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It always started as harmless office banter. A casual jest here, an elbow to the ribs there.
Jill and Chris were two peas in a pod—thick as thieves, and easily the most synchronized partners in the precinct. They were the best of friends, and that was it. Period. There was no romantic spark, just the unshakable trust of two cops who had each other's backs. They both knew that, but the rest of the R.P.D. couldn't seem to catch the memo.
"Look, Chris, if you don't make a move on her, there are a half-dozen guys out there who will... myself included," Forest Speyer declared, leaning against Chris's desk with an entirely unearned level of confidence. He had been trying to buddy up to Jill for months, failing spectacularly at every turn.
Jill was ice cold when it came to office romance. Since they had been partnered up, Chris had watched her ruthlessly shut down at least six different guys. Dating’s not my thing. Not in this line of work. Chris couldn't argue with her logic. Being in S.T.A.R.S. was grueling. The hours were long and inconsistent, the environment was highly dangerous, and the job hardly left enough free time for a nap, let alone a committed relationship.
"Ahh, young love. I remember when my wife and I were in that phase..." Barry Burton sighed wistfully from across the room, disassembling and cleaning his magnum. Barry and his wife were a match made in heaven, raising two beautiful daughters, yada yada yada. He’d talk about his girls at the drop of a hat. Chris actually understood that impulse; he had a little sister he’d talk about given any opportunity, even if she could be a royal pain in his ass. Still, he missed Claire now that she was all grown up and off at college.
Barry leveled a stern, fatherly finger at Chris. "You know, Chris, she might get scooped up by someone else. You’re going to miss your window of opportunity."
Chris really did understand where they were coming from. He did. But what they didn't understand—what they literally couldn't know—was that he was gay. Very, decidedly, hopelessly gay.
He’d known since high school. His stint in the Air Force had been rough, teaching him to bury it deep, but he had finally accepted it within himself. The problem was that it was 1997, and 1997 was absolutely not ready for Chris Redfield to be loudly and proudly out of the closet. He was fine with that, he told himself. Mostly. Even if the suffocating secrecy did kill him a little bit inside. Okay, maybe a lot.
He wasn't even sure if Claire knew. He knew she’d be completely fine with it if she did, and honestly, she probably had it figured out already. She was way too damn perceptive for her own good.
"I'm serious, Redfield. If you don't buy her a drink, then I will," Forest goaded. Forest was a good guy—one of Chris's best friends, even—but there was absolutely no way Chris was going to let him subject Valentine to his terrible flirting.
"If I buy her a drink, will it finally get you off my ass?" Chris spat, glaring at his paperwork.
Forest laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "You say that like it's a chore, man. I'm trying to do you a favor here!"
Jill was his friend. If he just asked her out for a drink, he could explain the situation to her in private. Hey, I don't actually like you like that—not because I'm super gay and into men or anything, but because half of S.T.A.R.S. won't stop pestering me about it. And I know you get pestered about dating all the time, so maybe we just tell them we went out and it sucked or something?
Yeah, he was definitely going to have to workshop that pitch.
"Ten bucks says you won't do it by the end of the day," Forest challenged. Betting was practically a secondary currency in the S.T.A.R.S. office, but Chris usually wasn't one to willingly put more money in Speyer’s pockets.
"I'll hop in on that action," Brad Vickers chimed in, wheeling his desk chair over from across the room like a vulture spotting fresh roadkill.
Chris groaned, rubbing his temples. "Not you too, Vickers."
"Now, I'm not usually one to endorse this kind of locker-room behavior," Barry announced, pausing his gun-cleaning to look up with a competitive glint in his eye, "but you can count me in for twenty."
Fuck. If Barry—one of the only responsible adults in the room besides Captain Wesker—was in on this, Chris was completely screwed. He let out a long, defeated breath and buried his face in his hands.
"I don't know what's going on over here, but whatever it is, give Chris a break."
Speak of the devil. Jill Valentine sauntered into the S.T.A.R.S. office, casually plucking the beret from her head. She tossed it onto her own desk before dropping into her chair right beside Chris's. Upon her arrival, the three men immediately scattered, returning to their respective desks with intensely suspicious, forced nonchalance.
Jill’s eyes narrowed as she watched them retreat. She leaned over, speaking out of the side of her mouth. "What was that about?"
Chris didn't lift his head from his hands. "I'll tell you at lunch."
And with that, Jill left it alone. She was a natural snoop, but she knew when to push and when to back off. More importantly, she knew that if Chris promised to talk, he meant it. They would settle this at lunch.
—
The day carried on with mundane predictability. With nothing crazy happening out in Raccoon City, it was a strictly administrative afternoon: towering stacks of paperwork, routine gun maintenance, a few training exercises, and not much else.
