Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’m in position.”

“Got visual.” Jill glances to her side, searching for the spot up in the opposite apartment building’s rooftop where she knows Carlos is located. “I’m sure you and your dress are going to give some of those assholes a heart attack.”

“Shut up,” Jill chuckles softly.

"So no back-up, then?” Carlos’ voice pulls her back to reality. Jill touches the small earbud concealed by her hair and the sound clears up.

With a sigh, she looks around. “You’re the back-up, Carlos.”

“I thought the FBI could have spared some hands since this will go to them,” he fumes. Jill shares the sentiment, but says nothing. “It’s busier than I expected.” 

Unfortunately, Carlos is right, and Jill has noticed as well how the street is packed. Swarms of elegantly-dressed men and women round up, a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors and idle chatter. Expensive cars and limousines are parked all along the road, and people hop out of them like an unstoppable tide. A queue is starting to gather in front of the hotel’s revolving door. It reeks of rich people with ill-gained money. The public story says otherwise—that this is a fundraising event for some charity cause. Jill hasn’t cared enough to hold onto that detail, because it’s the illegal auction held in the main salon of the hotel that interests them. 

Bitterly, she reminds herself that Umbrella owns this establishment through shares. So of course they’re using it for their unauthorized deals. She sweeps the area again, then winds her way to the entrance with calculated steps.

“If we’re lucky, I’ll be in and out in half an hour.”

Carlos snorts.

“We met in Raccoon City, Jill. We’re never lucky.”

“Hey,” she reprimands, but with a smile across her lips. “You better stop being such a downer or I’m going radio silent.”

Purse tightly gripped in her hand, Jill marches with decisiveness. It’s like her heart has found a cozy home in her throat, because she has been feeling like a bag of nerves for hours now—since she had put on the dress, making a mental checklist of everything she needed to take into account.

As much as she’s a trained operative who can work under duress, undercover missions are not her speciality. Still, she’s here, with a fake invitation to the auction and an even faker identity. The dress doesn’t make it any easier. It’s stunning and she looks good in it, but it makes her feel exposed in an environment that is completely foreign to her, with a kind of mission she’s never been thrust into. God, and she’s a terrible liar. 

Carlos had only managed to obtain one fake invitation for the wife of a renowned Italian mafia boss. Sad truth was, she was the only trained woman in the unit beside Rebecca—and Jill would have never considered letting her into this viper’s nest. So she volunteered. Not like they had other options.

Sucking a breath, Jill stands upright in the short queue. She tries to be as inconspicuous as possible, eyes cast down and hands in front of her. No one seems to notice her; everyone is busy enough with each other to pay her any attention, luckily.

As she arrives in front of the entrance, an extremely large man stops her by raising his arm. He takes a good look at her. After patting down her purse and making her turn around, the guard gives it back with boredom.  

When she enters the building, her eyesight starts to  falter. The gleaming spectacle is blinding and surreal, oozing wealth and money. A red carpet lays out on the floor, with an impressive glass chandelier hanging from above. Jill feels saturated with so much shine and golden inlays on the walls and banisters, the scent of costly perfume filling every nook and cranny in the hall. It threatens to choke her at some point in the evening if she doesn’t run away soon. 

A quick search reveals her next destination, as the queue of people waltz towards a nearby archway that’s off limits. A line of red rope barriers block the path, while another unbelievable tall bouncer stands right in the middle. On its right, a placard reads PRIVATE EVENT, BY INVITATION ONLY in black bold letters. Jill watches from a distance how other guests are granted access to the place with just the glimpse of the piece of paper. 

She doesn’t need to rummage much through her purse to find the invitation. They’re signed by hand, and that makes her pause. If this forgery isn’t good enough, she’s facing a big problem—both figuratively and literally, seeing the size of every bouncer in this damned hotel.

Taking a long, lungful breath, Jill makes way towards the archway, the click of her heels tapping into the linoleum. She puts on her best impression of a confident, mafia lady (whatever that is) and approaches the man, handing the invitation in silence.

The guy checks her up and down, which makes her slightly uncomfortable, before grabbing the invite from her fingers. He examines it inside out, under Jill’s watchful eyes. She twists her hands discreetly, her anxiety increasing while the bouncer continues to flip the piece of paper between his fingers with painstaking dedication. After what feels like a thousand years, he hands it back to Jill and nods.

“Have a good evening, Mrs Cafaro.”

“Thank you,” she replies faintly.

With no hesitation, Jill strides forward, deeper into the wolf’s den. The hallway leading to the main salon is too short, though, and Jill finds herself abruptly thrown into the eye of the hurricane. Her legs stop dead frozen in the middle, observing her surroundings with a mix of exhilaration and dread.

Just like the hotel’s main hall, the salon seeps wealth and opulence from all its details—be it the antique furniture or the sumptuous fountain that stands in the middle of the large room with its Greek-inspired sculptures pouring water from marble chiseled amphoras. The red upholstery stands out against the golden palette of the furniture.

Jill simply feels her stomach turn in disgust at such an outlandish show of excessiveness. As much as the decorations are draped in ridiculous fancy fabrics and riches, they don’t hide this place’s true nature. She doesn’t allow herself to forget this is rotten to the core. Worst of all, she has walked into its putrid belly. Silver lining is, she thinks amusedly, there are no BOWs here. For now.

Her fingers wriggle around the purse, feeling the tiny camera hidden inside. It’s not state-of-the-art technology, but at this point they can’t be picky about their equipment. It’ll be enough to immortalise Frank Eckhart unwittingly on a dozen photos—and that’ll prove without any trace of doubt his involvement with the shadiest parts of town. Catching one of Umbrella’s executives red-handed would send the company into a panic, especially if he had brought a virus sample with him.

