Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“If I die, you’ll never know the truth!”

“I don’t mind a little detective work.”

As he lay on the building’s helipad, blood trickling from his left shoulder, the only thing Nicholai could do was be pissed that those would be his last words. Begging and bowing to the whim of a lower-ranked, younger officer wasn’t exactly a good look. If he had to put a price on his life at that moment, while that thought bounced around in his head, he might as well throw himself in the bargain bin or on a yard sale table. It was the equivalent of starving and begging a rat for scraps.

Nicholai could hear the missile fly above his head, to make things even better. Such a poor time for fireworks.

When he heard the sound deafen though, replaced by the familiar chk, chk, chk of a helicopter propeller, he thought the blood loss was going to his head.

“You haven’t changed,” A voice taunts once the helicopter lands. The voice was smooth, and calculated. It was the most honeyed and scathing balance of a cat’s purr and a snake’s bite.
The door slides open, and Nicholai half-expected ominous smoke to flow out of the copter as further confirmation that whoever he was about to see was more of a supervillain from the 80s than he was–fucker sounded like Skeletor with a cold.

“Time’s ticking, Ginovaef. Get in.”

Nicholai was half tempted to just let the damn missile take him, knowing that death would likely be easier than whatever monologue he’d have to hear–as well as getting up and walking to the copter with the piercing pain in his shoulder. Begrudgingly though, he acquiesced.
The Silver Wolf sat down with a huff, pained groan, and curse in Russian. When he got situated and looked at the figure in front of him, he was tempted to jump right back out as the helicopter took off.

“You’re losing your touch. You know the transfer is in its final stages, and I will not tolerate delays.”

“Had a setback. Didn’t expect a young woman to come in and make mess of things. You of all people should know about setbacks.”

The figure only smiled with his teeth faintly showing, and Nicholai couldn’t help but think that his grin made him seem more deserving of the nickname ‘Silver Wolf’ than the man who actually owned it.

“Looks pretty nasty,” The individual noted, gesturing to Nicholai’s shoulder, which was drenched in a mix of freshly flowing and dried, crusting blood. “Why don’t we get you some help?”

“I’ll manage,” Nicholai hissed, his eyes never leaving the man across from him, watching him as if he’d recklessly draw a gun and shoot him–either in the head or the other shoulder if he was feeling particularly feisty today. “How do I know ‘help’ doesn’t include you putting a bullet in my skull?”

The figure leans closer, and Nicholai can see a ruby color behind the figure’s shades. “You’re lucky I find you amusing. I’m giving you one more chance, but am reducing your payout since you didn’t get it right the first time. Maybe you’ll learn your lesson if you stay alive.”
As the figure spoke, Nicholai couldn’t help but think about how lucky the individual across from him was that the U.B.C.S. agent couldn’t put him in a chokehold.
“I’m working on a new experiment and need test subjects,” the figure started, leaning back to an eerily relaxed position. “I need you to find some… Old friends of mine. Do that, and I might not repurpose you as a test Tyrant. Are we clear, Ginovaef?”

Through gritted teeth, Nicholai only said one word.

“Crystal.”

Chapter Text

In case anyone was wondering, that empty and cold feeling I felt when fleeing Raccoon City in the copter with Carlos never left. If anything, it clings to me now. Icy, prickling flames dance on my skin, serving as both the angel and devil on my shoulders. Though I suppose even the most devout saints can become sinners, and the most lawful can become bastards when faced with disaster. 

Scanning the area around the school, I can’t hold back the pang in my heart when I look at the playground. Little girls and boys used to run around there, screaming and running away to hide from friends in a game of tag or cat-and-mouse, likely up on the monkey bars. Now though, they likely had to seek refuge there from their friends for a different reason. The dried claret staining the thick, plastic, and metal equipment was enough to peel my eyes away from it… Only for me to see the Umbrella van outside… With broken, bloodied animal cages.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I hiss, drawing my handgun and cocking it. “Just my luck.”