To escape the precinct's suffocating gossip, Jill and Chris coordinated a late lunch. They ended up at a nearby diner—the kind of joint permanently stuck in the 1950s—and grabbed a pair of chrome-and-red-vinyl stools at the long counter. Chris twiddled his thumbs, his heart pounding a nervous rhythm against his ribs. It was now or never.
"The usual for you two?" asked Kathy, a fifty-something waitress with a name tag pinned to her lapel and a shade of lipstick that was entirely too loud for a Wednesday.
"Yes, ma’am," Chris nodded gratefully.
Jill pivoted in her seat. "So, Christopher..." Oh, god. "What was going on earlier in the office? Were those three giving you trouble?"
"When are they not causing trouble?" Chris chuckled nervously.
"You know what I mean. Why were they pestering you?"
Kathy returned, sliding a black coffee in front of Jill, and a glass of ice water and a Coke in front of Chris.
Chris sighed, stabbing his straw through the ice cubes and swirling them around as he worked up his courage. "Promise me that whatever I say, you won’t get weirded out?"
Jill squinted over the rim of her coffee mug. "O-kay? Sure."
"Seriously. It’s just... they made a bet. And I..." Chris trailed off, his chest tightening. "They were betting that I wouldn’t ask you out on a date."
There. He'd said it. It was out in the open.
Jill’s face softened. She looked at him, an unmistakable flash of pity in her eyes. "Oh, Chris... I’m..." She paused, pursing her lips gently. "I don't like you like that."
Chris panicked, stumbling over his words in a rush to correct the record. "No! I mean, same! I don't like you—wait, I mean, I don't like you like that. You're great, but it’s just—" He paused, scrubbing a heavy hand down his face. "Look, Forest was going to ask you out. I already know what you’re gonna say to him, so I thought I’d save you the hassle of dealing with his relentless pestering for the foreseeable future. If we just say we went out, then..."
Jill smiled, a dangerous glint returning to her eyes. "Those little shits. Interfering in people’s love lives. The absolute audacity." She shook her head just as Kathy returned with their plates: a turkey club for Jill, and a massive, onion-loaded burger with a shared basket of fries for Chris.
Jill plucked a fry from the basket, chewing on it thoughtfully. "Well, I certainly don't want you to lose a bet. And I definitely don't want to deal with Forest. Sure. When and where?"
Chris blinked. Huh. That was... significantly easier than he had anticipated. "J’s Bar?"
Jill leaned in close, a teasing smirk pulling at her lips. "Chris, if it’s going to be a date, it actually has to be believable. J’s? Really?"
"What? We go to J’s all the time!"
Jill waved a half-eaten fry at him. "Exactly. We already go there all the time as partners. We have to go somewhere nicer."
Chris thought for a second, his mind completely blanking. "Pizza?"
Jill rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Seriously, Christopher? Have you ever even been on a date?"
Chris blushed, abruptly averting his eyes. The truth was, no. He hadn't.
He had kissed a girl once in high school—an experience that firmly sealed the deal that he was decidedly not into women. Since then, he had slept with exactly two men. The sex had been decent, but they were strictly back-alley, under-the-radar hookups that left a sour taste in his mouth afterward. Chris wanted something real, something more, but the men who wanted him never seemed to care for the romantic stuff. So no, at his grown-ass age, Chris Redfield had never actually been on a proper date.
Seeing the sudden, genuine shift in his demeanor, Jill instantly relented.
"Romeo’s," she declared decisively, bumping her shoulder against his. "They have great pasta dishes there, and steak for you. It’s candlelit, it’s got live music... That is a place you go on dates to."
Chris swallowed down a dry bite of his burger. "It’s gonna be awkward."
"I know it’ll be awkward," Jill laughed, waving off his concern. "But we’re just two friends, getting a candlelit, romantic dinner together for the sake of winning a bet. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even have a decent time."
Chris huffed, a genuine smile finally tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Okay. Okay, we’ll go to Romeo’s. I’m surprised, though, Jill. You took this surprisingly well."
Jill laughed, speaking around a bite of her sandwich. "Only because it’s you, Redfield."
They spent the rest of their lunch hour ironing out the details of their fake rendezvous, establishing the ground rules of their impending performance over cold fries and empty glasses. By the time they walked back into the R.P.D. precinct, their story was bulletproof. Chris was going to pick her up at seven on Friday, and they were going to put on a show convincing enough to make Forest Speyer weep.
—
Nearing the end of their shift, Jill packed her things, threw her jacket over her shoulder, and bid her goodbyes to the rest of S.T.A.R.S.
Forest’s eyes tracked her movement the entire way to the door, waiting until he was absolutely confident she was out of earshot and eyesight. As soon as the heavy office door clicked shut, he rolled his chair across the aisle.
