Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A chill runs through her arms and back, pebbling her skin, hairs standing up as if a cold breeze has blown right in front of her. The windows are shut closed, blinds half lowered; enough that only the bright street lamps’ light leak through them. Even so, her whole apartment is lit up, trying to dispel any eerie shadow crawling in the corners. She’s got used to turning on every lamp on stormy days. The sound of ceaseless thin rain hitting the glass fills her living room, a disquieting background noise she has tried to drown by playing music on her stereo. The soft piano notes succeed in alleviating her rising unease briefly, but the rain doesn’t stop; it keeps pounding the glass panes. The raging storm becomes a certainty with each passing minute.

Curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Jill flicks through a bunch of papers, her eyes passing quickly from line to line in search of purpose. Files, dossiers and reports she has collected over the months, classified in folders that now lie scattered around her coffee table. Most of them come from him. She has read the documents a hundred times, already made use of some, but the need to distract herself tends to bring her back to work—because that’s the only state of being she can inhabit in nights like these. Something to push away the gnawing pressure around her throat, as the looming tempest waters the streets outside. Arklay is all that comes to her mind when she hears the sound of rain, of the wind howling, of thunder cracking. She thinks of the mansion and its dark hallways, the terrors lurking at the end with dead eyes and maimed faces. It reminds her of dead friends too. One memory usually leads to another; to the alleys of Raccoon City and the echo of a monster in her steps. Jill chastasizes herself for not letting go of her fears, the nightmares, after all this time. Instead of going away, they simply keep piling up.

You should go back to therapy, a little voice reminds her. Jill ignores it. She’s become quite good at that.

Fidgeting with a loose thread from the blanket, she throws a quick glance at the wall clock on the kitchen. Almost 9 pm, which means he’ll arrive soon. Jill chews on the pen she’s holding and hesitates to feel anything at the prospect of his visit. After October 1st, she doesn’t know how to understand herself, and him, and the spin this insanity has suffered in the past months. Jill barely remembers the night, as if it had been a hazy dream.

Neither had talked about why they couldn't put an end to this, when it made sense to not go further—she hadn’t confronted him about why he had kept sending her intelligence despite their falling-out, about what could possess someone like him to do it.

They simply didn't talk much that night, though their bodies talked in desperation and want. Jill thinks that, maybe, that’s the only way they can communicate; and she might be fine with it, as long as it lasts. 

Her thoughts are brought to a close when the doorbell rings. 

-

As usual, Nicholai has an irritating sense of punctuality. He greets her with his own brand of smugness, the leather of his flight jacket sprinkled with raindrops from the drizzle. She beckons him to get inside.

“Come in.”

Nicholai obligues in silence, hanging his dampened jacket on the coat stand as soon as he treads into the apartment. He hands her the parcel immediately, the thick brown envelope dotted by water marks. Jill wanders to the living room while plucking the manila folder from inside, dropping the envelope down on the coffee table, discarded with the rest of the files.

Sight focused on the files, Jill starts skimming rapidly the documents, and without taking her eyes off them, she gestures to the second kitchen cabinet from the right.

“Help yourself.”

He already knows that’s where she keeps her drinking stash. This has been their routine for almost a year: he arrives in the evening, they share a drink while she flicks through files, then they have sex. After October 1st, she wasn’t sure how their meeting would follow, so Jill is fine sticking to the pattern once again; it brings the sort of comfort only found in the things whose ending you know beforehand. And she needs those—especially, perhaps, when it seems like her brain is assaulted by every nightmare she’s ever dreamt. 

But Jill thinks about how, after his visits, she has caught some needed, peaceful sleep. No nightmares, no sudden panic attacks in the middle of the night; no waking up covered in sweat, hands shaking, tears brimming in her eyes. 

This is what she has traded therapy for, apparently. 

And maybe she only gets a good night's sleep because they always end up exhausting themselves, to the point that she lies numb and sore on the bed, drifting into a noiseless slumber the moment she hears him go. But if she squeezes three or four hours of rest, it might be worth all the side effects. Pills have those too, after all.

Sometimes, though, the nightmares are about him; his deceitful smirk behind a glass, the sole of his boot  stepping on her hand, his fingers deep inside her under the shower sprinkler, water running down their muscles and her whimpers echoing in a far away safehouse.

She knows this isn’t the way to deal with her problems, but she can deceive herself; she can keep ignoring the voices—the ones that think about him beyond the one night stands, too, that remind her of the small caresses he steals at her body involuntarily, unaware of the way his fingers touch her with a muted gentleness he never wills into his actions when they are together, when they’re at each other’s throats like animals on heat. But they’ve been a shy constant, from the start, and Jill wants to forget about them as much as treasure them.

They make her wonder, ask herself what they hide. Another disconcerting change to add to the mystery that Nicholai Ginovaef has become, like the vaccine canister he handed her or the note written in a Russian restaurant’s pamphlet. If she pulled the thread to get a glimpse, she might start to unravel it—or it could break just as easily. 

So she does nothing, because she’d rather not face the answers.

The room is ignited by a shock of blazing white that filters through the blinds, which sends Jill into alarm. Her back stiffens. She flinches when the thunder roars soon after. A few papers slip from her grasp and fall down from her hands, and Jill quickly crouches to pick them, her wrists slightly trembling. She hurries to finish, sensing his glare from the kitchen. 

“I’d say you need the drink,” he teases in his own perverse way.

When Jill recollects all the files strewn on the carpet and stands up, he’s already extending her a glass with two fingers of Scotch. She accepts it, glowering back at him. He takes a sip from his drink.

“Afraid of storms?” he prods. Of course he is not going to let it go. Jill hates many things about Nicholai; one of the most aggravating being his skill at singling out her weaknesses. 

It takes her down memory lane, although not for long. His words don’t rack her up like they did during their first encounters in a city of the dead; she doesn’t fall for his taunts. 

“Caught me off guard, that’s all,” she explains and waves her hand, nearing the counter. It comes off a bit too defensive, she fears. 

She sits on the stool, takes a generous gulp of her whiskey and her eyes wander through the file that’s come on top of the stack. Clearing her throat, she resorts to focusing on the typed words. Her eyes glance upon a paragraph mentioning a facility in the outskirts of Toronto, tidbits of information peppered all over the page. Then she notices a recurring name in the next report, one who has piqued her interest in the following years after Raccoon City and has turned up a few times during her afternoon examination of the case. 

She hears Nicholai approaching, as he stands next to the counter-top. Close enough that Jill can notice his particular smell. She brings up the question, unprompted, acting purely on a whim.

If nothing else, it will help her silence the neverending thunder roaring, the continous splashing and wind weeping outside the walls of her apartment. It will also give a pretext to talk—about anything that is not them . 