Their intel says he has. A sample of a slightly more stable version of the T-virus is going to be auctioned here, tonight. Jill hopes the effort isn’t for nothing. Setting aside her qualms, she surveys her surroundings: the hall is crowding with attendants, who chat and order drinks from the elegant waiter behind the bar incessantly. For a second she thinks of what would happen if the virus got out here; in the middle of this event, spreading outside to the city.

Her body skips a beat at the idea, the anxiety kicking in quietly, like a whisper in her ear. This is not going to work, it repeats. A loud, deafening noise inside her ear cuts in suddenly and pierces through her brain.

“Shit,” Jill murmurs under her breath. She taps the earpiece a few times discreetly. “Carlos?” she calls, fearing there’ll be no answer. 

It never comes. She tries once more, without success. “Fuck,” she mutters again, peeking around every corner from the floor to the ceiling. There must be some kind of signal jammer inside the salon, which is an inconvenience they should have seen coming.

A group of guests passes by her, speaking loudly between spurs of laughter and the clink of champagne glass flutes. Jill falls back into a corner, her nails biting hard against the skin of her wrist as she grabs it fiercely. She inhales and exhales slowly, gaze fixed straight ahead on a tacky flower vase lying on the bar counter.

She can do this. They have reviewed the plan countless times. It’s just a matter of checking all the possible places where the sample is stored. 

But first, she needs to find Eckhart rubbing elbows with all these criminals. Even if they don’t manage to link him directly with the sample, he could be charged for dealing with the mob. There’d be one of Umbrella’s cockroaches less in the streets, at least. Jill has accepted there’s not going to be a big, demolishing victory over the company—it doesn’t mean they can’t keep pouring salt all over Umbrella’s injuries. Make them squirm.

It’s not what justice should be, she thinks; but it’s better than doing nothing.

-

After twenty minutes, Nicholai is pretty sure he'd rather be surrounded by the nastiest of Umbrella’s creations back in Raccoon City than in this place. He would trade the scented smell of perfume for the rotting stench of the town without second thoughts. Wrinkling his brow in annoyance, his lips meet the edge of the glass as he takes a generous gulp of his drink. The dense liquid burns his throat. He welcomes the sensation gladly.

He scours the place from his seat at the bar’s counter, taking notice of the colorful guests gathered around the room. Some faces he recognizes vaguely from previous contracts, but for the most part they’re all a bunch of strangers. Work demands his presence here. Sergei had sweet-talked him into doing it, had told him he needed someone he trusted to take care of things—to ensure the purchase goes smoothly and to do some house-cleaning. Nicholai accepted once he was handed a check with five digits.

With the bourbon’s fiery aftertaste numbing his throat, he takes another swig, catching a glimpse of Eckhart in the distance. The man has an air of confidence around him as he talks with nods and exaggerated hand gestures to another couple by the tacky fountain at the center. It’s at this point that Nicholai wonders how desperate Umbrella must be to even try their luck with this—selling a bioweapon in the black market would raise as much interest as suspicions.

But money is running short, and he is certain of that by the increasing concern in Sergei’s expressions. It doesn’t take a genius to know that the company is in financial trouble after the government ban, though Nicholai suspects it would be the same without said ban—Raccoon City was bad PR enough to lead them to ruin, even if the company ended up winning the trial by some unfathomable legal maneuver. 

Well, getting one’s hands dirty for money is something Nicholai can relate to.

Another shot of the glass and he barely feels the need to puke around these bastards. Lost in his own musings, Nicholai sweeps the room once more, following Eckhart as he walks with a smug gait towards the auction hall and vanishes from his sight. 

That’s the moment all the blood in his veins drains.

His wide open eyes rest upon her, a bright blue striking against the red and gold embellishments of the salon. Nicholai blinks once to make sure he’s not just completely drunk from one fucking glass of bourbon. 

But he’s alarmingly sober.

Next to a white marble column, she stands slightly stiff, her shoulders back in an uncomfortable stance; her hands clutch tightly a small purse and her gaze is fixed on the door where Eckhart has disappeared to. Nicholai becomes aware of all that in a matter of seconds, suddenly straightening up his back. His fingers are fiercely wrapped around the glass, and they threaten to shatter it into tiny pieces.

He blinks twice.

It feels like time has stopped. A storm brews inside him, his stare centers on her silhouette as if he were seeing a—he can’t even summon a word for it. This is unreal. As much as he might believe she’s a figment of his imagination, Jill Valentine stands there. In the flesh, dressed in blue, her hair combed back with a lock behind her ear, the deep neckline of her dress leaving a wide open window to her cleavage. When his gaze wanders down, he sees the slit on the long skirt. His nails sink in his knee, leaving faint nicks over the fabric.

He has never seen her like this; but knows the shape of her even among the crowd of well-dressed dirtbags that populate the room. This is real and she’s just a few feet away from him and she shouldn’t be. She shouldn’t fucking be in this place, today of all days.

A quiet, inner voice reminds him he could simply ignore her. Let her get into trouble. His job is much simpler, already half completed. The sample has already been delivered; he only needs to focus on the transaction and Eckhart now. But deep down he knows she’s here for one or all of those things—and her pretty face is going to raise a few eyebrows, because the identity of a surviving STARS member might be recognizable enough among these guests.

A blinding mix of rage and panic overcomes him. Getting involved is the last thing he needs, it would threaten to expose himself if someone ever makes the connection between them.

Yet the situation reeks of danger—for her. Nicholai clenches his jaw, the faint taste of blood filling up his mouth.

-

Jill barely has time to reflect on how she’s survived this obnoxious party for almost forty minutes, take some photos of Frank Eckhart unnoticed and not fuck up the mission royally before a strong hand grabs her by the elbow, forcing her spin her body and face her ambusher.

Her knees buckle when she meets the cold glare of his eyes upon her.

She needs to focus her sight, to make sure this is not an illusion induced by her own stress—and it’s not. Nicholai’s firm grip on her arm feels real enough, just like his green eyes and his breath against her cheeks. His presence invades her personal space in a matter of seconds, without time to consider what’s going on.