"So... Chris..." Forest leaned over, entirely abandoning the concept of subtlety, and spoke in a hushed, conspiratorial stage-whisper. Captain Wesker was still working on his computer in his office across the room, and Forest would rather not get chewed out by the boss so late in the day. "Is the package secured?"
Chris, stubbornly engrossed in his incident report, furrowed his brow without looking up. "Huh?"
Forest widened his eyes, making a ridiculous, exaggerated gesture with his hands. "You know. Has the eagle landed? Did you deploy the payload?"
Chris finally dropped his pen and turned around to face him. "What the hell are you talking about, Speyer?"
Forest sighed dramatically, dropping his face into his hands before looking back up. "Did you ask Valentine out or do I need to collect my ten bucks?"
Chris’s face fell into a deadpan stare, and he casually turned back to his paperwork. "Yeah. I did."
Forest leaned in closer, not letting up. "And...? She said...?"
"She said yes," Chris finished, flipping over a document and signing his name with a flourish.
Forest let out a loud bark of laughter, quickly slapping a hand over his own mouth to muffle it. "There is absolutely no fucking way. You're fucking with me, Redfield."
Chris tried to deflect, keeping his tone perfectly even to maintain the charade. "Seven PM. Friday after work. At Romeo’s."
Forest’s face instantly dropped, all trace of amusement evaporating. "Wait, you’re serious? Romeo’s? Isn’t that place like... crazy expensive? Like, wear-a-tie expensive?"
"What about Romeo’s?" Vickers whisper-shouted from across the room, nearly tripping over a wastebasket to get closer. "Did Chris actually grow a pair and ask out Valentine?"
Jesus H. Christ. They were fucking relentless. Chris sighed, rubbing his temples.
Forest turned to Vickers, pointing an accusatory thumb at Chris. "He's taking her to Romeo's."
Brad whistled low, leaning against the edge of Chris's desk. "Damn, man. I mean, we make more than the standard beat cops down in the bullpen, but you can't afford that place. I heard a plate of pasta there costs more than a decent pair of combat boots."
Chris’s stomach did a sudden, uncomfortable flip. Maybe I should’ve looked into this place before letting Valentine pick the restaurant, he thought. That woman... she absolutely did this on purpose. She’s going to bankrupt me over a fake date.
Chris cleared his throat, desperately trying to save face. "Is it really that surprising that I would want to treat her to something... nice?" Smooth, Chris. Real smooth.
"Would you boys get off his back? Chris is just being a gentleman," Barry's booming voice carried over from where he was sitting. He was already packing his magnum into its case for the night, shaking his head at the younger officers. "Besides, a classy lady deserves a classy dinner." Chris would hardly call Jill classy but Barry wasn’t the type to say otherwise.
Before Brad or Forest could fire back another tease, the heavy click of a door latch echoed from the corner of the room.
Wesker's office.
The shift in the room was instantaneous. Everyone scrambled back to their respective desks, suddenly looking very busy shuffling blank papers, aggressively adjusting their holsters, or zipping up their bags. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees as the captain stepped out, his trench coat draped meticulously over his arm.
"...Until tomorrow, gentlemen," Wesker said smoothly, his voice devoid of any warmth. He scanned the room from behind those god-awful sunglasses, lingering just a second too long on the huddled trio before turning on his heel and walking out of the office.
A collective sigh of relief washed over the room once his footsteps faded down the hall.
Everyone resumed packing up for real this time. Barry ambled over and clapped a heavy, reassuring hand on Chris's shoulder. To Chris, Barry was the closest thing to a father figure he had left. The older man knew all about Chris and Claire’s history and had become a steady, constant presence in their lives.
"You'll do just fine, Chris. Don't sweat it," Barry said warmly, offering a genuine smile. He then turned his head, projecting his voice slightly louder for the benefit of the surrounding company. "And don't let these jealous goons get to you. Have a good night, kid."
"Thanks, Barry. Night," Chris replied, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair.
As he walked out into the cool evening air of the R.P.D. parking lot, Chris pulled his car keys from his pocket. He had exactly forty-eight hours to figure out how to afford Romeo's, how to tie a Windsor knot, and how to survive a romantic, candlelit dinner with his best friend without completely losing his mind.
He let out a long breath, unlocking his car door. Friday is going to be a disaster.
—
Thursday came and went. And then Friday hit. And, oh God, was Chris dreading it.
It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable around Jill—he was anything but. To him, Jill was just another guy in the S.T.A.R.S. office. Granted, a guy with tits. And a nice pair, if the precinct locker-room talk was anything to go by. (Chris wouldn’t know; he wasn’t exactly looking, nor did he care.) Jill was his partner, and they had already been through a lot of shit together. Surely, one dinner would be fine. Right?
