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Partners	By : onionbelt Category: +M through R > Resident Evil Views: 5488 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil or any of its characters and make no money with this story. It's just for fun.

Chapter List
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Chris didn't appreciate how many people knew Jill until her funeral.
Most of the BSAA's there, of course: Clive O'Brian, Quint, Keith, the not-as-dead-as-he-seemed Parker Luciani, most of the bureau chiefs, a lot of agents, and dozens of cadets. There are a lot of young women among the newer recruits, relatively speaking, and they all seem to have a story about Jill, some quiet conversation or word of advice that kept them going.
Barry turns up with his wife and daughters in tow; Moira and Polly are fifteen and thirteen now, both bigger than most girls their age. Leon Kennedy's there, the first time Chris has met him face to face, and Chris finally gets the chance to thank him in person for passing on Claire's message from Rockfort Island. Carlos stumbles in a little drunk, which irritates a lot of people but Chris knows exactly how he feels, and by the time he leaves Chris has talked him into applying to the BSAA's South American branch. Kevin Ryman arrives late, which is a big surprise because Chris was pretty sure he was dead, and spends a lot of the funeral having a muttered argument with a blonde reporter named Ashcroft. One of the wreaths came with a card hand-signed by Rebecca Chambers, with no return address.
There are a lot of people there who nobody seems to know, a clandestine mob of black suits and sunglasses who all stand evocatively by trees on the edges of the cemetery. Some turn out to be journalists or biographers, looking for exit interviews with the BSAA's members after the organization's lost one of its founders, and the lucky ones get out with a severe dressing-down.
One of the mystery mourners looks familiar, and Chris tries to talk to her. She's Asian, in a conservative black dress and matching sun hat, and when she realizes he's coming her way she pulls a nearly perfect fade. A few mourners walk between them and block his line of sight for a few seconds, and when they're gone, so is she.
Everyone's expecting Chris to speak at the funeral. He doesn't.

The wake's predictably destructive. There are a lot of people who showed up to it that didn't go to the funeral, mostly the old crew from the post-Raccoon days. They rented out a bar near Jill's apartment, just some tavern with a stupid name that she liked because it was older than God and very British, and Chris spends most of the night breaking up fights. The GPC's picking up the tab through the BSAA, thank God, because a room full of cops, soldiers, and mercenaries can drink like nothing else.
Chris wanders out at maybe three in the morning, when the wake's dwindled down to the die-hards and the people passed out under tables, and he doesn't know where he's going until he's there. He sits down, leans against Jill's tombstone, and unscrews the cap on a bottle of bourbon.
The weather today's been discordantly beautiful and right now there isn't a cloud in the sky, nothing but stars overhead. London feels like it's mocking him.
Claire sits down next to him maybe half an hour later. She's changed into jeans and a black biker jacket and she's sober.
"Where's Leon?" Chris asks.
"Back at the hotel. He didn't need to be around for this." Claire sighs. "Also, we're not dating."
"You sure? Because the way he looks at you somet--"
"Oh, knock it off." She takes the bottle from him and drinks some bourbon, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "I know how you work. I wanted to be here when you finally cut the bullshit." She hands back the bottle.
"I think we would've gotten married," Chris says.
"You kinda already were. All you needed was a ring."
"She wanted to have kids, did I tell you that?"
"No, but she did." Claire leans back against Jill's tombstone, copying his posture. "I said you'd probably be the best dad in the world, unless you had a daughter. You'd lock her up until she was thirty."
Chris manages a harsh kind of laugh.
"It's okay, Chris," Claire says. "You're trying to be strong for everyone, but you don't have to be anymore. I'm here."
Chris takes a long drink from the neck of the bottle, the bourbon scorching his throat. It's almost empty, and he throws it against the closest tree as hard as he can. The bottle shatters on impact with a sound like a detonation.
"I don't know what to do now," he says. It's not really his voice. It's something guttural, from somewhere deep in his chest. "I don't know."
That's when he finally starts crying. Claire holds him, his face against her shoulder, and Chris just can't stop, wailing like a child. They're there for a long time, until the sun starts to come up, and then he lets her drive him home.

Chris doesn't go back to work for two weeks.
When he does, he is in the perfect mood to hurt someone and they, perhaps foolishly, keep giving him targets.
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