I let my footsteps stalk along the ground–flat, even, and quiet. I almost feel like a cat, the way I pad along the blacktop toward the back doors. Carefully, I pull the door open and pray to God that no alarms would go off. What I wasn’t prepared for was the loud squeak the door would let out. “Christ. WD-40 exists guys…”

Almost on cue, I heard the broken, gurgling growls of some stragglers. Thank God it’s human–or at least, was human–and not canine. Swerving around them, I make my way to the cafeteria with the hopes of finding something–anything–to eat. Maybe they have some of those boxes of raisins that seem to last forever, with another twenty years added on–just to be safe.

As I walk in, I never realized how much school cafeterias look like large caves with the lights off. And with caves, come bears. Well… Dogs. Though covered in blood and viscera, their ears sticking straight up, they looked more like wolves. Silver-haired, backstabbing wolves. The fur beneath the carnage was dark, making them all the more difficult to see in this… Cave. Okay, this analogy is getting annoying. They’re dangerous little fucks is the point here. 

With the return of my cat-like prowess, I tiptoe toward the kitchen across the way, moving faster the closer I get to it. I was home free. Only just a few feet away, Jill! You’ve got this, you’ve–

Clang, thunk, tap, tap…

Fuck. Fucking aluminum cans.

Weak whimpers became feral growls. Feral growls became barks. Barks became roars that you’d only hear in horror movies. 

This is what I get for not recycling.

The first Cerberus sprinted and lunged at me with the speed and sudden vigor of lightning. The others, moving together, were a goddamn thunderstorm. There was no way in hell my trigger finger was itchy enough to take them all out at once, so–like lightning–I had to bolt. Sorry. The closest thing to me that remotely looks safe is a steel, walk-in freezer peeking out from just inside the kitchen. 

I can hear the nails from the dogs’ paws tapping and scraping on the cafeteria’s bloodied, dirtied tile floor, getting only slightly louder than the pounding of my heart. It almost felt like my heart was racing faster than I was toward the kitchen. I practically dive into the freezer, throwing the door open and shut. Only for one of those little bastards to wedge its way in. It took all my strength to keep it from getting in. I thought I’d snap it in half before it got to me. 

Inside the freezer, the Cerberus’ barking sounds like gunfire. Loud, piercing, and threatening as it bounced around the steel cube.

Wait…

The barking… It didn’t sound like gunfire. It wasn’t gunfire–especially considering the dog, somehow, despite the clamping pressure it had against the freezer and its doorway–backed up and scampered off, whilst the sound continued.. Though, there was gunfire ringing out in the cafeteria. How the hell is someone alive and not being torn apart by these monsters? How are they not screaming? How come the dogs sound like they are? Why do they sound… Scared?

The shots became almost rhythmic as they mixed in with the cries of the deadite dogs. Blam, bark, whine, blam, bark, whine… It was the most jarring, grotesque beat I’d ever heard. Whoever this was, they knew exactly what they were doing. Neither fear nor death seemed to walk with them. Only cool, calculated, confidence.

Then, it went–surprisingly quickly–deafeningly silent. As if the blams and bams of the gun I could hear weren’t deafening enough. I wondered how crisp, ominous silence could make my ears bleed–almost screaming for something to fill the empty void that was once preoccupied with blams, bams, and bangs.

The freezer whips open, the door slamming against the outside–sounding just like gunfire all its own. Before I could snap at… Whoever the hell it was for making so much noise, I push myself back against the wall and try to draw my gun. Again, just my luck, I stumble and fall to the ground, my gun getting caught in the holster.

 The first thing I saw when I looked up was a shiny, silver magnum in my face, followed by silver hair and a wolfish grin. A backstabbing, silver-haired, wolfish grin, followed by a low, husky chuckle. When the figure spoke, his words–well, word–were sharp, calculated. Like the gunfire and barking, it was piercing, even if it was quieter than the formers. Hearing the voice, my reflexes kicked in and I felt like lurching or cringing–maybe even ducking for cover. The voice was… Far too familiar for my own comfort. 

When the figure spoke, it sounded like a bark of its own.

“Stay.”

Chapter Text

As if the dogs weren’t bad enough, the big, bad, Silver Wolf was in front of me. Nice going, Little Red…

“Well, well, well… It seems I underestimated you, Miss Valentine. Maybe you do have a sense of self-preservation after all.”

