Find Part 2 of the Valenvaef (Jill Valentine x Nicholai Ginovaef) Infection Series here:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/23737729
It wasn't even the mansion that did it. She'd been so focused on surviving, maintaining her guard, reserving her ammunition, and deciding within seconds on whether to fight or run. She hadn't had a cliche moment, wondering if she should proposition Chris, or hell, even Wesker. If anything, physical contact was just another thing that had been stolen from her. Every brush of an elbow on the subway, the hand that grazed hers when she got her morning coffee, or taps of bare skin on hers while she strolled down the street. All forms of touch drew a shudder to her shoulders, bumps breaking out across her arms and the back of her neck. She started wearing jackets. She hadn't so much as looked at any of her favorite tops or skirts since the Mansion.
Intimacy seemed impossible. But alcohol had a funny way of messing with one's perception. Another excuse, another lie. She was only halfway through her first bottle. Cold sweat beaded off the amber, curling down her knuckles as she stared at the wall. People chatted and milled around her. Her therapist said it would be good for her to get out around people, to get used to them again. The living ones, anyway. No one spoke to her though, no guys had come along to chat her up yet, but the night was young...
And full of monsters. Jill raised her beer, pausing when the warm edge touched her lips. Something burned along her nape. Her brow creased, hand falling as she narrowed her gaze. She knew eyes when she felt them.
His were pale. She couldn't tell the shade, under the neon glow overhead, the blood-red light echoed through his hair. Silver? He didn't look that old. She would have placed him somewhere in his thirties, probably closer to the middle. He had a strong jaw, with cheekbones to match, and an angular nose. He was all sharp edges, the tendons of his neck striking out from the blackness caused by the intense florescent glare. One of his legs extended onto the floor, while the other was drawn up by his knee. He was stretched out like a cat, one arm casually thrown over the back of his chair, while the other nursed a bottle. Looked like he'd had about five, onto his sixth. All black. From his undoubtedly steel-toed boots, his cargo pants, t-shirt, all the way up to his coat. The inside was fuzzy though, white fleece, with a collar that curled out.
He looked like the man every woman's mother warned her about.