By the end of the day on Friday, the office tension was palpable. Forest and Brad were practically vibrating in their seats, waiting for the exchange. For Forest in particular, it was like watching a rom-com unfold right before his eyes; if he’d had popcorn, he’d be throwing it into his mouth by the handful.
Jill stood up from her desk, smoothly packing her things into her bag. Just as everyone was sure she was leaving without a word—and Forest was half out of his chair, ready to protest—Chris felt a light hand brush his shoulder.
He looked up. Jill was standing there in her street clothes, looking casually impeccable. "Are we still on for tonight at seven? Pick me up, would you?"
Chris smiled, desperately hoping he was successfully playing the part of a guy interested in a girl. "It’s a date."
Jill smirked, patting his shoulder once more. "See you then." She sauntered out of the office, leaving dead silence in her wake.
Forest looked absolutely gobsmacked. He had thought it was a joke, a bluff that Chris would eventually fold on. But that was real. Valentine. A hand on Chris’s shoulder. It’s a date.
"Holy shit, Redfield. You actually did it. You’re the first person who's ever scored a date with Valentine." Forest patted him on the back, nodding with solemn, misplaced pride. "Godspeed, soldier. And good luck. You’re gonna fucking need it."
Chris just laughed, shaking his head and standing up to gather his own things.
"Oh, and Redfield! Put on extra deodorant—actually, just take a whole second shower!" Forest shouted after him as he headed for the door.
"And clean out the dirty laundry and takeout containers from your car! It’s a pigsty!" Vickers added helpfully.
Chris sighed, making his way out to the parking lot. Vickers was right; he really did need to clean his car.
He arrived at his apartment a short while later. It wasn’t much, but it was his. Rent was too high in Raccoon City for him to complain, and he’d managed to snag a decent deal on this two-bedroom layout. Any extra money he had to spare usually went straight to Claire's college fund, even if she was vehemently against him spending his paycheck on her.
He dug through his closet and pulled out his only nice dress shirt and a pair of tailored black slacks. Aside from his formal Air Force uniform, this was the best he had. Something told him that taking Jill Valentine to a pasta joint did not warrant wearing his blues. He took Forest's advice, showering thoroughly and applying deodorant twice. He combed his hair back the way he usually did, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror.
He didn’t feel right. He felt like there should’ve been more to this—more prep, more excitement. But he didn’t have more to give. Besides, this was just Jill. His friend. He guessed she wouldn't be wearing a dress, either. She just wasn’t the type. A skirt, maybe, but he couldn't picture her in a full evening gown.
After a few deep breaths and one last nervous adjustment of his collar, he walked out of his apartment. Mrs. Higgins, the elderly neighbor from next door, was watering her hallway pothos and openly ogling him. He never went out. He certainly never went out dressed up. She was clearly enjoying this rare display.
He started up his car, the engine sputtering to life before settling into a familiar hum, and made his way to Jill’s place. It was a one-bedroom apartment that functioned more like a studio, but by mere technicality, it had a door for the bedroom.
He must've been spacing out with the engine idling by the curb, because a sudden knock on the passenger window made him jump out of his skin.
Jill was waving at him. She looked... great. She was wearing a sleek, tailored pantsuit, light makeup on her lashes, and a subtle gloss on her lips. She had on kitten heels, presumably because she wouldn’t be caught dead in stilettos. Heels are impractical for combat, she'd told him once. She wasn’t wrong.
But this wasn’t combat. This was a date. A fake one, sure, but a date nonetheless. Yet, with the way Chris’s heart was pounding relentlessly against his ribs, it sure as hell felt like a war zone.
"Hey there, stranger," Jill said, sliding into the passenger seat and clicking her seatbelt into place.
Chris froze for a second. His hands were gripping the steering wheel a bit too hard, his knuckles white, his eyes locked on the unmoving road ahead.
Jill paused, looking from the empty street back to Chris. "So... Romeo’s?"
Chris jumped, jarring the stick shift into first gear and shaking his head to clear it. "Uh, yeah. Romeo’s. Right."
He pulled away from the curb entirely too fast. What should have been a ten-minute drive turned into a harrowing six-minute sprint. Usually, Chris was a defensively safe driver, but tonight, his foot was a little heavy on the gas.
They pulled into the restaurant's parking lot, the tires squeaking slightly on the asphalt, and he threw the car into park. He went to tear open his door to play the gentleman, but Jill reached across the console and grabbed his arm.
"Chris..." she said, her expression caring but firmly serious. "It’s not a real date, okay? We’re just going out to eat."
Chris nodded, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders. Jill always knew exactly what he was thinking. She always seemed to do or say the exact right thing to ground him. He exhaled a long, shaky breath. "Just going out to eat. Two friends. Eating a fancy, romantic dinner together."