His proximity doesn’t put her on alarm like before, as if her brain has already classified him as a non-threat. But this is unexpected, and after his post-Chicago visit, all their meetings had been set beforehand. No surprises.

Jill thought it’d take another six weeks or so to see him again—and now he’s all over her, under the worst circumstances. 

Shit, shit, shit.

“Why are you here?” Nicholai mutters between teeth, anger seething into the question freely, taking her back to a subway station in Raccoon City.

Perhaps her legs are faintly trembling. She hates that she’s probably gaping too, a startled expression covering her face. Nicholai’s abrupt question is barely registered, lost in a tide of delirious thoughts clogging her mind. Everything deafens around Jill as she stares back at him. Snapping back to her senses by pure force of will, remembering she’s on a mission, Jill squints and shakes his hand off.

“I could ask you the same,” she conceals her distress well enough with a dose of hostility of her own.

But her retort isn’t just to antagonize him out of habit, though. She wants an actual answer. This mission felt doomed from the start—this complicates things to a larger degree. She goes through every detail mentally, trying to figure it out on her own. She hasn’t learned about the auction through the intel he’s been providing in the past months. They had seen each other over a month ago, when he had brought information about the company’s facilities, whereabouts, activities. Information that’s piling up in all the thick brown envelopes he brings, cast aside soon after his arrival. She read through them later on, on her own; but still, nothing there made her believe he was involved in this event or knew about it.

He’s a mercenary, trained for combat; not a socialite. Eckhart must be the missing link here.

Before she can continue her train of thought, Nicholai drags her to a corner partially shadowed by thick curtains, fingers clasped around her arm again. They definitely attract less attention here, and Jill notices with a quick check around that no one is actually looking at them. She glowers back at Nicholai, whipping her head up to avoid breaking eye contact, every muscle in her body strained with tension.

His frown deepens, face contorted in a scowl.

“I ask the questions. What are you doing here?” he growls again, baring his teeth.

His voice sounds intimidating, frustrated. Freeing herself from his grasp again, Jill scoffs at him.

“My job.”

The mocking familiarity of the answer isn’t lost on Nicholai, who stares at her with a hint of exasperation. 

“Bad idea,” he sneers, then his gaze falls upon her dress; wrath doesn’t conceal the way he’s ogling at her. Her lips almost curl up in a smirk, but she suppresses it. “You’re not fooling anyone with that. People might recognize your face.”

“I don’t think anyone is looking at my face. You first of all.”

Jill knows that’s not entirely true, because his stare is piercing her like a sharp pair of knives. But he’s definitely distracted by the amount of exposed skin, and catching someone like Nicholai off guard happens once in a blue moon—she’s not letting the chance go to waste. 

Ignoring her provocation, he tisks, his brow creasing.

"You tease too much for someone who has a painted target on their back, Miss Valentine.”

“Let me worry about that,” she adds dismissively, averting her eyes from him.

His arm, lifted up as he leans against the wall behind her, blocks her view. She shoots another glare back at him.

“You wouldn’t be here if you did.” All of a sudden, he straightens up and the realization makes the creases on his face soften. “It’s the sample.”

No surprise that he figured it out, she thinks. Jill doesn’t see the point in lying, so she gives a quick nod, checking their surroundings again.

“And Eckhart. Already got evidence that incriminates him. The photographic kind.” She pats her purse. “I just need that sample.”

Nicholai clenches his jaw, his fuming look completely anchored on her, brow still so furrowed it’s like it was carved on his features.

“You stick out like a sore thumb. Too much cop in you. No way you’re getting anywhere close to that,” he finally counters, then bends his whole body closer to hers. “Get the hell out of here. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Nicholai,” she growls in a whisper back at him, the last drops of patience almost spilled over.

He clicks his tongue.

“I’m giving you enough evidence. You don’t need this shit.”

Jill, already done with this back and forth, pushes him away with a powerful shove on his chest.

“First, stop telling what the fuck to do,” she bites, hands still resting on him. She decidedly ignores the heat that transpires the shirt’s fabric, the musky scent that he exudes at this distance. “Second, I’m not leaving empty handed. So you can either help me or try to stop me. Your choice.”

The words come out of her mouth without thinking, not like she’s seen an opportunity—but it has been instinctive, and she realises it might actually be of help. Something compels her to believe he will do it—for her. That he’d do much more if she asked. The realisation sends a cold shudder through her spine, unsure if it’s fear or thrill that pools down in her stomach at the thought.

A shadow passes over him, and Jill has no doubts about what he is going to say next.

“Nothing but fucking trouble,” he mutters in a low grumble. Then he gestures with his head. “Follow me.”

His nostrils are flaring, fists clenched tight, and he’s furious, probably because he’s never been put between a rock and a hard place before. And now he’s been forced to choose.

Which means he has chosen her, this time, Jill registers. She doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge.

Hauling her by the waist with no trace of gentleness, Nicholai starts guiding her through the multitude. She gives him a quick glance from the corner of her eye, and thinks about how ironic this all feels.

Gone from too much trouble to kill, to trouble worth getting into.

-

“Where are we going?”

Nicholai takes her around several doors and corners, the shine and gold of the main salon left behind as they enter more utilitarian corridors with plaster walls and cardboard boxes scattered around. Jill assumes they’re in the storage area of the hotel. He hasn’t spoken a word yet, fingers still firmly clenched over her waist, ushering her to follow his lead.

“Basement warehouse,” he replies succinctly. His eyes are fixed straight ahead. “But don’t get your hopes up, it’s probably locked tight.”

Jill lets out a muted snort. 

“Don’t worry about that.”

They take another turn, and from this new colorless corridor Jill can distinguish the shape of stairs that sink down to the basement. She’s about to open her mouth and bother Nicholai with some more questions when a shout coming from behind them makes her almost jolt in surprise.