“So. This Sergei Vladimir keeps popping up everywhere,” she taps a line on the paper with her index finger. “I even remember the name from my investigation after Arklay. High brass executive, seems to be the one barking orders now. Do you know him?”

Jill knows there’s a very slim chance he’s not acquainted with Vladimir. Nicholai knows she’d suspect this. Instead of a straightforward answer, he replies with a toothed smirk.

“Maybe.”

She squares up in her seat, elbows resting on the surface.

“Are you two close?”

Nicholai shifts his position, leaning slightly to the side.

“He’s really not my type,” he snickers with a shrug.

“Ha, ha,” Jill says in mock. “Was he your… comrade? Uh, tovarisch in the Army?”

His face splits into a sardonic grin, eyebrow raised. “Is that the only Russian word Hollywood has taught you Americans?”

Jill draws her lips into a smug smile and squints.

“I also know what sukin syn is.”

“Maybe I should give you some lessons,” he suggests, tapping the glass with his index finger.

The inflexion sends a shudder along her spine. Nicholai is telegraphing his intentions, with an alluring sparkle in his pale eyes, a devilish smile tugging at the corners of his thin lips. Distractedly, she rubs the back of her head, where her fingers come to rest, and his gaze becomes riveted to the languid movements of her hand until she chucks it under her chin. Both her eyebrows are arched in reply.

“I’m more interested now in some history,” she says with a little smile. “You knew each other from the Spetsnaz?”

“What makes you think I was spetsnazovets?”

She shrugs it off, as if it was obvious.

“You got no tattoos, so I don't think you come from the mafia. And you’re too well-trained to be a regular soldier.”

He takes a sip and shows her a flash of white teeth. 

“Not bad at all.”

Jill fiddles with her glass, passing it from one hand to the other. The amber liquid sways inside, heavy and dense.

“Am I right then? Is Vladimir your friend in high places?” she pries a little bit more, unsure where this is going but enjoying the casual interrogation session.

Despite the lopsided smile on his face, Jill knows from the expression in his eyes that he’s not budging in. 

“You already have your folder with information. Don’t push it, Miss Valentine,” he replies, and in another time she might have thought it was a veiled threat.

It still might be. But Jill hasn’t been afraid of him in a very long time. Emboldened, she decides to dig deeper. See if she can ruffle some feathers to his overly confident attitude.

She might regret her decision later, but she’s willing to try.

“Would it help if I threw in an extra dollar?” Jill mentions, glancing over the desk on the other side of the room. “They’re starting to stack up there.” 

This is like a dent in their tacit agreement to never bring up the money again. The one dollar for every information package exchange that, so far, has never come to fruition, because he has never taken it; because it’s become a moot point, a lie rendered meaningless the moment he decided to give her everything without expecting to get what he wants— her . Sometimes it’s like it never happened, that it was a fabrication crafted by her imagination.

Doesn’t mean it’s not a solid fact and, for the first time, Jill has coerced the topic into a conversation, despite her initial intentions to push away any attempt at up-front honesty.

He won’t like it, being forced to acknowledge out loud his own lie. They have been playing this game for a while now, Jill thinks—and between the two of them, she’s the one who rushes into things, so it seems fitting that it comes from her first.  Her chin remains tilted up, awaiting his retort.

He surprises her by simply grinning.

“Who knows,” Nicholai says, leaning closer. “There’s a price tag for everything.” 

Jill narrows her eyes, weighing his answer. She has an inkling he’s not talking about money or even just sex—and the thought of prying further is enticing. It would be like stirring a hornet’s nest, just to see how far he would ask of her for the promise of more information. For a second, Jill hesitates, scared of what the answer might be, that it could shatter the frail common ground they’ve built in their relationship so both can get what they want without delving into the whys or risks.

Her mouth opens, the question shaping up at the tip of her tongue.

Another flash of white makes her churn.

The lighting breaks the sky in half, dripping a flicker of light inside the living room. Jill’s gaze goes from one corner to the other, shaking away the ghostly shadows that start to creep at the corners. Her whole body lurches uncontrollably, shaken by the following thunder that follows, and she needs to swallow down the gasp in her throat. The light from the lamps flicker.

In a moment, Nicholai closes the distance between them and saunters to stand in front of the stool, arms stretched on each side of her. He cages Jill against the counter, the firm marble edge pressed to the small of her back. She doesn’t complain about the slight painful sensation, suddenly overwhelmed by his presence all over her. His familiar smell stuns her senses, adding to the warmth of his arms around her and his breath kissing the skin of her cheeks. 

“I think you need to relax tonight, Miss Valentine, and forget about work,” he mutters almost sinfully, while his fingers grip at her waist and start travelling down.

His thumb hooks at the hem of her cotton shorts and underwear; she hitches a loud gasp when he starts pulling down the elastic band of both. The pieces of clothing find their way to the floor and she discards them away with a kick, without realising she’s almost entranced.

As her heart races frantically in anticipation, Jill can’t come up with a good enough reason to refuse his offer.

-

The blaring of the downpour deafens around her, stifled by the increasing moans that he draws out of her.

Jill huffs loudly, reining the flow of her own breathing as her chest moves up and down in stutters. The cold surface of the counter is uncomfortable and her back is going to regret it the next day, but it’s not like she can focus on anything beyond Nicholai. And it feels good, being able to disconnect from herself, granting her the pleasant respite that usually slips from her grasp like water when monsters and memories haunt the fringes of her subconscious, like tonight.

Her mind is empty now, eyelids heavy as she stares into the cupboard’s bottom above her. Her legs are raised up, firmly held by his strong grip. Jill even welcomes the stiffness that will likely follow, the warm ache that’s building up in every tendon of her limbs. It scrubs away more lingering thoughts, the slight shake that can’t be skipped after every other thunder. 

She blinks slowly, her long lashes fluttering against her cheeks. Moans leave her mouth with each sharp breath she attempts, her lips parted and her mouth dry. Heat pools in her belly and lower. His fingers are sunk in each thigh, delivering feather-light strokes here and there along her legs as he moves his hands up and down. 

But it’s his mouth that completely obliterates every coherent thought from her.

Any shred of pain or strain disappears into nothingness as his tongue laps ceremoniously between her wet folds, already soaking and throbbing from his thoroughness. He’s worked up a pace that keeps her on the edge of her orgasm, and it astonishes her at times how this man has learnt her whole body in such a taut manner. Nicholai knows where, how and what to do to ease the tension off her, or to drive her mad. Sometimes she needs one, other times both.