Miss Valentine… Self-preservation…

No fucking way.

My eyes narrow in on the figure and move away from the salt-and-pepper hair and that sly smirk. They move to meet the bloodied and battered U.B.C.S. uniform and the patched-up bullethole in the figure’s left shoulder. 

“What, is Umbrella making ghosts now? Am I seeing things?”

Another, deep, wicked laugh. Carlos was right. This guy really is a villain from the 80s. “Only the person that saved your life. I’m still waiting for that thank-you. Though I could let it go… For a price.”

“I had it covered, Nicholai.”

“Oh of course. Pardon me,” he scoffed, drawing out the last syllable as he held out his hand. “Because running and hiding in freezer like scared little rabbit is ‘having it covered.’”

I look at him with wary, furrowed brows and slowly take his hand, getting to my feet. Meeting him at eye level, searching his greyish-tinted, green eyes for any sign of an ulterior motive. Several beats of hostile silence passed before I said a word. “How the hell did you make it out of Raccoon City? I thought you were–”

“Let’s just say,” he cut me off. “I had help. Unlike you, someone sees me as an asset. Not a weak, bleeding heart like… Well, you.”

“I’m still alive, all on my own–unlike you.” I gesture to his bullet wound. “If anything, Nicholai, you’ve got the bleeding heart. I heard what you said to me before the chopper took off too. Interesting choice, making your last move–potential last words to me–begging for us to get you on that helicopter. And you’re the one who said all S.T.A.R.S. were soft.”

It was my turn to laugh. If I didn’t know better–or maybe it was the kitchen’s sorry excuse for lighting–I’d say Nicholai’s face grew flushed.

“Svoloch'…” I heard him growl under his breath, looking at me with daggers for eyes. That enough felt like a pat on the back. He backed up and turned around to leave the kitchen. “Come.”

I take my gun from the holster and hold it a little tighter. “Why…? What are you up to?”

“What’re you, my mother?” He spins and looks at me while holding his arms out, backing up toward the door to keep moving. “Don’t ask questions and just do as I say. You forget I know how to shoot a gun.”

Frustration and annoyance groan their way out of me. “Will you at least tell me where we’re going? So I can decide if I want to follow you or not…” I mumble the last part. 

In between groans, grunts, and the sounds of falling bodies, I hear him call out from around the corner–by the doors where I came in. “Safehouse. Not far from here. They’re looking for Raccoon City survivors to find out what happened there.”

The way he spoke sent a shiver down my spine. It was like all the emotion–even the annoying, cunning bitchiness–was ripped out of him. He sounded robotic, like he was instructed to say that. It made me wonder as well how he just… Showed up, only to leave the school–with me no less. Something wasn’t adding up. Was he…

“Were you following me or something?” I ask, catching up to him. “Or were you hunting me?”

“I only hunt prey worth my time, Valentine.” 

There it was. The emotion was back. So why did it feel even more off? And why didn’t he answer me? Did I want him to, to begin with?

“Recovery mission,” he tells me after a minute–unprompted, may I add. “My client’s got me running around and finding the lot of you, likely putting me on a damn babysitting job. You were the easiest of the bunch.” In between gunshots, I hear him finish. “Can’t tell if that’s good or bad thing.”

“And your client is…?”

He finally looks at me, his key-lime eyes twinkling with glints of mischief. “Miss Valentine… For someone who likes playing detective, you’re acting like the answers will be handed to you on silver platter. Besides, we both know I can’t disclose that information.”

I roll my eyes in an effort to get away from his. “This is going to be a long trip. My day was going so well, too.”

“Ha!” Nicholai barked. “Well then, maybe I should let you turn around and play dogcatcher some more, miss ‘I had it covered.’”

One trigger-pull. That’s all it would take, Jill. “Christ… Maybe we should play the quiet game for a while. Though you probably don’t know how it works.”

He snickers. “Maybe I should’ve left you in that school if you’re going to act like little girl.”