Given where they are and what they’re doing, she’s pretty sure it’s not a welcome surprise.

Letting out a muffled curse, Nicholai turns on his heels, forcing her to follow his steps. His hand stays glued to her back. He quirks up an eyebrow; his mouth doesn’t move an inch, pursed in a thin line. Jill steals a glance towards the group of visitors who approach from the other side. Three men in black suits, one of them older and severe balding on the top of his head. From the way he walks, Jill guesses he’s the leader. 

She doesn’t like them the moment they get close enough, white light bathing their nasty faces. The leader shows off his teeth with a crooked grin, then gives Nicholai a sturdy pat on the shoulder.

“Nicholai,” he yells. 

And that’s all Jill understands, because one second later the man starts addressing Nicholai in Russian. His lackeys remain silent behind him, which allows Jill to notice they are armed, the shape of handguns under their suit jackets clearly outlined. Jill tries to conceal her gulp, and shifts her attention back to Nicholai, wetting her lips with quiet nervousness. 

Nicholai answers him, shaking his head from time to time and pulling out a wicked smirk on his lips after the other Russian has seemingly made some sort of witty remark. She hates feeling this lost and helpless because of a stupid language barrier; and the implication of what would’ve happened if Nicholai hadn’t been present dances around her thoughts, dooming and cynical.

She can’t really decide if all this is good or bad luck. To avoid getting sucked in by her rising anxiousness, she focuses on the only familiar thing; Nicholai himself. As he chats with the man in Russian, Jill doesn’t need to worry about the venom he can spill with words and spots all his micro expressions, the way the creases around his nose and eyes crinkle with every movement, the ever present shadow on his jaw and chin despite the recent shave, the translucent quality of his green eyes—so pale they barely hold any color.

The sound of liquid consonants rolling up in his tongue is almost mesmerizing; and perhaps it’s just the newness of hearing him speak his mother tongue, but she feels enthralled by the cadence of his voice. In a way, it’s alluring, and for a brief second she’s too distracted, hypnotized by her drawn out contemplation. Blinking away, she’s thankful he hasn’t noticed a thing, too tangled up in what she assumes is criminal small talk.

A lewd noise coming from the other man’s lips breaks the spell, and Jill darts her eyes to him, squinting. The old man is leering at her, with a look and a crooked smirk she doesn’t appreciate. At all. No need to understand a word of Russian to know what that piece of shit is thinking. Surprisingly, she also feels Nicholai standing more rigidly, and his thumb lightly caresses the small of her back. Her skin pebbles immediately at the contact of his fingertip.

After his unashamed gawking, the man says something in Russian, to which Nicholai answers by squeezing tighter around her hip. After giving him a curt answer, the old bastard seems content with Nicholai’s reply and turns towards the corridor they came from.

Mouths still shut, they listen to the set of footsteps as they fade into the distance. When only silence surrounds them, Jill hears the breath he had been holding as he grunts irritatedly. He doesn’t let go of her.

“What the hell was that?” she asks, even if she’s not sure she wants details.

Nicholai’s expression is uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

“You don’t want to know,” he reaffirms.

“And here I thought I had my share of Russian bastards with you,” she says scathingly, to lighten the mood a bit. Nicholai ignores her comment.

His grip on her waist loosens a bit, but still guides them towards the opposite side down a short metallic staircase. The lights flicker as they advance. A short trip down the next long corridor later, Nicholai stops in front of one unassuming grey bolted door, which seems sturdy enough to be impossible to kick open if the need arose. 

The handle doesn’t move an inch when he shakes it fiercely. 

“And of course it’s fucking locked,” he says with an irked huff, giving the door one last unsuccessful jolt.

Placing a hand on his chest, Jill shoves Nicholai gently to the side, glances up at him and winks playfully.

“I got this one.” 

(She doesn’t dwell on how easy being around him has become.)

Her hands retrieve the hairpins hidden in her hair quickly, and a lock falls over her face. Jill tucks it behind her ear swiftly, grabs the pins with her mouth and kneels down resolutely. Nicholai simply observes in silence, arms folded, fully captivated.

A quick inspection reveals what she suspected; that this is a high security lock, one that requires a nimbler touch. It makes no difference. For Jill, lockpicking comes as natural as shooting a Beretta. She has done it a million times. As much as she’s not prone to overconfidence or showing off, Jill can’t deny she’s just extremely skilled. But she’s also used to everyone around her knowing it already; Nicholai doesn’t. From the corner of her eye, Jill sees his expression of reserved shock while his gaze remains fixed on her deft fingers working the makeshift lockpicks.

It’s petty and stupid, Jill thinks, but she can’t help taking this as a small victory. An ace she has kept hidden under her sleeve from him, as if she can rub it in now she has the chance to, well, show off.

Two minutes later, the lock clicks and the door swings open a bit, leaving it ajar. A quick peek inside only dark shapes and a dim light source. The long, charged whistle coming from Nicholai’s mouth makes her head perk up.

“Impressive,” he comments, his body lent against the wall, hand on his chin. “For someone so young, you’re full of surprises, Miss Valentine.”

She just snorts and rolls her eyes. Asshole.

-

Jill didn’t expect to cross the doorstep and find herself in a museum vault, but as she looks to her surroundings, that’s exactly what the place suggests. She’s slightly taken aback by the large load of… stuff. Under the emergency lights that barely illuminate, she recognises the shape of large paintings covered with white sheets, a glimpse of the golden frame’s carved inlays peeking from one corner. Studying the room, she closes the door behind her once Nicholai enters, making sure to lock it. As they head into the vault, marble sculpted statues welcome them, and she definitely feels a shudder run through her spine at their sight. They give an eerie aura that brings back memories of a mansion in the mountains. Jill shakes the images away and focuses her attention on the deep end of the room, where her eyes find a different kind of element.

Large military grade metallic boxes. Weapon caches, probably. Plenty of them. She squints.

