deliver a scathing, well-crafted retort; but then he presses his hips forward, and his cock slides into her with one wet, slow thrust, the only noise she makes a low groan when it fills her to the brim. It’s not that she’d forgotten just how big he is, but six months of nothing other than her vibrator and her memories to get her off has left her with too much pent-up need. That need makes the feeling of him stretching her to her limit heady, and her fingers twist into the bedsheet.

He pauses for a moment, breathing heavily. His fingers flex on her thighs, rocking her a bit, and then he starts moving at a pace that starts slow and picks up with every thrust. Arousal slips from her opening and slides between her cheeks to puddle on the bed as he drives into her with wet slaps that sting against her backside, the pleasure just as rough and demanding as his touch. 

She cranes her back, offering more, wanting more. Chris hooks one of her knees over his shoulder and reaches down, groping her tender breasts. He presses them together, flicks her nipples, squeezes them, everything that he knows she likes, that he knows will hasten her release.  It’s so good that it drives everything else away: her frustration at another useless mission, the lonely days and lonelier nights, the faint prick of guilt whenever she finds a way to make time for this but not for Leon. Ada gives herself over to it, placing her hands above her head and drawing his body down with her calf. What she and Chris have is raw, and it’s that rawness that she craves.

Love has only ever caused her grief.

His mouth covers hers, the kiss sloppy from their panting and the jostling of their bodies moving together. She grabs his shoulder, slick with sweat, to ground herself. Let him finish first, let him finish first, she thinks, almost as a prayer, because there’s always a rush when he realizes his cock wasn’t enough and uses his mouth to finish the job. He’d told her once that she had some odd fixation on oral, on the sight of his head between her legs and the pleasure of his thick tongue mapping her sex, and she won’t deny it. If she finishes with him, there will be a cigarette and a brief shower before she leaves. If she doesn’t, the night continues.

Her body betrays her. The heat coils in her abdomen, fueled by his cock and his kiss and his rough handling of her breasts. It spreads from there down her legs to the tips of her toes, up her chest and neck until her body is bathed in it and straining for release. Her chest flushes, her breasts tighten. Her sex clenches around him, drawing a low curse and a sharp pinch to her nipple that has her tossing her head back with a groan. Underneath it all is the thrumming of her heart, battering against her ribs with a ferocity that seizes her lungs.

Chris bites her shoulder.

And Ada falls apart.

Her orgasm blinds her, tearing through her like a tsunami that makes the earlier one seem tame by comparison. Ecstasy rushes along her veins, sending sparks skittering over her skin to the place where their bodies join; it makes his length, already large, feel huge as she squeezes around it with contractions that have her bowing and straining on the bed. Everything fades under its pressure. The fact that they’re on opposite sides, that Leon is probably waiting for her call, that tomorrow she and Chris will be back to radio silence, the soreness from her mission, the anger, the sorrow, even her name crumble under the blinding pleasure.

Above her Chris tenses, and his hand finds her throat as his hips batter against her thighs, giving her no end to her orgasm. Then there is a grunt, a low, whispered groan, as his thrusts slow to let her ride it out. She finished first, she realizes, but she can’t find it within her to care.

He leans back, his cock sliding from her raw sex and making her wince. Typically she’d be teasing him, riling him up as she dressed and fished a cigarette from her pocket, but now there’s only heaviness as warmth lingers under her skin. With her eyes closed, she feels him stand and hears the click of the lamp, followed by him digging through her pockets to find her pack of smokes. The butt of one presses to her lips; she wraps them around it, and he flicks the lighter as she takes a long drag.

“Don’t set the mattress on fire,” he mutters.

Ada reaches up to take the cigarette between her fingers. “Mm, wouldn’t that be a shame?”

The bed dips beneath his weight, and his palm lands on her stomach and drifts up to cup her breast. “That’s all you have to say?”

“You did a good job,” she replies with a grin. “I might stick around a while longer. You really know how to wear a lady out.”

“Hm.”

It’s been an interesting year for me. My depression and anxiety hit an all-time low. I lost friends that were dear to me. Fandoms that I loved ended, or shifted in a way that I couldn’t keep up with. I’ve found new ones, and rediscovered old ones. I’ve made new friends. I finally started therapy, and we’re working on medication to keep me as stable as I can be.

In the midst of all of this—and a global crisis—I started to lose my inspiration to create, so I threw myself into fanzine projects. To date, I’ve participated in about fifteen or so, some of which I’ve modded as well. They’re fun, but there’s a lot of work that goes into them, and it was draining for a while. Luckily I’m doing them in moderation now, so I’m no longer exhausted.

@lickitysplitfic / @maybeishouldwait has really kept me sane. We’ve written so much together: fun scenes, little one-shots, long stories that might not ever see the light of day. We’ve learned how to have fun writing, and how to enjoy it guilt-free even if we aren’t planning to publish. 

This hiatus that I’ve taken has been pretty helpful overall. And because I don’t want to wax poetic for too long, let’s shift gears into what’s coming in 2021. Well, the latter half of it lol.

First, we’re still publishing Marked. I have some ideas for Resident Evil floating around, and some old WIPs I’d like to get back to. The Lunar Chronicles is particularly dear to me, and I want to see it finished. I’ll be re-opening requests soon, once I get the ones I haven’t done yet out of the way. There are one-shots to write, smut to have fun with. I want to use this year to learn how to be relaxed about writing; it’s a craft, yes, but if it’s more stress than fun, then I need to take a step back and try a different approach.

I still have a lot of stories to tell about Moth, Estarossa, and Mael. I have a few for Dante and Lir. And now, with Resident Evil, I want to look at the characters there: Chris, Jill, Leon, Ada, Claire, and all the others.