Jill smiled, her eyes crinkling. "Exactly. Two friendly friends."
---
Chris held the heavy mahogany door open for her. The moment they stepped inside, he realized he definitely should have researched this place before agreeing to it. The lighting was impossibly dim, casting heavy romantic shadows across the room. A pianist was playing soft, sweeping jazz in the corner. Floor-to-ceiling wine racks lined the walls, and there was a literal stone fountain bubbling in the center of the foyer.
"Do you have a reservation?" the hostess asked in a flat, thoroughly unimpressed tone, barely looking up from her podium.
"Uh..." Chris grunted, suddenly intimidated by the sheer amount of velvet in the room.
Jill neatly sidestepped him, taking charge. "Table for two. Under Valentine." Good save, Jill.
The hostess grabbed two oversized, leather-bound menus and finally looked up. "Right this way."
Of course, the hostess led them to a tiny, intimate table right in the dead center of the dining room. Chris could instantly tell that Jill was not happy about it. There was no view of the front entrance, no clear sightline to the kitchen doors, and no solid wall to their backs. It left them in a strategically poor, vulnerable position. This might have been a fake date, but that didn’t stop their S.T.A.R.S. instincts from running wild.
Jill stared blankly at the small table, then looked up at Chris, silently communicating her absolute refusal to sit there.
Having already made a fool of himself at the door, Chris decided to step up. "Um, actually, excuse me? Can we get a seat over there instead?" He pointed to a spacious booth lining the far wall—one that offered perfect lines of sight to both the main entrance and the emergency fire exit.
The hostess shrugged, looking slightly perplexed that they were deviating from her highly choreographed seating chart. "Sure."
They relocated to the booth. Chris pulled out the heavy wooden chair for Jill, earning a quiet "thank you," before they both tucked in and opened their menus.
When the waiter arrived, Jill ordered a glass of red wine. Chris ordered a whiskey, neat. If he was going to get through this evening without having a minor panic attack, he was going to need some liquid courage.
When the waiter arrived, Jill ordered a glass of red wine. Chris ordered a whiskey, neat. If he was going to get through this evening without having a minor panic attack, he was going to need some liquid courage.
The dinner itself actually turned out to be... nice. Really nice.
Once the initial awkwardness faded, they fell into their usual, easy rhythm. They complained about Wesker's impossible standards, debated whether Barry actually loved his magnum more than his wife, and laughed about Brad's terrible taste in coffee. When the food arrived—a massive, perfectly seared steak for Chris and a rich seafood linguine for Jill—they ate like two cops off-shift, dropping the posh pretense entirely.
The problem was that Chris's nerves hadn't entirely vanished, and his glass of whiskey had gone down remarkably fast.
"Another, sir?" the waiter asked, materializing out of the shadows.
"Yeah, hit me," Chris said, handing over the empty glass.
By the time the plates were cleared, Chris was on his third whiskey. He was feeling decidedly loose. The knot in his chest had completely unraveled, replaced by a warm, fuzzy haze. He leaned back in the booth, gesturing wildly as he finished a story about his time in the Air Force, accidentally knocking his butter knife off the table.
"Whoops. Man down," Chris chuckled, his words slurring just a fraction of an inch.
Jill rested her chin on her hand, an amused, affectionate smile on her face. She had nursed her single glass of wine the entire night. "You know, Redfield, for a guy who was terrified of this place two hours ago, you're certainly making yourself at home."
"I am a master of adaptation, Valentine," Chris declared proudly, missing his mouth slightly with his water glass. "Besides, I'm having a good time. You're a great fake date."
"I'm honored. But I think it's time to get the check before the real alcohol poisoning sets in," Jill laughed, waving the waiter over.
Chris insisted on paying, tossing his credit card onto the leather tray with a dramatic flourish. When they finally stepped out into the cool Raccoon City night air, Chris stumbled slightly on the curb.
Jill caught his arm effortlessly, steadying him. She looked at his flushed face and the glassy sheen in his eyes. She didn't say a word, just smoothly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his car keys.
"Hey! I can drive," Chris protested weakly.
"Not a chance in hell, big guy. Get in the passenger seat," Jill ordered, twirling the keys around her finger.
Chris didn't argue. He slumped into the passenger seat, the leather feeling incredibly comfortable. The drive back to his apartment was a blur of passing streetlights and the soft hum of the radio. When they pulled into his complex, Jill parked the car perfectly on the first try.
"Alright, Cinderella, end of the line," she said, cutting the engine.
Chris unbuckled his seatbelt, feeling a sudden wave of reluctance for the night to end. "Hey. You drove me home. It's only polite I offer you a drink. To, you know... celebrate our flawless performance."
Jill raised an eyebrow, looking at the dashboard clock. It was pushing eleven. "Chris, you've had enough to drink."
