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"What the hell were you thinking?"
The air in the RPD locker room is thick and stagnant, heavy with the lingering scent of gun oil and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat. Things have been suffocatingly tense since the moment their mission was officially logged as a failure; a textbook hostage rescue that dissolved into a chaotic mess he couldn't clean up.
Chris had been appointed squad leader for the exercise, a role he took with a gravity that bordered on obsession, and he had led the charge through a concealed side entrance with his weapon raised and his eyes scanning for threats. But Jill hadn't listened to a single direct order; instead, she had allowed her instincts to override the tactical plan, getting ahead of herself and the rest of the Alpha team despite the clear chain of command. He can still feel the phantom sensation of his fingers brushing against her uniform as she dodged his attempts to grab her, slipping past his reach and disappearing into the fray before he could pull her back into line.
As a direct result of that stunt, the hostage had been eliminated in the crossfire, and the crime boss had vanished through a rear exit while they were busy tripping over one another.
The entire ride back to the precinct had been defined by a grueling, uncomfortable radio silence, the only sound being the hum of the tires against the pavement and the occasional crackle of static from the dashboard.
"We're not doing this now," Jill mutters, her voice low and tight. Her fingers are already moving with practiced efficiency against the heavy Velcro straps of her tactical vest—a piece of equipment that always looks slightly too bulky for her frame, making her appear smaller than the force of nature she actually is.
A muscle hardens in Chris's jaw, a rhythmic pulsing that betrays the anger he is trying to keep in check. Both of his arms lift, spreading out in a gesture of pure, incredulous frustration. "When, then? You can't just sweep this one under the rug like you do all your other problems, Valentine... At least, whenever you aren't busy pretending you don't have any problems at all."
Jill scoffs, a harsh, jagged sound that bounces off the rows of olive-drab lockers. "Tell me what you really think of me, Redfield. Go ahead, lean into it and see exactly how far that gets you."
"I was squad leader," he says, taking two heavy steps toward her. He consciously checks his momentum, hoping not to herd her or inadvertently back her into a corner; he has no desire to use his sheer physical size to intimidate her, though he is acutely aware of how easily his shadow can swallow the space between them. "You were supposed to listen to me. You were supposed to be my second, not a wild card."
Her head tilts in a sharp, rhythmic motion that serves as a wordless, attitude-heavy roll of her eyes. She drops onto the wooden locker room bench with a dull thud, propping her booted heel atop the steel edge of the frame. With a defiant look, she grips the edge of a fingerless glove with her teeth and strips it from her hand, while her other hand multi-tasks by yanking at the protective guards wrapped tightly around her calves.
"Then you're lucky it was only a drill," she counters, the words slightly muffled by the leather in her mouth.
"A drill or not, that could've been dangerous," Chris continues, his voice rising as the adrenaline from the failure refuses to dissipate. He stares down at her, wondering how she isn't grasping the gravity of the lapse, or why she feels the need to claw back at him instead of acknowledging the error. "Is that how you would've conducted yourself on a real mission? You just run ahead of the rest of us like you're the only one who knows what's best, and in the process, you flunk the entire operation? That could've been a real hostage, Jill. A real person could've died because you decided the plan didn't apply to you. Do you seriously not understand that?"
"I don't need you lecturing me, Chris," Jill murmurs. Her voice has lost its warmth, replaced by a dangerous, knife-like edge that cuts through the humid air of the locker room. She doesn't look at him; her focus remains fixed on the bench as both leg guards hit the floor with a heavy, discarded thud.
"You always say that," Chris mutters under his breath. He braces his hands on his hips, knuckles turning white against his tactical belt. Unable to stay still, he begins a slow, agitated pace away from her, the friction of his boots loud in the sudden silence.
The heavy thrum of the door swinging open halts him in his tracks.
In walks the one man who possesses the innate ability to stifle the oxygen in any room he enters. Albert Wesker doesn't need to shout; his presence is a physical weight, loud and commanding without a single spoken word. He stops, the overhead light catching the polished surface of his tactical gear. "It seems the two of you have yet a lot to learn before you have what it takes," he states.
"Respectfully, Wesker, I know you're not including me in that statement," Chris says, stopping his pace to face him.
Wesker cocks a brow above the opaque lenses of his glasses, which sit undisturbed on the bridge of his nose. "That is precisely what 'the two of you' was intended to translate." His voice is a low drawl—smooth, yet with the abrasive texture of nails over gravel.
No fucking way.
Jill lets out a sharp snort and removes her remaining glove with a violent tug. Her eyes, sharp and hyper-focused, lock onto Wesker. He stands perfectly still, spine impossibly straight and hands clasped behind his back in a display of practiced discipline. "Sounds like you've already made up your mind on us, Sir," Jill challenges.