His tongue trails up to her swollen clit and he sucks at it slowly. Jill doesn’t withhold her continuous gasps, unable to focus on anything that is not Nicholai and the things he’s doing to her. It’s almost annoying how easily he succeeds in getting her to the brink of oblivion. Except that’s exactly what she needs, what she wants out of him tonight.

The bellow of the storm feels more and more distant while his tongue digs into her, his nose brushes against her clit in flickering touches. Jill can’t help a languid grin stretching out her lips, her breathing growing more frantic and shallow as his tongue continues incessantly. She cranes her neck up, enough to get a glimpse of him, and the sight always amazes her, prompting something wild and primal to grow inside her. Him on his knees, the bush of silver hair between her thighs in contrast with her dark curls. It suits him, she thinks almost drunkenly—it suits Nicholai to kneel before her.

She knows the sense of power is part of her want, her addiction to this thing they have. Maybe she’s fooling herself, and that’s a precaution she keeps present at all times. But in moments like this, Jill would rather relish on how Nicholai willingly submits to her.

He keeps licking, pressing and pulling out in a constant rhythm, drawing slow circles with his tongue. His nose pushes against the moist, feverish flesh. One of his hands releases his clasp to meet his mouth at her cunt, thumb starting to rub gently at her clit. Jill squirms and pants vocally, throwing her head back again, and her toes curl up in the air. His dusting beard scrapes at her inner thighs. She wants the roughness, until it chafes at the thin, delicate skin.

Once her hands crawl to her stomach, tired of lying idly by her sides, and move down until they grab at him, her fingers rake through his short hair. Sternly, she pushes him closer to her center, her legs squeezing instinctevely. 

“Someone's needy,” he chuckles wickedly, backing away from her folds to shoot her a glance from his position.

She catches the annoyed whine in her throat at the sudden loss of his warm mouth on her. Her head darts up and her hands let go of his hair, glowering at him with fire in her eyes, cheeks flushed and sweaty. 

“Shut up,” she groans. 

He sucks his wet thumb and smiles cockily. 

With a dry laugh humming inside him, he lowers down and resumes his diligent care. Her hands drift over him, then her fingers run through his scalp again as she guides him. It doesn’t take long before the wave of the orgasm sends her shuddering, a scream almost bursting out of her lungs. It makes her back arch in a painful angle, while her toes curl in the air, trapping him between her legs as he continues drinking her away committedly. 

She can't hear anything else, her mind hollow of everything that plagues her consciousness. All is washed away—the storm, the imaginary monsters creeping up in the dark, the faces of dead friends. Jill holds onto the temporary bliss and seizes it.

-

In the end, Jill has to be honest with herself and accept she’s glad he’s here, even if it makes her feel like a scared little girl that needs company for something like simple bad weather.

But rain pours incessantly outside, the harsh wind hisses when it seeps through the chinks in her windows and the glass panes rattle fiercely.

It threatens to bring nightmares back, and she desperately wants to cast them away. So Jill fixes all her attention on him, to drown out everything else as she fucks him into the mattress, sore legs straddling him. Their hips rock together in unison, fast and desperate. She raises and lowers herself, sinking down onto him with vigor, just to hear him groan and growl, while his fingers clasp at her waist so tightly they will leave bruises. Nicholai lets her set the pace, though, and Jill simply allows her frenzy to take a hold of her, welcoming the almost painful feeling of their thrusting.

But it’s the way they hold each other’s gaze that steals her breath, how they don’t break eye contact while he propels himself to meet her frantic rocking, while she tightens around his throbbing cock, while the room is filled with their moaning.

The shadow of a grin lingers on his lips; his colorless eyes look at her in what Jill can only define as awestruck.

They always do when they’re like this, and it drives her crazy—because he shouldn’t be looking at her like that, like she’s the sun and he wants to burn. No, it would be wiser if they looked each other like they used to, with too many pent-up issues and anger hanging between them, and the certainty that it was just a quick fuck, nothing more. 

The way they had looked at each other in the safehouse.

He slams harder into her and she meets his roughness, her nails scraping at his chest  and leaving red tracks on his skin, while both his hands trail up to rest at her bouncing breasts. Another frantic, low gasp leaves her lips when his thumbs stroke her nipples. 

Then she finds herself thrown around when Nicholai uses all his bulk to roll her over and switch their positions, as if Jill weighs nothing, draping over her in his massive size. She takes a sharp, shaky breath and her fingers clutch at his shoulders. He props up her hips with ease, each hand as large as the width of her thighs, and his knees sink into the mattress the moment he lines her up and starts lunging into her rashly, as if tearing her apart to her core. Her legs cling around his waist and the position makes it feel raw and good at the same time, soreness growing in every one of her exerted muscles. Jill slides her eyes shut, committed to remember the sensation for as long as she can hold it. Her nails dig deeper into his shoulders when he draws back and pushes forward inside her, grinding rhythmically with near desperation. The metallic headboard vibrates furiously with every thrust; the bedframe smacks aggressively against the wall.

It’s like an orchestra of increasing groans, grunts, moans and the filthy sounds of flesh slapping. 

She can barely hear the thunders, surrounded by the sound of her loud moaning and his unbridled groans next to her ear, his face buried now in her neck. He licks up the line of her jaw until his teeth find her lower lip—and he bites it, dragging it until there’s the faintest taste of steel inside her mouth. 

As his lips move down to chew at her throat, Jill feels the burning pain of her back and legs as he fucks her senselessly, and her fingers stroke the hair at his nape. She traces the jagged skin of his burnt marks and scratches at it, knowing it will hurt him, and reminding herself in a mad trance that these scars are hers and only hers.

Eyes shuts tightly, her jaw tenses and her hips roll faster following his own pace, the friction becoming nearly unbearable. He keeps hitting that spot inside her, now oversensitive and overstimulated, and Jill thinks her brain is going to blow up at some point if they don’t stop.

When she comes, she cries from the bottom of her lungs, a loud fucking hell jumping out of her chest just as her thighs clench and throb. He continues pushing in and out of her urgently, slicker than ever, and she just hangs onto him with her brain completely fried until he gets his own release soon after. Spent and worn down, he lets all his massive weight fall onto her; a breath skips her and Jill feels small and engulfed by the warmth he exudes. They catch their breaths together, soaked in sweat and their chests meeting halfway as they rise up and down, his forehead pressed against her temple.

From his neck, her fingertips travel down; trace the shape of his back muscles, gnarled and expanded from his position as she enters that dreamlike state Jill craves every night. She roams down, tapping into the bumps of his spine barely noticeable under thick, ripped flesh spattered with scars she has touched countless times. He’s covered in sweat and his skin is scalding in her palms. Jill nudges her cheek against his stubble without thinking, seeking the heat and salty taste. 