"I have beer! Light beer. Basically water," he grinned, leaning against the car door. "Come on. Just one. For victory."
Jill sighed, a small smile breaking through. "Fine. One beer. But if you start rambling about the shit you pulled in the Air Force, I'm leaving."
They made their way up to his apartment. Chris successfully navigated the locks on the second try and ushered her inside. He grabbed two cold beers from the fridge, tossing one to Jill, who caught it with practiced ease.
They settled onto his worn-in living room couch, the formality of the evening completely melting away. One beer quickly turned into a deep conversation about Claire's latest college drama. That empty bottle was soon placed on the coffee table, replaced by a second beer as they started complaining about the shitty standard issue firearms they were given. Irons is a cheap bastard. You think he’d at least get us better shit.
By the time they cracked open the third round, the meticulous pantsuit jacket had been discarded over an armchair, and Chris had long since untucked his dress shirt and rolled up the sleeves. The alcohol was definitely talking now, and it had a lot to say.
Jill suddenly sat up straight, crossing her legs at the knee and fluttering her eyelashes in a dramatic, exaggerated parody of a swooning debutante. She pitched her voice an octave higher. "Oh, Christopher... the steak tonight was divine. But tell me... what are your deepest, darkest hopes and dreams?"
Chris snorted, nearly choking on his beer. He aggressively set his bottle down and puffed out his chest, leaning his elbow heavily on the back of the couch. He deepened his voice into a gravelly, obnoxious baritone. "Well, Jillian. I just want to lift heavy things. And protect the weak. Did I mention my biceps? Let me flex them for you while I explain the difference between a Glock and a Beretta."
Jill doubled over, laughing loudly. "Oh my god, you're terrible. You sound exactly like Forest trying to flirt!"
"Oh, you want a real pickup line? Watch this." Chris cleared his throat, wiggling his eyebrows. "So, do you come here often? Because you look like a girl who really appreciates a high-caliber sidearm."
"Are we doing Barry now?" Jill countered, her eyes sparkling. "Because if we're doing Barry, I need to find a way to wedge my two beautiful daughters into this conversation within the next thirty seconds."
Chris howled, clutching his stomach. "Wait, wait, let me do you on a real date."
He sat up rigidly, squaring his shoulders and pulling his face into a terrifyingly cold, dead-eyed glare. He stared down an imaginary man sitting across the coffee table. "I have killed men with less provocation than you chewing with your mouth open. Touch my fries, and I will put a tactical pen through your jugular."
Jill shoved his shoulder hard, sending him toppling over into the armrest. "I am not that aggressive!"
"Jill, you literally threatened a guy at J's Bar with a pen last month."
"He was invading my personal space!" she protested, though she couldn't stop grinning. "And it was a very nice pen! Aluminum casing. Excellent grip."
"See? That's what I mean," Chris laughed, righting himself on the couch.
"Okay, fair enough," Jill conceded, leaning her head back against the cushions. She was significantly more buzzed than she had intended to be, a light flush coloring her cheeks. "But I'm just saying... if Wesker wears those stupid sunglasses indoors one more time, I'm going to tactfully find a way to steal them, I don't care if I get suspended. It’ll be funny. He’ll probably feel like he’s naked.”
"I bet he sleeps in them," Chris snorted, taking a long pull from his bottle. "Probably showers in them, too."
Jill snorted, nearly spilling her beer. "Probably fucks with them on, too."
Chris sputtered out a full belly laugh, almost choking on his drink. "Like hell Wesker is getting any. God, I do not want to think about that."
That was, of course, partially a lie. When Chris was first hired, he had to admit that their Captain was objectively easy on the eyes. Wesker was tall, slim but impeccably toned, a brilliant tactician, and an unparalleled shot. His personality, on the other hand, was distinctly less savory—cold, demanding, and entirely unapproachable. That being said, the man seemed to harbor a strange, unspoken soft spot for Chris, as odd as the guy was. It was a dynamic Chris tried very hard not to examine too closely, especially not while intoxicated.
He looked over at Jill. The apartment was dimly lit by a single floor lamp in the corner, casting a warm, hazy glow over the living room. Jill was giggling uncontrollably at the mental image of Wesker having sex with his tactical shades glued to his face, entirely at ease, completely unguarded.
Jill was well past buzzed at this point. She was just as drunk as Chris. And Chris? Chris was floating. The alcohol was coursing through his bloodstream, making the edges of his vision pleasantly blurry and stripping away his usual heavy armor of self-control.
Jill suddenly stopped laughing. She looked at him, her eyes tracing his face. "We should kiss," she said, entirely deadpan.
Chris was instantly slammed by a temporary, violent wave of sobriety. "What?"
"We’re on a date, Christopher." She lifted her hands, putting the word date in exaggerated air quotes. "Good dates end with a kiss, don’t they?"