"Not yet. But your recklessness today has proven quite the conundrum." Wesker lets the words hang, drawing out the syllables with a clinical detachment that Chris has loathed for months. Suddenly, Wesker's upper body pivots toward Chris with a precise, predatory fluidity. "And thank you, Redfield, for seeking the opportunity to better your leadership skills by asking what you did wrong today."
He doesn't remember asking. Chris doesn't hide the eye roll. "Oh, please. Entertain me."
"You didn't keep her in line."
"I tried—"
"And you failed." Wesker's voice booms, the sudden volume vibrating against the lockers and slamming the door on Chris's excuse. The silence that follows is absolute. "Had you the faintest clue how to lead—had you actually perused the material I provided—you would have possessed the necessary command to earn the trust of those under you."
Chris opens his mouth, a retort hot and ready on the tip of his tongue, but it dies in his throat.
"And instead of looking inward to see how you could have handled yourself better," Wesker continues, his tone returning to a deadly calm, "you placed every ounce of blame on your subordinate. That is not the caliber of leadership I expected of you, Chris."
Even behind the dark tint of the spectacles, Chris feels the moment Wesker’s gaze shifts. A second later, Jill’s shoulders go rigid. She feels it, too—the crushing weight of his scrutiny.
"I also expected better from you, Jill," Wesker says, his voice dropping an octave. "Had I known you had a tendency to go rogue during a vital team-based drill, I would have deeply reconsidered your involvement in this unit."
For the first time since they trudged into the locker room, Jill visibly deflates, the rigid defiance in her spine dissolving into something far more fragile.
And despite the echoes of their earlier shouting match still ringing in his ears, a sharp, unwelcome pang of guilt pierces Chris's chest at the sight of her; she looks suddenly small, her gaze downcasting like a kicked puppy to escape the cold, surgical edge of Wesker’s ridicule.
Chris fights the instinctive urge to bridge the distance between them, his hand twitching toward her before he catches himself, instead lifting his chin defiantly toward their commander. "What would you have us do, then?" He asks, his voice tight with a mixture of frustration and protective instinct.
A low, thoughtful hum rumbles from Wesker’s throat as his blond head lowers, swinging slowly until his hidden gaze occupies the empty space between the two partners. Seconds tick by, heavy and suffocating, and Chris finds himself shifting uncomfortably in the silence.
Finally, Wesker's head snaps back up, and he offers a clinical nod toward the walled-off sparring room situated at the far end of the lockers. "Since both of you carry fault, it is only plausible that you spend a little more time together," Wesker muses, his tone indicating this is less of a suggestion and more of a passive command. "A few minutes on the sparring mat ought to realign your focus with one another and mend the cracks in your synergy."
Sparring? The thought hits Chris like a bad joke. What kind of manipulative tactic is this?
Him and Jill?
Now?
He starts walking toward the commander, his brow furrowed in genuine disbelief. "No offense, Wesker, but in case you haven't noticed the obvious, Jill is significantly smaller than—"
"And she'd still knock you head over ass, Chris."
The remark stops him dead in his tracks, his boots skidding slightly on the linoleum. Every ounce of the protective guilt he felt moments ago vanishes the second his ears prickle at the sound of Jill’s stifled, sharp snort of amusement.
Chris sucks on a tooth, his jaw working as he tilts his head to the side. "Fair enough."
When he looks at her, the outer corners of Jill's eyes are crinkled, her face lit by a grin larger and more mischievous than anything he's seen from her all day. He feels a sudden, childish urge to mock her—to pull a face or roll his eyes—but he bites down on the impulse, forcing himself to swallow the irritation and tell it to fuck off. He refuses to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s gotten under his skin, even though the challenge in her eyes is screaming at him in a language only they speak: Go on. Try it.
"Will you be supervising us?" Chris asks, his eyes narrowing as they flick from Jill's smug expression back to Wesker's stoic mask.
Wesker's brows lift significantly, a flicker of dark amusement dancing behind his opaque lenses. "Do I need to?" He asks, his gaze drifting between the two of them as if he can physically see the tension thickening into something sharp enough to slice.
"No, sir," Jill answers immediately, her voice steady and her gaze refusing to break away from Chris. He can feel the heat of her stare burning into the side of his head like a brand.
He’ll show her no sir.
"Good." With a single, sharp nod, Wesker pivots on his heel and turns back toward the door. "I expect results," he reminds them, his voice trailing over his shoulder. "Come find me when you're done."