It’s when Nicholai lowers her down to the bed as he pulls out; that’s when she feels it again—his thumb kneading a spot under her hip bone, then closer to her navel. His fingers wander up and down her sides and trace the moles scattered all over her body, and her own collection of scars. Jill could bet he doesn’t even know what he’s doing.

It really did start in that safehouse. All of it.

She can’t even remember what possessed her back then beyond her own hurt and desperation, only that maybe she’s still drawn to this for the sense of trepidation and danger that invades her when they’re together. That she gets a kick out of this, like she’d do if she took pills or other drugs to feel better. The rawness helps, when they have burned to the touch of each other.

But she doesn’t simply burn now; she melts into his touch, and her mind starts to clutter with other thoughts, other memories of his glances and lingering touches, other things that should have never been part of whatever they share. 

It defeats the purpose of it, even if she can’t hear the storm anymore.

-

Water droplets drip down her cheeks after she finishes washing herself up on the bathroom’s sink. She sees her reflection on the mirror, the path of teeth marks on her throat and strewn hickeys around her neck and collarbone crisp under the bulbs’ light. If she looks further down, to her waist, she’s sure to find plenty of bruises too. Her fingers come to rest at the back of her head, working out the kinks.

Biting her cheek, Jill grabs her concealer make-up and places it next to sink; she will need it in the morning, and lots of it, to prepare for the scheduled briefing. She has resorted to it in the past, to avoid any curious looks and raised eyebrows from anyone in the unit, especially her teammates. 

With a tired sigh, she turns off the tap and leaves the bathroom. The apartment feels colder now, and a shiver runs through her, making her tremble slightly as she walks towards the bedroom. Hailstones strike repeatedly the glass panes and they vibrate furiously with each impact. Jill fears they might shatter at this point, but she simply hugs herself and opens the door, shoulders hunched.

He’s already standing next to the bedside table, half-dressed, tugging his grey t-shirt down. The tempest breaks out outside. Jill approaches the window in her room, widening the slit between the blind’s blades to take a peek outside. The ice stones blur the shape of the buildings and cars, falling down like a cascade all over the city. 

“It’s like a world war out there.” 

Jill hears the ruffle of his clothes, his boots sweeping on the floor. 

“Still scared, Miss Valentine?” he snarks, his eyes crinkling with a mocking smile.

“I’m not…” She stops herself before getting tangled up in his bait, then rolls her eyes. “How did you get here? By car?”

The question makes her realise how little she knows about him. It’s a way of self-defense, she guesses, because this doesn’t need to get (more) personal than it is. She doesn’t need to know how he acquires all the evidence he gathers for her, how he manages to come to her place incognito. The answers probably involve things she wouldn’t approve, and her selfishness has made her turn a blind eye. In a way, it should make her sick; but she gulps the guilt down. Ignorance is bliss, even though one day she’ll have no more excuses to tell herself.

“I walked,” he replies, folding his arms. “I have survived snowstorms. I can handle a little hail.”

Jill purses her lips, her frown deepened. Biting down the guilt and shame, she says out loud what she’s been thinking. 

“Well, you can stay the night if you want.”

Quickly averting his gaze, she can see from the corner of her eye that the offer takes him a little aback. He tenses up, but his answer is sharp-tongued.

“I don’t think this is about what I want.” 

She hides the groan, but it irks her—that he is right, partly. Because she does not want to be left alone, even if Nicholai Ginovaef shouldn’t be where she finds a measure of comfort when her anxiety spikes up. He shouldn’t be the remedy for her trauma; and she has known this for so long, although she hasn’t had the will to let go. 

Jill feels, as she stares at him, that this whole thing is a path paved in terrible choices that she can’t escape, because she’s grown familiar to it. She knows where every short step leads, she likes that. It doesn’t matter if the end is a precipice—but it should, she thinks.

After watching him in silence, she bites her lip and tempers her voice.

“Look, stay or leave. I don’t fucking care, Nicholai.” 

Tired, she leaves him standing there, in her bedroom, and simply walks towards the bed. After putting on a simple oversized t-shirt, Jill lies down on the mattress and reaches for the breaker to turn off the lights. The room bathes in darkness, while the patter of the storm drums against the windows without a break. She curls her legs up, tucking her hands under the pillow and closes her eyes tightly shut, using every inch of will to avoid turning to him. For all she knows, he could be standing there like a fool or have slipped away like a ghost.

It takes a bit, but she hears him; the sounds of clothing being tousled away. His boots clatter. Soon after, she feels the mattress sink down on the other side. Her heart races in her chest; hurting and on edge. She hates it, how she’s got this knot in her throat when she should not care at all about what he does—about him. And it’s the faint sense of solace his presence brings that drives Jill up the wall, because she wanted him to stay as much as she didn’t wish to want that.

After a while, curiosity wins over and she rolls to the other side. Under the dim light filtered through the blinds, Jill sees the shape of him as he lies down on her bed, one arm up with his hand under his head, the other draped over his stomach. His eyelids remain closed, and Jill blinks, staring at him, shifting her body into a more comfortable position. 

His profile is cut against the shadows and low light leaking from outside, covering everything in dark blue hues. She surprises herself thinking it flatters him; the outline of his nose and lips is pleasing. Nicholai is not exactly handsome, she ponders, but there is something to the hard lines on his forehead, around his deep-set eyes and mouth. They frame each one of his expressions; even though he looks almost peaceful now, in blue and black lightning, with the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes calmly. 

She has never watched him like this, because there’s an intimacy to sleeping together that has nothing to do with sex—something she has never linked to him. This is the first time and it feels like she’s intruding, seeing something that’s forbidden. And he’s letting her, since he has decided to stay, for some reason.

They never say what matters to each other except in written words, and Jill remembers the note. If I knew how to quit, I would’ve done it already. Why they can’t quit is a question she is not ready to ask even herself.

Jill considers reaching out with her hand to trace the rough lines of his profile, but she doesn’t, paying no mind to the itch at her fingertips.

-

Nicholai wakes up around five. His sleep is always light and his body just pulls him out of shuteye at the same time everyday, a habit he hasn’t abandoned since his military days. There’s a welcoming silence in the room, still shrouded in darkness; the clattering roars of thunder have quieted down and barely a hint of rain falls on the windows with a timid sound.

With practiced, automatic motions, he gets up from the bed and puts on his clothes quickly and quietly, to avoid waking her up. Nicholai is set on leaving, the hand hovering over the doorknob, but he can’t help glancing back towards her. She’s sleeping on her left side, one arm bent up in front of her chest; her fingers twitch a little in dreams, her lips are parted. He can hear her breathing slowly. The flimsy sheet covers half her body, her short locks of hair spilled like a curtain around her. 