“How… eclectic,” she comments absently, ambling around.

Nicholai passes by her side with a quick stride, so fast it almost startles her.

“No time for a tour. A guard makes the rounds every half an hour,” he states. 

Despite the creeping darkness, she sees his stern frown. He stops midway to check something in the distance.

“And you know where to start looking?” Jill inquires, searching near a crate that’s wiped clean, which means the stuff to be auctioned hasn’t been collecting dust here for long.

Nicholai moves around like he knows what he’s looking for, definitely. When she glimpses up again to check where he’s headed, her view wanders until she sees it. A large storage trunk standing on the back wall, biohazard symbols imprinted all over it. Nicholai opens it without second thoughts, picking up a smaller case from inside. Jill’s heels click on the pavement floor while she approaches, giving up on her own aimless search.

“I brought the sample.”

She puffs out a tired sigh.

“Of course you did. Should’ve known better.” It’s barely a whisper, but she knows he has heard her.

His gaze is locked onto the case. Jill can’t see its contents, standing opposite him, but she notices the lines around Nicholai’s eyes, brow crinkled in deep thought. 

There’s something odd about his expression, she notices. A trace of doubt, perhaps—as if he’s feeling… troubled. About what, Jill isn’t sure. She wouldn’t put it past him to switch his priorities at the last minute. Helping her here could definitely draw more suspicion on him than anything else he has done; maybe she isn’t worth the trouble anymore. She considers her options as she browses around carefully, in case things end up in less amicable terms.

After retrieving something from the case, Nicholai puts down the case and lifts up his hand, waving something in front of her.

“It’s your lucky day.”

The coldness of the vial’s glass drops on her palm. Jill glances down and stares at the small tube; a dense liquid sways inside. Her stomach churns, aware of what this is. She feels relieved partially, but nauseous when she thinks about the threat this tiny vial holds.

She’s about to open her mouth and give him an answer (anything that isn’t an outright thank you) when they hear it.

The door’s lock is turning. They shoot each other a glare, panic hiding behind their eyes—at least she knows she’s about to, her heart threatening to jump out of her chest. Quickly, she pushes the vial down the purse and then her alarmed eyes turn to him.

Before she can even react, Nicholai’s hand covers her mouth, pulling her by the waist with the other. He throws both of them behind a pile of discarded boxes stacked up against the wall, and her naked back clashes against the freezing concrete. The bulk of his body has her pinned. A quiet gasp comes out of her lips by the sheer impact of his maneuvering. She’s wedged against him and concrete, and it’s like she’s drunk a shot too quickly, sending her head spinning dizzily. Nicholai tightens the grip over her mouth, checking incessantly from the corner of his eye. Jill follows his stare and finds the tiniest gap between the boxes, which gives a limited view of the door. She sees the guard, who wears not a suit but a Kevlar vest and carries a submachine gun, and the light beams cast by his flashlight. 

Looking away, she blinks repeatedly, breathing in and out as low as possible; the quickened beating of her own heart doesn’t let her focus on any other sound beyond the footsteps of the guard’s boots on the floor, drawing near them little by little. She glances up at Nicholai; the heels give her a slight advantage, lessening the height difference. Her eyes line up to his thin lips, now pressed tightly together, and she can feel the tension building up, the scowl on his face.

Halfway, their eyes meet and they simply stare at each other in utmost silence. The guard starts humming a tune, a catchy pop song that keeps blasting on the radio, the beams of his flashlight blazing at a short distance. Jill thinks about Nicholai’s warm hand on her lips, his fingers resting on the small of her back. 

She blinks. Takes another gulp of air. He doesn’t look away, gaze fixed on her blue eyes. His chest presses heavily against her breasts, and her lungs are running out of air. Concealing a gasp, she raises one of her hands and untangles his fingers from her mouth. Jill sighs a bit, taking a lungful. Her sight is briefly blurred until she focuses again on his piercing glare in the dark.

She feels it in her bones. It makes her shiver, and it’s only tangentially linked to the threat of the guard patrolling around their hiding spot.

They haven’t let go of each other's hands, fingers still intertwined. Her pulse is racing. If she bowed her head just an inch, her lips would brush his knuckles; yet her back remains glued to the wall, its touch cold and rough to her skin.

His line of sight wanders from their tangled fingers to her collarbone, down to the plunging neckline of her dress. She’s not sure what kind of insanity seizes her when she guides his hand to rest over her naked sternum, not averting her intense stare from him—and he answers with a muffled growl that echoes inside her ribcage. His fingertips graze her skin lightly, tantalizingly close to her breasts, and she’s sure he feels her hastened heartbeats through. 

As his fingers dip down and circle around her waist, finally joining his other hand at her back, Jill represses the sudden urge to kiss him. Which is not what should be on her mind, because this is crazy enough and she’s clearly not thinking straight at this point. But God, she feels tempted. Instead, her own arms slide under his jacket, around him. Her forehead leans against his chin, and just stays there, eyes shut closed, forcing herself to concentrate on the sounds of the guard as he keeps patrolling the place, blissfully ignorant of their presence. Nicholai straightens up, coarse palms splayed all over the skin of her back, pushing her to him.

It’s unclear how long it takes; time has become a whirling storm in her brain. Perhaps it’s been twenty minutes, or perhaps forty minutes—she’s too lightheaded to notice, to care, even. 

In the end, the door is knocked closed once again, at some point. Footstep sounds give way to a somber, welcoming silence. They don’t move instantly, though. Jill opens her eyelids slowly, and all she can see is Nicholai’s neck and shoulder. She inhales, taking in his pleasant smell. 

More silence.

She hears him hissing slightly louder, blowing out the air he’d been holding. Looking up, she braves a whisper. “Coast looks clear.”

“Shit,” he gruffs lowly, scowling down at her, then adds with an accusing edge, “Excellent timing to be a fucking tease.”

Jill chortles a bit, wickedly. 