The door slips shut with an authoritative bang, the sound echoing through the locker rows and leaving a heavy, vacuum-like silence in its wake. Neither of them says a word; the air is too thick with the static of Wesker’s departure and their own unresolved friction.
Wordlessly, they make their way toward the closed-off sparring section at the end of the room. Out of a stubborn, ingrained habit, Chris reaches the glass door first and pulls it open, stepping aside to let her enter. But Jill doesn't move. She remains rooted in the locker room, her silhouette framed by the sterile light as she stands there for God knows what reason, refusing to take the path he’s cleared for her.
The silence stretches, thin and taut, until it starts to crawl beneath Chris's skin like an itch he can't scratch. It coaxes him to turn, to break the standoff, and he finds her already anchored to him with a stare. The shit-eating grin from moments ago is gone, replaced by a look of quiet, dangerous contemplation—a deep, analytical thought process that makes his pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.
He doesn't like the way she's reading him. "What?" he asks, his voice sounding jagged in the quiet.
"Just thinking," she replies simply.
"I can see that," he says flatly, his jaw tightening as he forces his hand to stay glued to his side, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in a show of mounting frustration. "What exactly are you thinking about?"
Jill sticks her bottom lip out in a pout that is entirely too performative, beginning a slow, wandering walk toward him. Her eyes rake up and down his broad frame, lingering on the width of his shoulders as she walks with a predatory grace. "Just thinking if this big, strong man is going to go easy on little old me," she says, her voice dripping with a calculated mix of mock hurt and biting sarcasm.
It’s enough to make him whirl on her the moment she brushes past him into the sparring room. The door swings shut in the wake of his sudden, agitated movement, sealing them inside the padded walls. "Hey, I know you're capable, Jill. I just didn't want to—"
"Hurt me?" She interrupts, her voice rising to meet his. "Bruise me? Break my bones?" A sharp, jagged laugh slips through her parted lips, the corners of her mouth curling into a challenge that is anything but friendly. "Don't you dare piss me off, Chris."
Then, she strikes.
She is quicker than he is remotely prepared for, her movements a blur of trained precision. Her palm catches him square against the side of his head, the impact ringing through his skull and sending his much larger frame careening to the side. He stumbles, his leg jutting out instinctively to catch his shifting weight against the textured mat.
His hazel eyes snap wide open the moment his shoe regains traction, the adrenaline hitting his system like a lightning strike, but Jill is already airborne. Her leg is a whip, flying toward his head with enough force to end the session before it truly begins.
Thankfully, his reflexes are faster than his brain. He lunges, his hands coming up in a desperate, practiced arc, and he manages to catch her mid-swing, his fingers locking firmly around her ankle just inches before impact.
The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the ragged, synchronized rhythm of their breathing. Chris’s fingers are clamped tight around Jill’s ankle, his pulse thrumming against her boot. For several heartbeats, neither of them moves. They are a frozen, intense picture of combat—Chris braced and defensive, Jill coiled like a spring.
Her eyes lock onto his with a searing intensity that makes the air feel thin. There is no trace of the "kicked puppy" Wesker had tried to create; there is only the sharp, electric glare of a woman who is tired of being underestimated. Chris searches her face, his own brow furrowed as he tries to gauge if the anger is fading, but all he finds is a smoldering, defiant fire. Her pupils are blown wide, reflecting the harsh overhead lights, and for a moment, the world outside the padded walls and glass door ceases to exist. There is only the heat of her skin through her boot under his palm and the silent, vibrating challenge between them.
Then, Jill breaks the spell.
With a sudden, violent twist of her hips, she wrenches her leg from his grasp. She doesn't retreat; she rolls through the momentum, coming up into a low crouch before launching herself back at him.
Chris barely has time to reset his stance before she's on him again. She moves with a fluid, terrifying grace that forces him into a desperate retreat. She's a whirlwind of devastating precision, utilising a blend of Krav Maga and kickboxing that keeps him perpetually off-balance. A stinging jab flickers toward his face, which he parries with his forearm, only for her to immediately drop low, swinging a roundhouse kick aimed at his lead knee.
He skips back, the rush of air from her boot whistling past his shins. "Jill, wait—"
"Don't talk," she snaps, her voice breathless and sharp. She feints a high strike with her right hand, drawing his guard up, then dives into his personal space. She's too close for him to use his reach. Her elbow drives into his ribs—a controlled but painful thud—followed by a palm strike to his chest that rattles the breath from his lungs.
Chris remains purely on the defensive, his hands open and palms out, catching her strikes rather than returning them. He's the rock to her storm, absorbing the impact of her rage. Every time her skin makes contact with his—the slap of her hand against his bicep, the friction of her shoulder sliding against his chest—the atmosphere in the room shifts. The sharp, jagged edge of their mutual anger begins to blur, morphing into a different kind of intensity.