Against his better judgement, he coils and steps in front of her. Nicholai can’t stop himself from kneeling next to the bed, his eyes fixed on the soothing expression of her features. Pulling his lips together, his hand lifts up, hanging between him and her, until his knuckle grazes her cheek.

He does it, with gentleness , taking in the softness of her skin and the way it triggers something that revolts him—a poisonous injury between his ribs that sickens him, impossible to suppress or extract, and she’s the source of it.

So the poison festers him, running freely through his veins.

His fingers are drawn back swiftly, with regret. As he stands on his feet again, Nicholai considers again how this could be happening—how he has reached this point of seemingly no return. If this is a wound, and it hurts like one, she’s a knife plunged deeply into his heart; and Nicholai knows that removing the blade would make him bleed out.

The irony isn’t lost on him—it would leave him with a bleeding heart, and he could almost chuckle at it all if it didn’t fucking piss him off so profoundly. 

Because this is not what it was supposed to be; it has shifted into a thing that reeks of emotion and intimacy. Things he has avoided all his life; things he detests. He is not about to become what he despises out of nowhere.

This is not part of the deal, yet his stare remains fixed on her as he leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind him. His mind takes him back to Raccoon City, and a helicopter, and a safehouse. 

Nicholai didn’t lie in the note—he is incapable of quitting now, since his desire for her outgrows any other compulsion. It enrages hin, having allowed a weakness like this to drain him of common sense. The only thing that remains to do is damage control, as much as he can. 

Still, he wishes he had taken the reward for her life on October 1st in 1998, knowing very well it’s too late now.

Chapter Text

His arm is held out in the air, finger resting on the trigger, hand steady at gunpoint. Nicholai grips his SIGPRO tightly, leather gloves creaking against the grip. The other man whimpers, stumbles back with both hands raised in the air. The bulb above them buzzes softly. It keeps the room lit enough for Nicholai to see Owen Clarke’s expression, desperation written in the creases around his nose, his lips curled down in a terrified grimace. He’s shaking, the spot around his crotch dampening. Nicholai notices it and his brow furrows, nettled at the pathetic display of cowardice from the researcher.

Without pulling, his finger remains pressed lightly on the trigger. One little push would shoot the weapon, insert a bullet between Clarke’s eyes. It would finish this charade, he could call it a night and go back to his place with the certainty that his bank account’s numbers would go up in the morning.

That’s what he does—what he has always done. 

Nicholai purses his lips, clenched together in a thin line. A grunt almost escapes his lungs, but he resists it, gives his hand a shake and takes another step forward until the cold metal of the barrel meets Clarke's forehead.

“Come on, man,” the fool utters, eyes barely open, lower lip quivering. He stifles a short breath that turns into a yelp. Nicholai applies more pressure, but his finger doesn’t pull the trigger.

He can’t tell himself an easy excuse to digest that explains his hesitation. Time is money, and he’s wasting it. But there’s a whisper scratching inside his skull, hindering his resolve to shoot. Words like ‘conscience’ and ‘remorse’ float around his mind; his jaw clenches in silent fury, and he practically hears the gritting of his own teeth. The familiar voice drums inside him. This shitshow with Umbrella could be over now, or closer to the end, if he had testified. You know that.

Clarke isn’t Eckhart. He’s simply a researcher, not even one of the extraordinary, from what he has learnt. His testitomy would hold no weight in a court. But her accusation comes back creeping; it has been a constant now, every time he has put an end to small time fuckers like Clarke in the last months. The memory of the look she gave him, disappointed and brimming with reproach, is tethered to it, indivisible, and his mouth turns dry, something bubbling up his throat that resembles nausea.

It doesn't matter they have seen each other after it, gone back to their arrangement. He remembers it, what it almost cost him.

“Don’t kill me, please, I’ll make up for it. I can still be of use to Umbrella, right?” Clarke blabbers between fits of cough and sobs, pushed against the chapped wall of the dingy apartment. People about to die rarely show composure. “I was desperate, I needed the money. But I’ll stay loyal to Umbrella, I swear.”

Clarke is not the only one guilty of trying to profit from the company’s downfall. Nicholai can’t blame the man; he was probably made an offer, a substantial one, highly tempting. Easy cash. All thanks to the sinking ship that is Umbrella, whose employees continue to leak away like oxygen escapes a drowning man, pushing them closer to death. There are interested third parties seeking to profit from Umbrella’s ruins, always on the prowl targeting the weak links. 

Nowadays his job consists more and more of silencing guys like Clarke; no matter if they were high executives or research lab assistants. The board wants them gone. Sergei calls him. He accepts the job. 

They are plain, simple jobs that pay well. That’s what it should be. Doesn’t even matter that he has turned into some sort of cleaner man for Umbrella at this point.

He still doesn’t pull the trigger.

A dread emptiness grows inside his chest. A sensation he’s not used to experience during—this. Normally he’d feel accomplished, knowing himself the winner in a situation. He’s used to have the upper hand; he enjoys it. When the target weeps and pleads for their lives, it just means he’s doing a very good job. The adrenaline rush pumps through his veins, controlled and mutedly. He is quick, in any case. The context rarely matters: when you kill someone, it just means you get to live. That’s what Nicholai embraced, what he believed in. 

That pillar falters, trembles, as its very foundations turn into a swamp.

In an attempt to muster a sliver of resolve, he speaks up.

“Trust is hard to earn, my friend,” he hisses. “And quick to lose.”

He heaves air into his lungs, slowly; then exhales, letting it slither between his teeth and lips.

When he finishes breathing out, it’s too late. Cold steel punctures the fabric of his jacket, rips through his shirt, then his flesh. Nicholai recognizes the feeling instantly. It’s not the first time he’s been stabbed—but it is the first time he hasn’t seen it coming. Air thickens around him, his own dragging breaths rasp inside his ears, deafening all other noises. His arms fall down, weightless. Clarke stands inches before him, hand shivering as he grips the razor with sweaty hands. Nicholai glances down, meeting his frightened stare. Warm blood flows out. Red bathes Clarke’s fingers, because for some reason he hasn’t released the blade from his grasp.

The pain doesn’t overwhelm him; not rapidly. But the dizziness starts to bear on him, perhaps mixed up with a great dose of shock. Factually, this can’t be happening. Clarke is nothing but a fucking lab rat who pisses himself out of fear. A man like this can’t take him by surprise.

But Nicholai feels less and less like himself, as the blood pours out, reminding him what his mistake has been. Should’ve pulled the trigger a minute ago. 

Clarke pries the blade out; Nicholai blinks lazily. Nothing seems real enough yet. A muted gasp leaves his lips when the open wound is freed from the steel. The researcher coils back, tosses the bloody knife away with a gutted cry. Like he can’t believe what he has dared to do. Nicholai’s knees buckle for a moment. Lifting up one hand quickly, he exerts pressure with the palm against the wound in a vain attempt to contain the bleeding. The other clutches the gun furiously, his knuckles turn white. 

