Chapter Text
Looking at your CV, you’d think a toddler got a hold of the document and went to town crafting a story more absurd with every second. It started out normally enough – as they so often do – with you settling into a teaching position at RC College. Though a bit lower on the pay scale, it was a stable job with good benefits, and the added perk of building your own classes. No more Gen Eds forced upon your plate. You’d done your time with those as a TA back in grad school. But here, now, you were your own professor. Dr. Y/n L/n.
Aside from your youth compared to many of the other faculty, and from the unique twists your curriculums held for students, you’d grown to be a bit of a crowd favorite in the department. Part of that, admittedly, was the result of what you did outside of the classroom. For one, there were a good chunk of students who lived near your neighborhood and thus have witnessed you hack squat almost 300 lbs in the gym. Every Monday night the campus gym held faculty-only kickboxing classes, which you were a fan of. And for another, your experience traveling to various dig sites, collaborating on museum exhibits, finding and translating the most absurd artifacts made you a popular topic of conversation among the student population.
As if it were so shocking that professors had lives outside of the classroom.
To be fair, some of that clout was aided when S.T.A.R.S. officers would occasionally filter into the back of your lecture halls and snag you away to consult on cases. You’d been close friends with Jill Valentine even before moving to Raccoon City; so when the move was official, she was quick in getting you plugged into her little network. For a time, life there was good. Great even!
Then 1998 happened.
Technically, the Incident took nine days to come to a head. Some, like Jill and Leon, wouldn’t get out of there until the strike day: October 1st. But you had your reckoning earlier.
September 25th and 26th. A two-act play, you often said. The first act was set on campus. On a day much like today with the same sort of uncomfortable instinct nudging at your bones. Students were in small groups with their nearest peers, discussing this week’s content with a list of guiding questions. Some light lo-fi music was playing from your podium up front as you meandered around the room, answering questions and listening in. Some of the roll-out chairs in the large, crescent-shaped tables squeaked as students readjusted. Your black booties clacked their heels softly against the thinned carpeted steps back down to the front of the room. An analog clock dutifully ticked off the minutes left in the lecture.
And as you turned around, hands on the podium’s edges and mouth ready for final remarks, a figure slid in through the door at the top of the room. A figure that, for their size, moved with a predator’s quick stealth as the door shut without sound and they leaned back against the wall, thick arms crossed over chest and one boot kicked back. When their eyes met yours, the grin on their face was paired with a wink.
That was the key difference between that day in Raccoon City and today.
“All right everyone!” Calling the room into focus, you changed the slidedeck with the background hum of zippers and papers shuffling. “Discussion leaders please bring me your group papers before you leave. Remember the text analysis due next week. Try not to die before I see you next, and have a lovely rest of your week!”
Your loud clap acted as a gavel sending them to recess. Chatter grew in time with steps up to the exit, the figure that’d been up there now lost to your peripheral vision as you set about collecting your things. When it died down and the frequency of the door swinging open and closed diminished, a shadow appeared before you.
“Hello Chris,” you sighed, head rising with a knowing little grin that came easily in his presence nowadays.
“Good group of kids?”
“You ask that every time. And yes. Better than last semester’s.”
“High praise.”
“If only.” Slinging your bag onto your shoulder, you fell in step with him out of the classroom. With students searching for their next classes, the hallways to this building were alight with activity. Yet, Chris always had a way of clearing a path. Even if he didn’t realize it (though he did) he had an aura that seemed to make a bubble around you both. And because it was Chris, there were quite a few side glances made until you found yourselves out in the Quad.
“So, what brings you by today? Consultation? Field mission? Or, as I beg relentlessly and have yet to experience, surprise coffee delivery?”
He chuckled at that, weaving effortlessly through the crowd. When a skateboarder came zipping past, a hand flew to your lower back. “If you asked, I would bring you coffee.”
“No woman ever wants to ask for that.”
“Well, then, I’ll keep that in mind for another time. Now, how long do you think it’ll take you to get a bag ready?”
A laugh ripped through your throat then. “Knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“Field op.”
“How would you –”
“You are wearing the jacket, Chris. Specifically the jacket you always wear pre-mission, usually while prepping supplies.” It was close to a standard military jacket, bearing the tans, blues, and olive greens of the BSAA. Amidst that motley array, the cut of the jacket spoke more of sleek tact rather than bulky pockets-galore. Its shoulders especially were designed to resemble armor with their colored pads, though it only served to accentuate the muscle Chris had.
“You…are too observant.”
“Lies,” you said, looking forward nonetheless. You knew he was talking about your vocalized assessment, but something in the back of your mind told you he seemed to hear those less-than-professional thoughts making your cheeks tinge just the slightest. “You like observance.”
“In work situations absolutely.” Rounding another corner, you two left the main artery of campus and entered one of the few brick buildings in the secondary vein. Right out of the entrance you took another left to the compact staircase.