“And maybe I should’ve left you on that roof with a bullet in more places than your shoulder.” I snap, looking him in the eye. “I’ve got a mouth too, Nicholai. I know how to use it.”

“Use a gun as well as you use your mouth, then we’ll talk.”

Oh, just watch me.

***

The lonely, dilapidated city streets were a little too familiar for my liking. God, was I getting tired of that word–familiar. I half-expected to see RPD cars littering the roads or Umbrella logos scattered around like grim, white-and-crimson confetti. A blistering reminder of the past. All I could do was pray that there wouldn’t be any more painful reminders–nothing major, at least. 

As I held my gun, my knuckles turned to ice caps, hawk-like eyes bouncing between the surrounding area and Nicholai. When my eyes landed on him, I noticed him looking at me. He had the face of a man working out a relatively difficult puzzle, or articulating a rather complex thought. 

My eyebrows furrow, trying to see the cogs turning in his mind. “Trying to figure out how to get rid of me? Already? And here I thought we were going to have a wonderful adventure.”

The venom in my sarcasm was probably enough to kill someone. Maybe I should try harder. 

His eyes moved away, finding purchase on the ground as we walked. “Just trying to… Figure you out. Nothing more.”

“What’s there to figure out? You know enough to decide whether you’re with me or against me. Seems like we’re on good terms as of now… Or… Terms, at least.”

“No, no, no,” he retorts, waving his hand as he speaks. “I’m trying to figure out why you, and only you, are willing to risk your life for the entire world–one that’s likely already in flames everywhere we go. A badge, gun, and uniform are not the same as all-access pass or superhero cape.”

I hated to admit it, but part of me felt intrigued by the direction our banter had taken. Not to say I didn’t think Nicholai and I couldn’t have a civilized conversation, but rather I thought we’d have to be really bored for that.

“In a dog-eat-dog world… Or a zombie-dog-eat-zombie-dog world, I guess, someone must keep them alive.” I look down at my feet, listening to the leaves crunch and crumble under my boots. “Everyone seems a little preoccupied right now, so I’m stepping up to the plate. A shame you aren’t doing the same, Nicholai.”

A laugh bounced out of him. One that, it sounded like, he wasn’t prepared for. “You Americans and your precious sense of self-righteousness. I don’t think the wisdom I’ve been imparting upon you is getting through, Miss Valentine. The only life that matters–”

“Is your own, yeah, yeah,” I finish, mocking his accent. “Believe me, I’ve heard that phrase so much that I won’t forget it. You can sleep peacefully tonight now.”

Nicholai stopped and turned to me. Before I could properly process his sudden stop, I almost walked into him, freezing just before our boots could touch. He looked me in the eyes in a way that made his feel like acid-green hooks. Any time I tried looking away, they’d always pull me right back, making me squirm and writhe internally all the while. His face and stance were steely and stern. If I hadn’t known him any better, I would’ve believed he was silently threatening or taunting me to egg him on more.

“You joke now, girl,” he starts, his voice reduced to nothing more than a chilling growl. “When you’re where I was, forcing words together to beg for your life–in too much pain to think at all–you’ll be asking God why you didn’t stay lone wolf–instead becoming little rabbit. Nothing more than prey.”

I don’t speak. I don’t move. I just look at him, begging my mind to take me somewhere else. I’ll even go back to Raccoon City if need be, just… Anywhere but here. With him.

He continues. “Sure, go on, joke and taunt me. Carry on all you want now. Your tongue may shoot bullets of its own, but meet me on a battlefield–mano a mano. We’ll see who walks away, and see if sparkling wit can save you then.”

Nicholai steps closer to me and gets in my face. Though, it didn’t seem like he was going to spew another vague threat–but rather a secret. “A word of caution, Jill Valentine: Your body is not invincible like iron… So be very aware.”

God, he really was like a wolf, huh? Growling, bearing his teeth and everything. I’m half expecting him to pounce on me and rip me apart like one of those freaks.

“That goes both ways,” I hiss at him, getting up close in his face. “Nicholai Ginovaef. You better watch yourself.”

