#thumbsupgunsout

[ CLOSER ]:     while pinning the receiver against the wall, sender glances down at their lips, suddenly aware of how close they are to one another…

“Good pin, Lieutenant.” Theoretically, they are sparring. The are both sweaty, in relatively comfortable clothing, and thankfully, they are alone. Chris had not noticed the heat of their proximity until Piers’s eyes had strayed down to his mouth.

His heart is beating a little harder, breath coming a little more quickly, and his cheeks are flushed. “This round’s yours…”

Chris looks Piers up and down assessing and appraising, but without hunger or anything hinting at what he might really be thinking.

“You’re nervous,” he says, “but you’re controlling it—because you’re a good soldier and you know you’ve got guys watching you.”

He folds his arms. “And you… can’t take your eyes off me.”

"Deep breaths,” Chris coaxes, “in and out.”

Piers has just been through quite a trial, were one to put it mildly. He’s done his duty, protected his squad mates, provided overwatch, and allowed not a single undead, shambling corpse to reach the team. Still, it’s ugly, the first time you see a stumbling, groaning child. Squeezing that trigger cannot have been easy, but Chris is grateful to Piers for doing it. He’d had his hands full elsewhere and his second in command had taken charge of the situation admirably.

He takes Piers’s hands in his own and holds them tight, not caring who might be watching. “Look at me,” he says. “You did the right thing—you did fine. We are alive because of you. You hear me?”

He’s got almost a hundred pounds on her and, despite her monstrous strength, she is still beholden to things like gravity and leverage. He could easily push her away as she takes hold of his shoulders and spins him around in the chair, as she pushes it back against the desk and only threatens to straddle his waist. He could stare into those glittering inferno eyes as they spark with devious intent, see a monster, and strike at her.

But he won’t. Bravery in the face of snarling hordes and stomping behemoths is one thing; she’s older and wiser now and differentiates bravado from being jaded and Chris has a heaping supply of both. It’s a different quality entirely to stare into the eyes of a creature which differs from what you hate in such inconsequential characteristics as stature or stated intent and not to brand it the same or close enough. And so she rewards his critical thinking, his kindness. He enjoys a side of the commander of Revenant that perhaps none believe exists.

She settles, almost onto him but not quite. Her mutated arm drapes over one shoulder as she leans down to just above his eye level and seems to steady herself with the softer hand as it traces up the centerline of his chest. Only her pants and boots remain in place, her upper half limited to a black sports bra and her gear harness — an ensemble which provides an incredibly generous view of the sharp lines of muscle and mutation and a particular set of weapons she generally does not open carry.

“Looks boring.”

In truth, Chris had been losing himself in unpleasant memories. If he is honest with himself—a dangerous prospect—almost all of them fall under this category. It is dangerous to be alone in the silence and darkness of the war room. The large table is strewn with a chaotic mess of charts, manila folders, and a coffee cup or two.

Somehow, from that chaos, they will form plots, plans, and schemes. It is organized chaos. He had been observing a few digital files on a screen in Hawker’s seat when she’d come in. He cannot hear her heartbeat as she can likely hear his, but he hopes, in some small way, that hers picks up the same way his does when they are together.

“It was,” he admits, “but I wanted to get a head start on the next move… figured I’d try and impress my CO; she’s a real slave driver.”

He places a hand on her hip, then the other joins it on the adjacent side. He squeezes a little, letting her know that her presence is appreciated, even needed. There is something in his eyes that begs Sarah Hawker not to leave him alone right now.

"His wh-hi..his WHAT now?" Chris feels his mouth spluttering the words before his brain can catch up and tell him to regain composure.. and that's just the mention of them. His cheeks, even through his tan, are bright, cherry red and he searches around for some kind of answer that might both satisfy and deflect.

"I'm a professional... you, ah... get used to that kind of thing." Please let that be good enough.

A dark brow rises and Chris Redfield sucks his teeth, considering. “Hypothetically, huh?”

There’s a short, sharp exhalation of air from his nose indicating wry laughter. He moves closer, looking the lieutenant up and down and then—he is deceptively quick for a man of his size—reaches out to grasp one wrist, holding firmly, but not squeezing. It’s the one Piers has been favoring, just slightly, hardly enough to notice if you didn’t know him. But Chris does. He knows the young man well.

“Hypothetically, I’d say you were irresponsible, riding on adrenaline and hoping for the best… I might say you could put your team in jeopardy and that shit doesn’t fly. I might even suggest that you’d better take care of it before it becomes a bigger problem.