Only when you two left the current into the second floor and were in sight of your office did you scoff. “What? Don’t like to be perceived?”
“That’s you, and we both know it.”
“Touché.”
The teeth of your key rumbled inside the lock and the knob eventually gave way. Stepping halfway inside, you tossed the stack of student papers onto the main desk (tomorrow’s problem) and locked up as you headed back out.
“Did you walk today or drive?” He asked.
“Walked.”
“Good day then?”
“No,” your chipper tone conflicted with the word. Ever since that day in Raccoon City, you found yourself driving to campus more than ever. If another outbreak happened, you needed a quick getaway nearby. Even if your little townhouse (BSAA and university paychecks cushioned you there) was within walking distance, you only really found yourself walking there on good days. Days when those mouth breathing, body jerking undead were quieter in the mind. Days when the names of dead students weren’t the first things to greet you in the morning.
Chris knew that. So there was no surprise to the confused expression as he tilted his head at you. “No?”
“Doc is testing my catastrophic thinking. We have a compromise that when I have the urge to fall back on old thinking she wants me to try countering it at least twice a month.”
“Ah. And?”
“I hate it.”
He barked out a laugh then, briefly putting a hand to your lower back to turn you towards the small parking lot behind your building. His car was spotted instantly. “There is a difference between catastrophizing and instinct.”
“Oh, I’m aware. You try telling my therapist.”
“You can get a different therapist.”
“That requires notifying the BSAA on why I’m dropping this one and waiting for another to be pre-approved.”
Head just above the hood of his car as you rounded to the other door, his lips were pursed as he rolled his eyes. Even though he, Jill, and a few others had been the founders of the organization, its growth had resulted in handing over the administrative reins to others. Said others had a way of annoying even Chris every now and then. And considering the things you fought against and lived through, you fell onto the list where the U.S. government "requested" you to have therapy—alongside Jill, Leon, Chris, virtually anyone who acted as the front lines against some of the darkest things most civilians thought only lived in nightmares. But, to your conjoined mercy, he said nothing more on it as he revved the engine and started to pull out of the space; his right arm reached behind your seat while he reversed, checking behind as you slid your bag to your feet.
“How big of an op are we talking about this time?”
“Not big in terms of numbers.”
“Ah.” There was a reason your insides had been shifting today. Reaching onto the dash, you snagged a manila folder and began thumbing through it. Some of what was in here was already known to you. A few codenames or locations were recognized from briefings you handled in separate tasks. A particular eagle’s-eye picture of a nondescript town with missile coordinates squared over its northern part. That one you knew from when Leon had called you up for an assist last month.
The radio sang faintly, drowned out by the A/C blasting on you both as Chris drove dutifully to your place. It allowed you time to go through the file twice before he finally pulled into the driveway. He got out first, punching in your garage code and weaving beneath the moving metal to head further inside. It was so normal and yet you still had the mind to note that little motion. Of all the passcodes you two needed to memorize, from computer logins to armory locks, the fact that he still remembered the code you’d given him a couple years ago did something to your insides.
You rubbed your knuckles on your sternum to push it at bay.
Chris made himself at home in the kitchen while you pulled your regulation-duffle out of its spot in the hall closet. You kept it well-stocked but still went about checking its contents and adding whatever you thought was necessary. From there you went about the house prepping it for a nondescript time away.
“Should I water the fern or no?” You asked once returning to the main living and dining area. The duffel was set by Chris’ feet while you crossed to the coffee table with your planted friend on it.
“Water it. The plan is for a domestic consult, roughly a day or two, then we move international. Timeline for that is unknown.”
Well, at least you made preparations for students to go asynchronous for occasions like this. “Who all is on this one?”
There was a small rattle to your faucet while filling the bottle. It was emptied into the pot as Chris sighed. “Me, you, Jill, Rebecca–”
“Should I be worried that this is the Dream Team?”
The slightest smile graced his face as Chris shook his head. “Just precaution. Ready?”
Closing the last of the blinds, you echoed him. The duffel was slung over Chris’s shoulder and you locked up as quickly as you entered. Routine told you that it would take only about ten minutes to get to BSAA headquarters. There was a near-perfect triangle between the university, your place, and the BSAA that was entirely intentional when you first moved here. So for ten minutes, you two talked solely about non-work related things. The latest sports game you caught, that congressman scandal filling news feeds, even your plans for the next food related endeavor you wanted to attempt. Homemade cannolis were going to happen, you swore it…for the fifth time that you found yourselves on this topic. Eventually, though, conversation dulled into a waiting silence as the BSAA headquarters came into view. Chris handed your clearance badges to the parking security and drove down into the underground garage. The last vestiges of daylight diminished beneath concrete and glass. And that dark curdling at the base of your gut got just a little bit bigger. Catastrophic thinking your ass. Instinct could never be denied.