“I thought you were all about mixing business with pleasure.”

“Not if it distracts me from the job,” he tisks, nose crinkled in irritation.

“Good to know,” she notes, curtly, then checks again for lingering footsteps. There’s none. “I think we can come out again.”

Languidly, he removes his grip around her waist and takes a few steps back. Her arms slide away, letting him go. A cold draft hits her suddenly, and it’s like she’s actually missing the nearness; she lets the thought slip by.

-

By the time they leave the stockroom, the guard is long gone and the corridor remains as empty as it was. Jill isn’t sure if this is common or just a result of irresponsible security measures. As she follows Nicholai through a different maze of hallways, he mentions the auction house’s owner is a peculiar man who distrusts any electronic devices, and Jill thanks the guy’s unfounded paranoia. They sneak past a few guards with ease and before she realises it, they go through a backdoor and the night breeze blows in her cheeks. 

Hunching her shoulders, she checks the back alley they’ve stumbled upon, noticing a closed shutter on her right, plus several containers lined up against the brick wall of the next block building.

The door closes and Jill turns on her heels to face Nicholai.

“I don’t think I’m doing undercover ever again.”

After checking they’re truly alone in the back alley, Nicholai leans his back against the brick wall, the tension easing off his posture.

“You’re more promising in theft. Should consider it when you’re tired of playing hero.”

“Tempting,” she mocks. “But no.”

The concealed comm in her earring cracks loudly in her ear, followed by Carlos’ strangled voice echoing.

“Jill? Do you copy?!”

A rush of calm floods her when she hears him. She taps the comm, bows her ear and speaks into it.

“Carlos?”

She can hear the sigh of relief from the other side.

“What the hell happened? Shit, almost had a heart attack. I lost your signal when you went inside. Thank God you’re fine. I mean, are you?”

“Yeah, I am. There were jammers all over the hotel, I think.  But I got the evidence.” Jill pauses, then glares at Nicholai. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket’s inner pocket and lights one. “And the sample.”

“Nothing can stop supercop, huh?” Carlos snickers, a hint of admiration in his voice. “Glad to hear that. But where are you?”

“I ended up on the opposite street. Don’t move, I’ll meet you on the rooftop asap.”

“Roger that. See you, Jill.”

When the communication is cut, she removes the earring and lets it fall inside her purse. Her gaze travels back to Nicholai, who is taking a long drag. He doesn’t make eye contact.

“Was that my old teammate? Thought I had blown him up at the hospital,” he comments casually.

Jill narrows her eyes, on her guard all of a sudden. It makes her head hurt, driving her crazy, how she can go from wanting to kiss him just a minute ago to feeling on edge an instant later. And sometimes it feels like he’s playing with her, provoking her to be more confrontational towards him. It’s possible she’s falling for his trap every time, but she’d rather err on the side of caution.

“Maybe you were distracted back then too, and did a poor job,” she retorts sharply.

“Maybe,” Nicholai gives a short shrug, then takes another drag of his cigarette. “He’s a loose end, though. Umbrella doesn’t like those.” Locking his stare on her, he adds with a twisted smirk, “The pay might be worth it.”

Again. He’s doing it again, she repeats. Yet her feet move on her own, closing some of the distance, and she tilts her chin up calmly. 

“If you ever lay a hand on him, I’ll be the first to pull the trigger. Understood?”

Nicholai snorts; white smoke comes out of his nostrils.

“Is that a promise?” he asks with smugness. “He’s not important. But this is.”

Jill hasn’t noticed the second object he picks up from his jacket. Gaping slightly at the sight, Jill observes the small test tube filled with a purple liquid between his fingers.

“What? Is that…?”

“The vaccine. A work in progress,” he corrects.

Her head is spinning, haziness overcoming her senses with a brain full of questions she’s literally unable to prioritize. She gives voice to the most immediate one.

“Where did you take it? It wasn’t inside the case with the virus sample,” Jill points out, and it comes out a bit suspicious.

“I’ve been told to deliver it to Eckhart once the virus has been sold. In person.”

Lifting up an eyebrow, she insists, “I thought they had decided to destroy it in Chicago.”

“No, they want to be the only ones who have it. Good for business, especially if you sell bioweapons.”

“And you’re telling me this now, why?” 

“Take it.”

As the vial lands on her palm, she considers the weight of it. For such a small item, it seems unreasonable how heavy it feels mentally. The burden she’s carried since Raccoon City—of being the lucky soul to receive it. The vaccine had existed before the outbreak. It could have saved lives if… Well, if Raccoon City hadn’t already been a corrupted hellhole before it actually turned into one. 

But it didn’t. One hundred thousand people died because they never got the chance she had. She still wonders why her, and not her neighbors, or Marvin, or her lost teammates. 

It’s the baggage she bears from Raccoon City; the reason it had hurt so much to lose it in Chicago. Now he’s offering it to her like it’s nothing; the one who took it away in the first place. Like it doesn’t mean as much as it does for her.

Jill also knows this puts a target on him. The sample could have been stolen by anyone with access to the warehouse—the vaccine, it was him. Nicholai knows this; they both do. Yet he has willingly handed it to her. The thought lingers in her mind, like an echo.

“Won’t giving it to me get you into… trouble? With your client?”

“I’m fucking sure it will,” he adds nonchalantly.

“And?”

“I like trouble, Miss Valentine.”

Something like this feels unreal. It tears apart the rock solid idea she’s built about who he is, what he will do and won’t do. It doesn’t make sense, except it’s happening, and he’s him, flesh and bone. 

As much as she represses, it lights a spark of timid elation in her. She bites down the thank you in her throat, and settles for a more reserved acknowledgement.

“I… appreciate it.” She puts the vial inside the purse, and then takes a swallow to avoid the faint stammer of her voice. “Should I consider your help tonight part of your services?”

“This one’s on the house.” 