Despite the trance, he can hear Clarke’s feet rushing away. On his right. He’s just beside him, running. He thinks he can escape. Briskly, Nicholai turns on his heels and raises his right arm.

Finally, his forefinger pulls the trigger in a fast motion. The smell of powder follows; it fills his nose as Nicholai shoots his handgun, the silencer attached deafening the blast. Smoke drifts from the hole carved into Clarke’s skull, where blood trickles down. The body drops down with a thump. Lifeless, a surprised expression etched in his features. Threads of red run down his nose; there are blood spatters in the white, plaster wall behind him. 

Lowering his arm, Nicholai clicks his tongue. The stab wound throbs painfully, forcing him to bend down a bit. He gazes down at the corpse, tendrils of blood still dripping from the bullethole. With the tip of his boot, he moves the body so it’s lying on his back. Nicholai squatters down next to it, wincing all the way from his injury. Blood starts to flood around Clarke’s head, slipping down the slits of the wooden floor. His eyes are wide open, a dead stare that will remain carved on them until he finally rots. The floor planks creak when Nicholai leans in a bit, patting with a gloved hand the upper body. 

As he had suspected, Clarke had been stupid enough to carry the intel with him. His ruse had worked: impersonate a mysterious buyer, establish a meeting point to carry out the exchange, arrive at said place, kill the bastard. Some had shown more cunning, even managed to sell samples to drug lords and whatnot on their own. However, most of these brainless idiots shared the same sin as Clarke: greediness mixed up with unmeasurable ignorance.

And still, he had managed to stab him, Nicholai reminds himself with callousness. Because, whether he acknowledges it or not, he is certain that every kill puts him one step away from her—and that’s the opposite of what his life has been since he can remember, violence being the only way he’s known to get what he wants. Blood sullies his shirt and fingers as he keeps pressing on the wound. Everyone has his own share of sins, he thinks, picking up the small data disc from Clarke’s inner pocket and securing it inside his.

-

“You look like shit.”

Under the door frame of her apartment’s entrance, she checks him up and down, eyes lingering briefly on his face. Nicholai has taken a peek at himself inside the elevator’s mirror; he understands her statement. He’s slightly hunched over, dark bags under his eyes. Only two days have passed since Clarke’s job; he hasn’t got much sleep, while his body has screamed in pain for almost forty eight hours straight. He has stood worse; but it’s taken its toll on him. He’s still amused by the bluntness of her greeting.

“Foreplay starts soon,” he jokes flatly.

To his surprise, he doesn’t receive a snarky follow-up. She shakes her head, the shadow of a smile in her lips. From her chest, a barely contained chuckle slips by, echoing in the hallway. She chokes it down by covering her mouth instantly, as if it’s wrong that she reacts like that. Nicholai realises that this might be the first time he’s made her laugh—not with sarcasm or concealed contempt, but genuinely. Then he thinks how he’s never intended to do that, with anyone, without ulterior motives, and how he’d like to draw it out of her again, the same way he knows how to make her moan. 

“Come in,” she says with a wave, moving aside to let him in. 

As he steps inside, Nicholai takes his hand to his side by instinct; the stitches tense, pulling at the seams. It aches, like a vexing itch that burns inside him at all times. From the corner of his eye, he sees her marching straight to the living room after closing the door. He stands on the entryway a bit longer, taking his time to hang the jacket because his eyes are planted on her. The warm lighting washes over her as she stands next to the couch, neck twisted towards him while picking up a couple of discarded pieces of clothing laying over the back cushions. Her skin glows, though it’s her eyes that always make him stop for a second. Arms crossed over her breasts, she talks first.

“What have you got this time?”

Nicholai approaches the stool that he usually uses and sits down. He places the disc on the counter, then shifts his body to face her. Leaning back, his elbows rest on the ledge. The veins around the injury pulsate, cold beads of sweat drip down the back of his head. But he ignores the discomfort and clears his throat.

“To no one’s surprise, a lot of Umbrella employees are trying to jump ship. This one was from New York,” he informs, pointing his thumb back at the disc on the surface. “He wanted to make some profit, before parting ways.”

She joins, taking a seat beside him.

“Wow, I wonder who else would do that,” she comments sarcastically.

Nicholai can’t help but throw her a knowing smirk before resuming his explanation. 

“My friend in high places wants to avoid any… misplacement of data, shall we say?” he continues; she fidgets with the disc, staring at him. “It’s almost like you have a common goal now.”

“I’ll make sure to send him a thank you gift,” she adds piercingly, eyes squinted. Nicholai lets out a dry chuckle—which sends a shuddering wave of pain through his side, numbing his nerves.  This time he can’t conceal the grimace from his face. She perks up, noticing his discomfort. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he flickers his fingers dismissively. “In any case, this wouldn’t be so different. From what I’ve heard, your people and you are cozying up to Umbrella’s previous colleagues.”

The Consortium hasn’t been shy about his economical and strategic support of their private anti-biohazard unit. Good public relations maneuver in a time where every pharmaceutical company is subjected to strict scrutiny, Nicholai thinks. People with the best of intentions are always prey to such things, just like them. Like her. 

“Yeah, well, money is all that matters in this fucking country,” she points out, too bitter for her age.

Nicholai simply shrugs one shoulder and tilts his head. “In the world, Miss Valentine.” 

She rolls her eyes with a scoff.

“You must be so ha…” Her voice comes to a halt mid-sentence, an unreadable expression lurking behind her gaze. When she glances down, widening eyes glued on a  specific point, he follows it and finds his t-shirt tinted in a light red streak.  “Are… are you bleeding?” she mumbles.

The question does surprise him. Blinking, he palms his side. When he brings his hand in front of him, his fingertips are smeared in a faint red. He lets out a charged breath through his nostrils; a quiet anger, addressed to himself, boils inside his throat.

“Shit.”

In one fast motion, she lunges forward and bows down enough to peek at the covered injury. Fingers come to rest on his bicep, in a gentle grab.

“What the hell?” she says out loud, still puzzled. Her eyes glance up, locking into his. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Nicholai fumes under his breath, growling mutedly as he writhes on the seat. This feels alien, out of place. He can’t cope with the way she’s staring deeply at him, with something too close to actual concern. So he dismisses it with a biting remark.

“You worried about me?”

Her answer is an exasperated sigh.