Chris froze. The gears in his brain violently ground to a halt. Did Jill like him as more than just a friend? Did he miscalculate the entire concept of this evening? She had literally told him at the diner that she didn’t like him like that. They had established this was a "not-date" for the sole purpose of scamming Forest and Brad. Yet here she was, asking to kiss him. What in the actual fuck was going on?
"Earth to Chris." Jill waved a hand in front of his face, her bracelets she sparsely wore clinking together. "Where’d you go, partner?"
Chris jolted, his spine snapping straight against the back of the couch. "I’m right here. I’m here. Sorry, I’m—"
"I’m just fucking with you, Redfield." She punched his shoulder playfully, letting out a bright laugh.
Of course. It was a joke. A drunken, teasing joke between friends. But for some reason, his short-circuiting brain bypassed all logic and reasoning.
"Sure."
The word slipped out of Chris’s mouth completely without his permission. It was a knee-jerk reaction, a desperate, misguided attempt to play along and prove he was just a regular guy on a regular date.
"Sure... what?" Jill asked, pausing with her beer bottle halfway to her lips, her brow furrowing.
"Kissing. We can kiss. Just, you know, for fun. For science?" Chris tumbled over his own words, his voice tight. Kill me now, his inner monologue screamed. Just shoot me. What are you doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!
Jill’s playful demeanor vanished. She looked at him carefully, suddenly sobering up. "Are... you sure, Chris?"
ABORT MISSION.
"It was a good date... right?" Chris responded, his voice cracking slightly.
ABORT. ABORT. ABORT.
"Is that a trick question, Redfield?"
Oh, my fucking god. What the fuck is happening? his panicked brain wailed. Christopher Redfield, what are we doing?!
"I’m just—out of curiosity, no strings attached," Chris babbled, unable to stop digging his own grave. "Like, just a friendly kiss. It doesn't have to mean anything unless you... I mean, I don’t—"
Jill moved. Before he could finish his agonizing sentence, her hands were on his shoulders, and her lips were on his.
His eyes widened in shock. First, he registered the taste: she tasted like cheap light beer and whatever subtle cherry lip gloss she was wearing. She smelled sweet, like her floral perfume, but there was an unmistakable underlying scent of Hoppe's No. 9 gun oil—the kind of scent that seeped into a cop's skin and couldn’t be scrubbed out with just soap.
It was a perfectly nice kiss, as far as kisses go. But his eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling, and every alarm bell in his body was ringing. This was Jill. Not a guy. His partner. His friend. There wasn’t a single, solitary spark of romantic chemistry between them. It felt fundamentally, completely wrong. He loved Jill, he really did, but this was too much. It was too weird. The wires were entirely crossed.
She pulled back after a second, and Chris immediately began to hyperventilate.
He stuttered, his chest heaving. God, am I going to cry? There’s no fucking way. I am not crying. But the alcohol had stripped his emotional regulation to the bone. "Jill, I’m sorry. I didn’t—I don’t—"
"Chris? Hey, what’s wrong?" Jill’s hands dropped from his shoulders, her expression shifting instantly to alarm. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push it. It was a joke, and you were going on and on, and I just wanted to stop you from spiraling—"
"I can’t do this, Jill." Chris shoved himself off the couch, his long legs tangling clumsily in the rug as he made a desperate beeline for the front door. He needed to leave. He would sleep in his car. He would find a cheap motel. But he couldn’t be in this apartment. He couldn’t look at Jill. He had ruined his cover, he had ruined their friendship, and he was entirely too vulnerable like this.
"Chris, hey!" Jill was up in a flash, her S.T.A.R.S. reflexes kicking in as she grabbed his arm before he could reach the deadbolt. "What is going on? Talk to me."
Chris stopped in his tracks, pulling away to pace frantically across the small span of the living room floor. "I can’t, Jill. I can’t do it. It’s not right."
Jill sputtered, deeply confused, her brows drawn together in concern. "Chris, what can’t you do? What are you talking about?"
"I can’t date you! I’m not—" Chris blurted out, his fists clenched tight at his sides. The alcohol made everything bare, raw, and terrifyingly visible. He was terrified. "I don’t like you like that... I can’t."
Jill stepped forward, her voice soft and placating. She took his arm again, gently but firmly guiding him back to the couch and pulling him down to sit next to her. "Chris, it’s okay. It was a joke. I know we're just friends. I'm not offended."
"But you don’t get it, I..." Chris trailed off, taking a ragged, deep breath, staring hard at the coffee table. "You’re my friend, right?"
Jill nodded immediately. Her hand hadn’t left his arm, a steady, grounding weight. She was looking him dead in the eye, despite his absolute refusal to meet her gaze. "Of course I am. Always."