He laughed again with a tight-lipped smirk, and it took everything I had not to reach out a few inches in front of me and strangle this fucker. The way he looked at me, smirked at me, it felt like he pitied me. Or, at the very least, was humoring me, was amused by me. “Such a threatening girl… I’m shaking in my boots.”

It took all I had not to spit on those boots. Oh, how I wish the venom in my sarcasm was real. This bastard needed to burn somehow.

Chapter Text

“You keep flipping that knife like that and you'll get a nasty cut.”

“Miss Valentine, are you worried about me?”

If Jill saw that underhanded smirk one more time, maybe she'd draw her knife too. It's been a while since she'd had target practice anyway. 

“Maybe I'm looking out for my best interest; I can't kill you myself if you fuck up and do it for me, now can I?”

Nicholai almost looked amused. Almost. “Oh, don't sell yourself short. You could easily kill me if you wanted to.”

“Is that your way of giving me permission, Nicholai?” Jill looked over at him, resting her head against the wall of the run-down, sorry excuse for a house they'd sought refuge in. Her soft eyes lifted up and down in time with the sleek, black Bowie knife the Russian was idly tossing in his right hand. 

“I said, ‘if you wanted to,” the man answered, green eyes meeting blue with challenging allure. “Though, a big girl like you shouldn't need permission to get your hands dirty.”

“And what the hell makes you think I don't want to slit your throat and shut you up, hm?” Jill's voice was a little snappier than she'd intended, though the duration in which she even remotely cared was a fleeting one. “Or maybe I want to take my knife and flip it right between those beady little eyes. Decisions, decisions…”

Laced with audacity, Nicholai laughed . “I'd love nothing more than to see you try, little firecracker.”

“First permission, then an invitation. I'm almost flattered.”

Nicholai adjusted on the ground, sitting with one leg bent and the other laying limply straight. He pointed at her with the knife's blade. “I stand by what I said about you and that gun earlier. You fight and use it as well as you do with your mouth, maybe you'll wake up tomorrow still breathing.”

The young woman's brow quirked. “I'm still here, aren't I? With one less bullet hole in my shoulder than you, may I add.”

Nicholai grimaced, staring a new kind of blade into her. “Your crowning achievement, I see. A shame nothing beats it.”

“Yet,” Jill warned, her hand slithering down to her sheath and wrapping around her knife. Her eyes never left his, almost sizing him up. 

“Oh dear,” he mocked. “Should I start running now? Or should I hide? Maybe… Beg on my knees for you to spare little old me?”

The former S.T.A.R.S. member's hand lifts the knife from the holster with deceptively frozen stealth. She's silent. Deathly silent. All she does is watch the man across from her like a predator to prey, practically begging him to say more. To give her a reason to flick her wrist in his direction. To make her not regret it.

Thank God for this dumbass’ smart-ass mouth. Awful kind of him, granting Jill's wish like that. 

“If you weren't so hesitant, maybe your comrades would still be alive or out of their misery. Your precious Raccoon City might–”

Even if she wasn't so irritated by his antics, that would've been enough to send her flying into a tizzy. Like a bullet and an itchy trigger-finger, the knife flew from her hand and spun in his direction. To Nicholai's shock, it landed just above his head, actually taking some of his short, silver hair with it. The force of the woman's throw sent half the blade careening deep into the wall. 

What a button to push, Nicholai. 

With a slight flinch and partial, broken curse in Russian, his eyes met Jill's. He swore that her eyes weren't blue anymore, but the color of the blood her hands craved from him. If he didn't know better, he thought she'd pounce at him and drive that dagger right through his heart–no matter how cold and useless it was. Maybe he was projecting, whatever that meant.

“Next time,” she growled, matching the face of the hunter she was wearing, “I'll pin your tongue against the wall with that knife. If you know what's good for you right now, you'll use that sense of self-preservation and shut your fucking mouth.”

Before he even had the chance to, Jill hopped up and walked toward the room's entrance. The air between them, the hot, tense air, was pierced by Nicholai’s words, and… Laugh. 

When Jill said she didn't mind detective work, determining what about her peaked Nicholai's amusement wasn't in the intended job description. 

“Not bad, Valentine. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed.”