“Fuck you.” Instead of stalking away from him, providing some space between them, the hand on his bicep lowers down until it reaches his belt, pulling out the shirt’s hem from under his pants. She starts rolling it up. He can’t stop her before the wound is exposed, a swollen slit that crosses up and down beside his stomach, protected by a poorly-done bandage he had applied in the morning. She examines it inquisitively after removing the gauze, chewing at her lower lip. “This looks awful. You stitched up yourself or what?”

“I did, in fact.” 

Her thin fingers trail up, brushing his skin when her pads hover over the uneven stitches. She pulls her hand back at the scalding touch, a little gasp coming out of her lips. Her eyes journey from his face to the sewn cut.

“A doctor should take a look at this, Nicholai.” She makes a pause, then lifts her arm; the back of her hand lies on his forehead for a short moment, and Nicholai jolts lightly, as if the contact has sent a shockwave through his body. “And I’m pretty sure you’re running a fever.”

“A man can take care of his own injuries,” he sneers, almost baring his teeth in a scowl. “I don’t need a fucking doctor to tell me what I already know.”

Standing up, she raises both hands, head thrown back in frustration.

“Oh, God, spare me the machismo nonsense,” she growls, lividly, before making a beeline to the bathroom door. Without looking back, she shouts at him before he can move from the stool. “Wait there.” 

For some unfathomable reason, Nicholai complies and sits there. Waiting, listening to her. He can hear her rummaging through drawers, the clanking of glass against the sink’s porcelain, her footsteps on the  floor tiles as she moves around the small space to gather supplies.

“Blyad’ ,” he mutters.

The wound throbs. It’s not the physical weakness that bothers him. It’s everything else, the underlying meaning it holds, as if the injury reflects something more about his state than simple pain.

It’s sickening, and he hates it because he finds himself unable to fight back. That’s why he waits and sits and longs for her.

He doesn’t have time to wallow on it, because she rushes out of the room carrying a gauze pack, cotton pads and rubbing alcohol, among other things. Pointing her free hand to the couch, she signals him to move there while she kneels down on the floor, sitting on her heels and laying out the supplies to her side.

Nicholai lets out an annoyed sigh, then walks towards her, hand still over his side. He could have pretended to resist, pretended he isn’t affected by her impulse to help him, pretended he still had a grasp of control over his actions when she’s around. But he’s exhausted, to the point he doesn’t even care he’s this vulnerable in front of her.

“This is not how I pictured the night going,” he grunts, sourly, falling down on the couch. He winces all the way through and hates himself for it.

“Then you shouldn’t have come like this,” she bites back, staring at the wound area. She grabs the hem of the shirt and urges him to remove it; Nicholai obeys, raising his arms while he pulls the thing off by its collar. She eases it from him and tosses the piece of clothing away. It falls on the other side of the couch. “I don’t want any deadweight on my new carpet, you know.”

The warped chuckle comes through his nose without him noticing; it’s her effect. Making him act in irrational ways. He doesn’t know how to handle this nearness, so he opts for keeping his mouth shut for once as she puts on one latex glove, wets a ball of cotton and rubs gently along the cut. Grimacing, he grits his teeth and leans back. The aching sensation becomes a welcome distraction.

Knelt beside him, her presence overwhelms all his senses. Her fingers are cold against his feverish skin, the pleasant scent of her hair is stuck on his nose. And she’s there, focused on cleaning his fucked-up wound because she wants to. Nicholai realises he doesn’t remember the last time someone patched him up. It was probably in the war, a medic from his platoon; but he had discarded many of those memories, thrown away as the useless tools they were. 

It still doesn’t compare to this, to the spark that lights inside him. She has no reason to do it. They are not in the battlefield, where a soldier’s death could mean your own—he knows that wouldn’t matter to her, though. He has simply presumed she wouldn’t extend him that kindness, because of what he’s done and does; what he has done to her, in the past, too. Nicholai welcomes her hate, her disdain. They were only supposed to use each other for one thing, after all.

But now she pays him with care, which makes her a fool—except he craves it, being cared for by her, so Nicholai guesses he’s the biggest fool in the end. 

After a while, her voice breaks the silence in the room. 

“So, how did you get this?” she asks, quietly,  carefully tapping the cotton over the seams. She looks up briefly, and he turns his face down. Their eyes meet halfway.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he wonders wickedly, arm extended over the couch’s back.

“Touché,” she concedes, sighing. Casting aside the red smeared cotton ball, she picks up a tube of antibiotic ointment and starts spreading it over the wound carefully. The motion of her fingers sends shivers through his spine, and his teeth clench tighter. “You were distracted, then?”

This shitshow with Umbrella could be over now, or closer to the end, if he had testified. You know that. The words hammer again inside his brain.

“You could say that.”

Another thick silence falls upon them. Nicholai tries hard not to think about the warmth invading him whenever he feels her touch on him, as she proceeds to bandage the injury. He’s not a touch-starved fucking moron; but it’s like he’s burning, and not just from the fever. His body reacts on his own, his thoughts are clouded with indulgences he doesn’t need—he’s desperate to be close to her, at all times. He wants to touch her, run his fingers through her cheeks, down her back. 

He wants to kiss her, and he doesn’t fucking know why, and he hates it.

When she has finished, she peels off the glove, puts all the used supplies in a small plastic bag, ties it with a knot and leaves it on the coffee table. He watches her from the corner of his eye, until she’s back in front of him, sitting down on the couch, her knees glued together. Her fingers fidget on her lap, as if she’s a bit on edge.

Patting lightly the new, cleaned gauze, he leans forward until his elbows come to rest on his knees. He closes his eyes for a brief moment. The headache has just gotten worse.

“I have some painkillers too,” she says, breaking the ice once more. “But it looks very infected.”

There’s genuine worry in her voice, where there shouldn’t be any. He doesn’t need anyone’s concern. She shouldn’t waste it on him, either. No matter what he feels or thinks, though, her gaze is steeled on him, stripping him of every layer he has built around himself his whole life.

He’s never felt as exposed as in this moment, and he can’t do anything about it, he realises. So much for damage control.

“Not my first time. It’ll pass,” he adds curtly.

She doesn’t snap back at him, despite the frown. He extends his hand to grab his stained t-shirt, puts it on while she steals glances at him. They don’t make eye contact as he pulls the collar down; she keeps fidgeting. He notices how she’s biting her lower lip—eating down the words she would like to say, perhaps. Probably for the better, even if it leaves an awkward silence between them. 

His hand clutches the wounded patch of muscle, face contorted in pain. Nicholai throws her a dejected look. If they were completely different people, he would like to acknowledge what she has done. They’re not—but, for once in his life, Nicholai doesn’t find it in him to simply give a snide comment, to toy with her.

For once, he doesn’t want to be an absolute son of a bitch.