"I like you, Jill. I really do. But I can’t. Not just because you're my friend, but... because I’m not into that. I’m..." Oh, god. He was doing this. He was actually doing this.
His throat felt like it was closing up. 1997 was not kind to people like him, especially not in law enforcement, especially not in a town like Raccoon City. But this was Jill. If he couldn't trust Jill, he couldn't trust anyone.
Fuck it. Just spit it out already, Redfield.
"Because I don’t..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I don’t like women."
There it was. The absolute truth, suspended in the quiet air of his apartment.
A flurry of complex emotions flashed across Jill’s face in rapid succession. Confusion. Sudden realization. Her eyes widened comically. And then, completely shattering the suffocating tension, she let out a loud, genuine burst of laughter.
She laughed until she folded over, clutching her stomach. She laughed until she started coughing, reaching up to wipe a stray tear of mirth from her eye.
"Jill? What—" Chris bristled, hurt and entirely bewildered.
"You big idiot!" She grabbed a throw pillow and whacked him in the chest with it, which he adeptly caught, holding it like a shield.
Chris’s brow furrowed in deep confusion. "Jill, it’s not funny, I’m—"
"I’m gay, you massive idiot!" She dropped the pillow, grabbing both of his arms and shaking him slightly, looking him squarely in the eyes with a brilliant, breathless smile. "Me too! Chris, I’m a lesbian."
Oh.
Oh, thank god.
Chris let out a shuddering breath he felt like he’d been holding since he was a teenager. The paralyzing fear instantly dissolved, replaced by a wave of pure, dizzying relief. He huffed a breathless, wet laugh, letting his head drop forward to rest heavily on her shoulder.
Jill wrapped her arms around him instinctively, pulling him into a tight, fiercely protective hug. She laughed again, the sound much warmer and softer this time, her hand rubbing reassuringly at his back. "I thought you knew, dummy."
Chris slowly separated from the embrace, wiping a hand roughly over his face, feeling incredibly stupid. "How the hell was I supposed to know that?"
Jill looked Chris dead in the eye, arching an immaculate eyebrow. "Chris... When have I ever expressed genuine interest in a man?"
Chris wracked his brain. He really thought about it. Jill was stunning; she attracted a ridiculous amount of attention from the men in the precinct, but she never, ever accepted an offer. It was always a cut-and-dry, merciless no.
"Not that I can remember," Chris admitted sheepishly. "But you just always said you weren't into dating because of the job..."
Jill wobbled her head from side to side in a so-so gesture. "I mean... that's partially true. The job makes dating hard. But I’m not into dating men specifically." She pursed her lips, tilting her head to the side with a grimace. "And dating women in the Midwest is..."
"...basically impossible," Chris finished, nodding in profound understanding.
Jill let out another peeling laugh, throwing her head back against the couch. "God, this is absolutely hilarious. Think about it. The entire precinct makes a massive bet, we get set up on a fancy romantic date together, and we’re both raging homosexuals. What are the fucking odds?"
"The irony is definitely not lost on me," Chris huffed, a genuine, relaxed smile finally settling onto his face. The knot in his chest was completely gone.
But a sudden thought crossed his mind, and he squinted at her. "Wait. If you’re a lesbian, though... Why the hell did you kiss me?"
Jill shrugged noncommittally, completely unbothered. "Because I’m drunk. And you’re my best friend. And you were struggling and rambling like a crazy person. I figured it was the fastest way to shut you up." She flopped back onto the sofa cushions, stretching her legs out over the coffee table. "I was just teasing you initially. I didn't think you'd actually say yes." She leaned forward, reaching out to pinch his cheek endearingly. "You get so cute when you’re flustered, though. Poor Chris. You looked like you were going to throw up."
Chris swatted her hand away, rolling his eyes, though his smile only grew wider. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Valentine. You’re lucky I paid for your ridiculously expensive dinner."
Jill chuckled, a comfortable, companionable silence settling over the room. The air between them felt lighter than it ever had. They weren't just partners anymore; they were co-conspirators.
"But real talk, though..." Jill turned her head to look at him, a sudden, highly mischievous glint sparkling in her eye. She propped her chin on her hand. "Who do you have eyes for at the R.P.D.?"
Chris groaned loudly, letting his head thunk back against the wall behind the couch. "Oh my god. Do not start with me."
"What? I'm your wingwoman now! It is my sworn duty!" Jill grinned wickedly, poking him in the ribs. "Come on. Is it Kevin in the main hall? He's got nice hair. Or wait... don't tell me it's Wesker."
Chris shoved her shoulder, his face burning all over again. "I am kicking you out of my apartment."
"You love me!" she laughed, dodging his hand.
"Unfortunately," Chris sighed, grabbing his beer from the table and clinking it against hers. "I really do."