Except he has never taken money any time they’ve met, Jill thinks. Pointing it out would be like a tear in the perfect lie they’ve created around this thing they share. She sees it as their way to pretend this make-believe deal is strictly business and physical; which isn’t untrue, but there’s a constant scratch at the back of her head that she pays no attention to. Jill is fine with pretending, because it avoids complicated questions.

Just the thought that this has been going on for a year and a half gives her vertigo. So, she files those small, subtle changes in the way he acts around her away and moves on.

“See you in a few weeks, then,” she says after a brief silence.

She’s already stepping back towards the gate that leads to the main street when he makes her stop with one single word.

“Wait.”

Drawing near her, Jill watches him taking off the jacket of his suit in a quick motion. Then his arms shroud her for a short moment, placing the jacket over her naked shoulder, standing suffocatingly close. The fabric is soft and warm; it smells of him, and her body reacts with goosebumps. Jill almost gasps, and her stare stays fixed on him as he takes the chance to graze the line of her jaw with his thumb.

“Good evening, Miss Valentine,” he whispers.

He leans as if to kiss her, yet he doesn’t move forward; his breath brushes her lips. Jill feels paralyzed. In the end, she manages a curt nod, then starts to walk away, her back to him. The sound of her heels on the pavement echoes in her ears, the noise of cars and the street distant and far, as if she’s stepping out to the real world. It’s only when she has turned the corner that she tugs at the jacket, adjusting it over her shoulders to wrap it closer around her body, strolling down the street.

-

When Jill reaches the rooftop, her feet already hurting, Carlos throws aside the sniper rifle he had been using and runs towards her, like a  mother hen. “I was dead worried,” he mutters, then Jill reassures him she’s fine and woundless. 

Finally, she opens up the purse containing all the spoils of the night. Jill hands him both vials, while she checks the camera hidden inside the lining.

“You think this will be the final nail on Umbrella’s coffin?” he wonders, looking at the small tubes against the street lights.

“No,” Jill sighs. “Umbrella has gotten off the hook with similar evidence. I just hope this proves to the FBI it’s worth arresting Eckhart. He may talk if he gets a good deal, and that’s what we need.”

“Or they might just ignore us. Again.”

Carlos may quip, but it’s also painfully true. Jill knows their anti-biohazard unit is very limited, both in resources and political power. They can’t do much on their own—which means they might need to look for it elsewhere. It’s an issue they’ve been putting off for some time, but certain groups have already approached them. Most notably, the Global Pharmaceutical Consortium. Jill isn’t sure they are actually worried about another outbreak somewhere else; they just want to better their reputation. Aiding the prosecution against Umbrella is one step on their plan, a PR move; using them could be another. 

She hates that cynicism has overcome her, but she’s running out of good faith. The glint of the vaccine’s test tube brings a measure of comfort—at least, they can have that small victory.  Her fingerprints brush the jacket’s lapel.

“What did I tell you about being a downer, Carlos?”

Carlos raises his hands in the air and laughs heartily. 

“Ok, ok, I’ll switch to party Carlos now.” Abruptly, he throws her a puzzled look. “Hey, what’s that?” he wonders, pointing at the jacket hanging from her shoulders, followed by a snicker. “Did you use your charm on some jerk back there?”

Jill almost needs to bite her tongue, and for the first time she feels like she’s betraying Carlos’ trust. Nicholai had been the stepping stone in their escape from Raccoon City; for both of them. Tried to kill them both too. Several times, she might add. The possibility that she ever has to address the matter of Nicholai with him is enough to give her anxiety, so she waves the thought away and simply chuckles tiredly, tipping her head.

“Maybe,” she adds enigmatically, then waves her hand before Carlos can continue his interrogation. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

-

With one last drag, Nicholai consumes the cigarette and tosses the end away. He doesn’t lose sight of her as she strolls away, until she vanishes behind a corner. 

Nicholai puffs out a heavy sigh, frowning, and treads on the cigarette’s end; perhaps more forceful than it’s needed.

He wasn’t lying to her when he said this would mean trouble; the kind that would require an excellent crafted lie. For the first time in his life, he’s not so sure he’ll get away with it easily—Sergei has been more inquisitive as of late. This would raise his suspicions, surely. Still, Nicholai’s confident enough he can stall those.

For now.

The question comes up again in his brain, the same one which haunts him after their encounters; why is he doing this. Why, when he could be focusing on making the most profit of all, he’s indulging in this nameless thing. It’s like a disease hatching in his core, spreading its corruption throughout his system with painful languidness, fooling him into thinking it’s not there. That it doesn’t exist. That he can overcome it.

He’s always proven wrong after they part ways. These past months are evidence of that.

Tonight, he realises, he has crossed another line. The word guilt wanders around the edge of his mind, but he discards the concept immediately. Denies it. No, that’s not why he has given her the vaccine this time. He’s used to burn bridges, not build them. His comfort is knowing what’s going to happen; the second half on his contract tonight. And Nicholai knows she will be mad once she learns about it. It makes pretending easier, as if he’s just balancing things out.

The jacket is just a minor detail; his only regret is not witnessing the confused look on Oliveira once he sees her—not realising whose jacket it is. That pulls a listless grin out of him. 

It doesn’t mean the unknown sensation leaves him; unsettling and alien and ever present. Fortunately, he’s good at compartmentalizing.

Shifting his focus, Nicholai pats the shape of the piano string balled up in his pocket, opens the door back to the hotel and marches upstairs towards his unsuspecting target.

Chapter Text

Three days later, Barry relays her the news when she steps into the small office they have rented downtown. Frank Eckhart was found dead the night of the auction in his hotel room; his throat was cut open and any evidence that linked Eckhart to Umbrella was gone. The investigation is still going, Barry clarifies, mentioning no trace of the hitman was found. It hadn’t been a clean death, but the culprit knew how to hide his tracks—no fingerprints, nothing. Jill hears him talk, but it’s like a pair of invisible hands are crushing each side of her head, a loud noise blaring inside her ears and deafening everything else. 