The air between them grows hot, smelling of mat rubber, metal, and the salt of their sweat.
Jill’s attacks become more frantic, more intimate. Both of her hands fly out, her fingers digging into the back of his neck to pull his head down. Chris feels the searing heat of her body as she presses against him, her chest heaving against his tactical vest. The anger in her eyes is still there, but it’s being overtaken by a desperate, kinetic energy.
He decides he’s had enough of being her punching bag.
As she swings for a wide hook, Chris ignores the opening to strike back. Instead, he steps inside the arc of her arm, closing the final inch of distance between them. He uses his superior mass to stall her momentum, his large hands reaching out not to hurt, but to envelop.
He catches her around the waist, his forearms locking behind the small of her back. The impact of their bodies colliding sends a jolt through him that has nothing to do with combat. Jill gasps, the sound muffled against the crook of his neck as he lifts her slightly off her feet, neutralising her leverage.
She struggles, her hands coming up to push against his shoulders, but he only tightens his hold, grounding her. "Stop," he grunts, his voice vibrating deep in his chest, a sound she surely feels through her own ribs. "Just... Stop."
He pivots, using his weight to guide her toward the mat. He's careful, shielding her head with one hand as he lowers them both. They hit the padding with a dull thump, but he doesn't let go. He pins her beneath the heavy cage of his body, his knees flanking her hips, his hands pinning her wrists to the mat beside her head.
The room falls silent again, but the tension is now a physical weight, thick and suffocating and downright dangerous. Chris is looming over her, his broad shoulders blocking out the light, his face inches from hers. He can feel the frantic, rabbit-thump of her heart against his sternum through his vest. Her hair is a chaotic halo against the blue mat, and her lips are parted, drawing in sharp, jagged lungfuls of the shared, heated air.
The defiance is still in her gaze, but as she looks up at him—at the way his eyes have darkened, at the way his jaw is set with a sudden, agonising restraint—the fire changes. It's no longer about the drill or Wesker’s insults.
His grip on her wrists softens, his thumbs grazing the delicate skin of her inner arms. The silence stretches, no longer crawling under his skin, but drawing him down, pulling his focus to the curve of her throat and the way her pulse is racing there.
He's supposed to be immobilising her. He's supposed to be mending their synergy. But as his gaze drops to her mouth, the only thing Chris can think about is how easily the fight has turned into something else entirely.
The air between them is thick and vibrating with the residual energy of the fight and the sudden, overwhelming proximity of their bodies. Jill's wrists are still trapped in Chris's large hands, and she doesn't stay still for long. She begins to writhe beneath him, her shoulders twisting and her hips bucking in a desperate, frantic attempt to throw his superior weight off.
The friction of her tactical gear against his is a harsh, grinding sound in the quiet room. Chris only tightens his grip, his knuckles brushing against the mat as he anchors her down. He feels every muscle in her body straining against him, the raw strength of her desperation radiating through his palms.
"Are you going to keep hitting me?" Chris asks, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrates through the few inches of air separating their faces. He leans in closer, his shadow completely enveloping her, his breath ghosting over her damp skin. "Or are you going to finally calm down?"
Jill’s chest heaves, her breaths coming in sharp, jagged stutters as she stares up at him. Her eyes are wide, searching his, and for a moment, the fight in her seems to flicker. She swallows hard, her throat bobbing against the column of her neck. "I'll stop," she whispers. Her voice is uncharacteristically soft, lacking its usual sharp edge. "I'm done, Chris. Just let me up."
Chris searches her gaze for a beat longer, looking for the lie he knows she's capable of telling. He sees the exhaustion in the slump of her shoulders and the way her eyelids flutter. Tentatively, he begins to pull away. He relaxes the iron-tight squeeze on her wrists and starts to shift his weight back, intending to give her the space to breathe.
He should have known better.
The moment the pressure lightens, Jill's eyes flash with a predatory spark. With a sudden, explosive burst of energy, she wrenches her hands free and lurches upward, her fingers clawing at his shoulders as she tries to use his own momentum to flip him over and claim the dominant position.
But Chris's reflexes are honed to a razor's edge. Before she can even get her hips clear of the mat, he reacts. He slams his weight back down, his hands finding her shoulders and pinning her flat with a force that knocks the remaining air from her lungs.
In the same fluid motion, he drives his knee upward, wedging it firmly between her thighs and pressing it high against her.
Jill lets out a sharp, strangled gasp. Her back arches off the mat instinctively, her body seeking a release from the sudden, intimate pressure that is now radiating through her entire core. She's trapped—completely and utterly—and the realisation seems to hit her with the force of a physical blow.