She froze and faltered for a moment before glancing over her shoulder, the quiet lilt in his tone doing most of the heavy lifting to catch her off guard. It sounded like he had more to say, though Jill couldn't be bothered to turn and spare him another glance–or the dignity. She kept walking without a second thought. He took that as enough of a win to get under her skin. 

Though, a battle's win didn't signal a war's end–something each of them knew well enough.

The cold, smooth metal of Jill's knife reminded Nicholai of its presence as it pressed flatly to his head as he leaned back, and he lifted his hand up to rip it from the wall's plaster. Dusty pieces of it, along with shreds of stray wallpaper fell into his hair–the white plaster camouflaging itself in his salt-and-pepper hair. 

Studying it, the first thing he noticed was how murky the edge looked. It either had been hastily, crudely cleaned, or not at all. Every battle she'd ever fought made itself known all at once on the blade, yet it all mish-mashed into something indistinguishable. 

A dangerous, sharp little thing that he couldn't tell anything about. How fitting, he thought. 

A litany of knicks and wear-marks on the hilt and teeth dashed the blade's edge. Hell, it looked like the woman did fight a war, burning world aside. The man did his best to envision what on Earth she could've possibly ripped to shreds before they crossed paths, though his pragmatic brain didn't let him get far. He wondered if she was indirectly preparing for the day she did the same to him. The image of her even remotely trying tickled him as it wormed into his mind, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. 

He followed the scratches like a game of connect-the-dots down the knife's cutting edge, noticing an engraving when he flipped it over. 

Être intrépide, c'est avoir moins peur.

Nicholai let his pale eyes dance over each line of the knife's engraving, as if searching for the translation of the phrase in its grooves. He was in the process of making a mental note of getting the answer out of her somehow when a creaking crash pierced the silence of the house. It was followed quickly in tow by wood hitting the ground with a smack, Jill's strangled cry, glass breaking, and guttural growls.

Though he didn't hop up or sprint, Nicholai didn't stroll into the house's kitchen either. His reflexes quickly made up for it when he saw Jill struggling on the floor with an infected man. 

He only noticed the hole in the ceiling the creature tumbled through for a moment, knocking it off Jill with a harsh kick. They both recoiled slightly at the loud, pronounced crack of snapping bones.

Landing on its back, the zombie showed its face–making Nicholai’s eyes widen out of nowhere the second they met the infected's. His face flashed with things Jill didn’t think he was capable of: Anger. Surprise. Softened features. Familiarity. Fear. Vulnerability.

Unprompted, and ravenously, he used Jill’s knife and wailed on it. It seemed like each stab to the head became more incensed than the last, biting Russian swears and scathing threats flew from his mouth as he plunged the blade into what little pulp remained of the undead’s head. Had he forced the weapon down any harder, it would’ve snapped against the floor or bone of the monster–hell, maybe it would’ve snapped right there in his hands. 

With all the noise, Jill rushed to pull the bloodied mercenary away from the viscera, only to be met with a bullet-like elbow to the face. She swore she heard the crack of it breaking, though she couldn’t be sure. 

Falling to the ground, Jill’s hands instinctively went to catch the blood falling from her nose. “What the fuck, Nicholai? I was trying to–”
“Don’t say a fucking word,” Nicholai growled, dropping her knife at his knees as he stumbled to his feet. His voice was hauntingly level, save for exhausted panting. It neared a growl, one oozing unspeakable threats. 

For once, Jill seemed taken aback by his sudden bristled demeanor. Scared wasn’t the right word, but rather wary of his powder-keg disposition. Before she could react, he was up and bounding up the house’s rickety staircase.

All Jill heard from him the rest of the night was the slam of a door and the occasional throwing of breakables he’d found in wherever he sequestered himself in. 

All Jill could think of the rest of the night was the zombie’s face and what about it could’ve suddenly set off such a loose cannon like Nicholai. Her feet itched to carry her to the room he was in, and finding whiskey only agitated the feeling. 

Cursing under her breath with a heavy sigh, she grabbed the bottle and made her way in his direction. Itches were meant to be scratched, after all.