Barry and Chris notice something’s wrong, because Chris stands up from the chair he’s sitting on, and Barry shakes her shoulder gently.

“You okay, Jill?” he asks, though Jill simply nods vaguely. “It’s not your fault, you couldn’t have seen this coming.” 

Barry can’t know how his attempt at consolation feels like a stab right now, because no one knows that she could have seen this coming. That she should have. She doesn’t even know if the weight in her stomach is the bitter sense of betrayal—he couldn’t betray her, because they have never been on the same side. Jill feels stupid and angry and confusion gives way to blood boiling through her veins.

She excuses herself, saying she needs to take some fresh air.  Although punching a wall is what her body asks for, she goes to the bathroom, turns on the faucet and splashes water over her face, rubbing the bridge of her nose. 

“Fuck,” she mutters to herself, and wishes she could have Nicholai in front of her right now to break his nose.

-

One month later, she opens her mailbox and finds a regular white envelope with no address or name. After checking sideways, she takes it out and picks up a newspaper clipping from inside. A small note is attached to it with a paperclip; she sees the handwriting. Under other circumstances, she would simply regard this as an update on their next appointment. This is how they communicate—through her own mailbox, dropping messages hidden in promotional leaflets and vouchers. But this feels out of place—they already have a date fixed, it’s an envelope and, most of all, she’s mad at him.

Still, curiosity wins over and Jill takes a peek at the clipping. The headline mentions a minor outbreak near a warzone in a foreign country, where terrorists had attempted to use bioweapons. The short article informs that the nearby population had been injected with the vaccine as soon as the authorities suspected the use of bioweapons, thanks to some political maneuvering and international collaboration. Most of the people had been saved thanks to the vaccine, she reads at the last paragraph, and Jill feels a lump in her throat. When she takes the note between her fingers, she sees a Congratulations in Nicholai’s handwriting.

She wants to wrinkle the piece of paper and throw it away in the bin, but she doesn’t. Instead, the note finds its way to a cardboard box in her wardrobe once she arrives in her apartment. The same box where the jacket that still smells like him is, deluding herself into thinking she only wants to return it. But this is the first note she has kept, and she hates how sentimental it looks—how sentimental she is.

-

Six weeks after the auction, they meet as planned. She receives him with a cold glare at the doorstep of her apartment. It seems like Nicholai expected it, because he doesn’t even tease or curl his lips wickedly. It’s similar yet different from the last time this happened—when she was angry at him with a deep, seething hate; now it’s a mixed bag, because she keeps remembering how he took a risk by helping her in the auction. By handing her the vaccine. By throwing himself between her and a flaming explosion. Her fingertips remember the coarse, uneven skin in the scars of his back. 

Jill knows this will never be easy, uncomplicated, straightforward. She never expected it. It just hurts now a little bit more—and maybe the pain is what she’s become addicted to these days. 

“Was the vaccine your way to distract me from Eckhart?” she blurts, standing on the doorframe.

“No. Just complying with my contract.”

“Something won, something lost, right?”

Nicholai shrugs.

“Exactly.”

Jill snorts tiredly, shaking her head.

“This shitshow with Umbrella could be over now, or closer to the end, if he had testified. You know that.”

“No, I don’t know that. You don’t either. And you got the vaccine. A good compromise.”

She tilts her head up.

“I’m tired of compromising.”

“Then you shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

A sigh comes out of her lips.

“Maybe you’re right.”

They hold each other’s stare in silence, until Nicholai clicks his tongue, brow creased in a scowl, and hands her the brown envelope concealed under his armpit. She takes it with surprise.

“Goodbye, Miss Valentine.”

Jill watches him walk away, vanishing at the corner at the end of the hallway. 

For the first time, the realisation that she might never see him again dawns upon her, and it makes her sick.

-

One month later, she opens her mailbox and her gaze shifts to the thick envelope crammed into it. Taking the parcel out, she checks there’s no address either. When she has entered her living room, she kicks off her boots, fingers flipping through the pages. Jill skims the contents of the first dossier quickly; names and locations of Umbrella’s top brass. Schedules, plans for the next whole months. The unit could know where and when to find them in the next two months. Only Spencer’s name is missing, but even so this is invaluable intel. 

No date, no meeting, just the facts straight to her hands. Jill feels numb, as if reality has shifted so much it’s difficult to focus on anything. She didn’t expect another meeting, but she didn’t expect him to keep sending anything. At all. And yet, despite the unsaid end of this make-believe deal between them from a month ago, he has sent her the envelope.

And she wonders, once again, why—why a greedy son of a bitch like him goes to all the trouble to send her intel she can use to bring down his own employers, when he’s not getting what he wants out of this.

You.

The memory makes her tremble lightly, her stomach clenches, and Jill gulps, sitting on the couch with a dead stare. 

Maybe they’re just lying to themselves on a deeper level. Maybe he’s not being as selfish as he believes himself with this, willingly going out of his way to help her with no reward. And maybe she’s being more selfish about this than she likes to admit. What matters is the information he provides, she has repeated to herself, and anything else is an added bonus. She needs to work her trauma in some way, and fucking him is just one of them. Now she has received the intel in a simpler method, but it’s like her body is itching from his absence. 

So maybe, just maybe, she simply wants him, and the information is the added bonus. 

A minute later, she shoots up from her seat, picks a pen from her desk, runs to the kitchen, grabs the worn down leaflet from a sushi place and starts scribbling.

One of us should be clever enough to quit this, she writes, then folds the piece of paper.

-

Two weeks after she placed her hidden message, there’s a Russian restaurant flyer stuck on her mailbox, with a handwritten message on the bottom corner.

If I knew how to quit, I would’ve done it already. October 1st?

Jill’s lips curve into a little smile, and she hates herself a bit for it.