The room is silent except for the frantic, echoing sound of their shared respiration. Chris is looming over her again, but the dynamic has shifted irrevocably. The anger that fuelled his movements moments ago has been hollowed out, replaced by a dark, heavy heat that makes his blood feel like lead in his veins.
He doesn't pull back this time. Instead, his gaze drops. He stares at her mouth—her lips are parted, slick and reddened from the exertion, trembling slightly as she draws in the heated air.
Jill's face is no longer pale with fury. A deep, blooming flush spreads across her cheeks, a wildfire of colour that has nothing to do with the physical strain of the spar. She stares up at him, her pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the blue of her irises. The frustration that had been driving her for minutes—the resentment toward Wesker, the irritation with Chris—is being incinerated right before his eyes, replaced by a raw, undeniable want that makes her tremble under his hold.
Chris feels it, too—the magnetic pull of her body, the way the tension in the room has turned from a weapon into a tether. His jaw is set so tight it aches, and he finds himself leaning just a fraction of an inch closer, his eyes locked on the curve of her lower lip.
The silence turns from a crushing, suffocating weight into a living thing, sizzling with the electricity of everything they aren't saying. The weight of his knee against her and the frantic thump of her heart against his chest are the only things that feel real in the dim light of the sparring room.
Chris slowly, deliberately, relaxes his grip on her wrists. He doesn't pull his hands away. Instead, he lets them slide down the length of her forearms, his gloves grazing her skin until he reaches her waist. His hand migrates upward, tracing the sharp curve of her ribs through the thin material of her undershirt. He feels the heat of her body radiating against his palm, a feverish warmth that mirrors the fire in his own blood.
Jill doesn't pull away, either. Her hands find their way to the back of his head, her fingers threading through the short, thick strands of his hair. She pulls him down—not with the violence of a combat maneuver, but with a soft, demanding pressure that forces him to close the final inch of space. Her touch is a silent plea, her nails lightly scratching against his scalp as she tilts her head back, offering him the curve of her throat, her eyes fixed entirely on his mouth.
Chris's gaze is dark, fixated on the way her lips tremble. He leans in, the tip of his nose brushing against hers, the scent of her—salt, gunpowder, and something uniquely Jill—filling his senses until he can't think of anything else. The world outside this mat, the mission, the Umbrella Corporation, Wesker—it all vanishes.
The heavy glass door of the sparring room suddenly creaks on its hinges.
"Hey, Chris! You seen my—whoa."
The sound of the door hitting the stopper is like a gunshot. Chris and Jill scramble apart with a frantic, uncoordinated energy that sends them nearly tumbling in opposite directions.
Standing in the doorway, scratching the back of his neck with a massive, gloved hand, is Barry Burton. He looks between the two of them—Chris, who is currently adjusting his tactical vest with aggressive focus, and Jill, whose face is a shade of crimson that rivalled a S.T.A.R.S. emergency flare.
Barry’s bushy eyebrows climb toward his hairline, a slow, lopsided grin spreading across his face. "Well," he rumbles, his voice carrying that signature, jovial weight. "I was gonna ask if you'd seen my extra magnum rounds, but it looks like you two are already busy... Practicing your 'close-quarters' defense. Don't let me stop the progress. Carry on."
"Barry, it's not—" Chris starts, his voice cracking slightly before he clears his throat and tries again. "We were just... Training. Like Wesker ordered."
"Right, right," Barry chuckles, waving a hand dismissively as he backs out of the room. "And I'm a vegetarian. Just make sure you don't 'train' yourselves into an early retirement, kids. Some of us still have a city to protect."
The door shuts with a soft click, leaving a deafening, agonising silence behind.
Chris doesn't look at Jill immediately. He stands up, offering her a hand to help her off the mat. When she takes it, her fingers are still trembling, and the heat between her palm and his glove is a stinging reminder of how close they had just come to the edge.
He pulls her up to her feet, but he doesn't let go of her hand right away. He looks at her, his hazel eyes wide and searching, a silent question hanging in the air.
"We don't talk about this," Jill says, her voice low and hurried as she brushes the dust off her pants. She finally meets his gaze, her expression a mix of lingering want and sheer, professional panic. "Not a word. Not to Barry, not to Wesker... Especially not to each other."
Chris nods, his jaw tight as he forces the adrenaline back down. "Agreed. It was just... The stress. The drill."
"Right. The drill," she echoes, though neither of them believes it.
Without another word, they turn and practically bolt for the exit, the lingering scent of each other following them out into the hallway as they disappear in opposite directions.