Nicholai wonders if that is the whole reason for his impasse—that she makes him wish he’d be someone different, someone he is not. A better man, perhaps. The thought feels like a deadly poison; a trap he has laid to himself. In spite of it all, the fever must have made him lose his mind, so he opens his mouth and tries .

“Even so, I… appreciate it, Miss Valentine,” he says, recalling her words from that night in a dark alleyway. 

He doesn’t stammer, because he has enough self-control not to look like a buffoon. But the words taste strange in his mouth, come off wrong in his voice. In reply, she snorts tiredly, then props herself up with her hands on the cushion to stand up, ready to leave the sofa. 

Without thinking, he catches her by the wrist. 

Slightly baffled, she stares down at him, one eyebrow lifted up in surprise. Nicholai ignores it, and decides to give in. He will hate himself more for it later; he’s already full of self-loathing by this point. It makes it easier not to care.

Tugging at her wrist, she falls flat on the couch again. Their knees bump, her eyes fix on him. Wetting his lips, Nicholai scoots closer, his hand lingers next to her face without landing over her cheek. Finally, he tucks his thumb and forefinger under her chin.

Eyes closed, he leans in and their lips meet, and he savours hers, soft and plump, like this is the first time he has kissed her, as if she were a creature made for devotion, ethereal, at the crisp of slipping away from his grasp and he can’t bear the thought of letting her go.

As if he had surrendered to her. 

-

Jill had her first kiss in high school, hidden away behind the gym’s bleachers after prom night. It had been sloppy, but sweet, followed by a string of nervous giggles. She remembers it fondly, like a nice memory of simpler days. You never get to have a first something twice, as unremarkable as they might turn out. 

When Nicholai dives down and kisses her, not trapping her lips between his teeth with roughness, but just caressing them with strangled gentleness that doesn’t come naturally to him, Jill wonders if this is it.

Her second first kiss.

She squeezes her eyes shut, letting herself be lost in the sensation. This is not the time to consider why it’s happening, what it means—she would struggle with that later, by herself, in the darkness of her bedroom. She would repeat to herself again how this has been a terrible idea, from the start.

Now she only wants to be kissed like this, for as long as it lasts. His thumb, tucked under her chin, trails up her jawline; his palm covers the side of her face. Deepening the kiss, he shortens the gap between them, their thighs bump together; but it’s not rushed nor desperate. Not lust-driven, like they always kiss and bite, knocking everything in their way and throwing themselves to the other with hunger. 

Gasping briefly, he cups the back of her head with one hand; her flushed cheeks feel the grazing touch of his knuckles, and her body trembles. Every gesture is restrained, as if he’s about to pull away any second. Afraid, even. Jill covers his fingers with hers, guiding him until his hand spans the side of her head. Jill knows the concealed tenderness that lies behind, like she’s known in the hundred thousand unwitting touches.

He keeps kissing her, slowly and yearning and warm. Jill kisses back intently, and her fingers slip down to his wrists, her thumbs stroking the inner side. 

Out of necessity, one of them breaks away, just enough to drink in some air into their lungs. She sighs, eyes still closed. Nicholai bows his head, and their foreheads rest against each other. She leans in the gesture, opening her eyes to gaze into his pale green irises. He inhales heavily, hands clutched at the nape of her neck, fingertips tracing circles on her scalp. 

He hums a low grumble, and then whispers something as his eyes slide close. Words that seem to burst out of him, as if he needed them out of his chest.

“S toboy mne hochetsya stat’ luchshe.”

She can't understand a word, but it feels meaningful, and he wants to hide said meaning.

“What’s that?” Jill notices the hint of a giggle in her question, holding onto his wrists without letting go.

“You should reconsider the Russian lessons.” The parched laugh thrumming in his throat dilutes the cockiness from his words. Jill wonders if that’s the most genuine he has ever addressed her.

Her nose pokes at his cheek.

“I might.”

The last syllable is drowned in his mouth. He surges into another kiss unhurried. Jill heaves a pleasant hum, his tongue grazing at her lips and she parts them to allow him. He draws in deeper, her eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. 

It happens so promptly she’s not sure whether it’s her imagination, but Jill swears she hears him sigh into her mouth, a half pained sound overflowing with a host of unsaid truths. Her hands skim up to each side of his face, fingertips stroking his scruffy jaw with lightness. Nicholai cups hers tightly, languidly drawing patterns with his thumbs over her cheekbones, caressing the shell of her ears as deft fingers tuck her hair behind them, still devoid of any urgency. Their lips knead against each other, following the slow rhythm they’ve developed. 

It’s a breeze of fresh air into her chest; one she wants to suffocate in. He makes no attempt to let go, sucking into the kiss, licking her swollen lips after he tastes them with reverence.

Somewhere, the phone rings. Jill doesn’t think it’s hers—doesn’t want it to be hers.

They silently ignore it, entranced in their own bubble. It rings again and again, the blaring noise blasting inside the apartment. She feels his frown on her own, his mandible tenses up, muscles straining under her touch. Jill runs her fingers through his short, unbelievable soft hair, her arm almost hooked around his shoulders.

It doesn’t stop. He mutters something, angrily, to himself; Jill folds, knowing the moment has passed. When she draws back, her lips mourn his absence. A crushing weight falls upon her shoulders, and she has to chew the inside of her cheeks to contain the string of expletives clogging up in her throat.

“I’ll answer that,” she laments.

Raising up from the couch, she treads in a daze towards the phone lying on her desk and picks it up. The ringing finally vanishes, and Jill thanks the sudden silence.

“Hello?” she says tiredly to the receiver, containing a sigh.

Of all the voices she would’ve liked not to hear right now, Hannah Valentine comes close to the top.

“Hello, honey.” The endearment term is spoken rigidly. 

“Hi,” she replies to her mother on the other side of the phone, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

Hannah Valentine follows up with a question. It’s like white noise, but she reminds herself to hum at least, even if she’s not actually listening to her. Jill’s attention lies elsewhere, watching Nicholai as he stands up, gazing down. He walks with some trouble to the door entrance. Their eyes only meet briefly, and she perceives a hollow, quiet distress in the way he stares at her before turning his back. 

“Jill, you there?” Her mother’s voice calls, slightly confused at her lack of response.

Her stare remains locked on him, the weight on her shoulders heavier and her throat squeezing shut. Leaning back into the desk, she watches him put on his jacket, then disappear behind the door. He won’t be staying the night this time, leaving no trace of his presence behind except for a cold emptiness.

“Jill?”

“Yeah, sorry,” she crackles, shaking her head. Inhaling deeply, she sighs, “I was just… distracted.” 

Chapter Text

Next to her on the comfortable mattress, he studies the shape of her naked body, soaked in the colorful lights that seep through the blinds. A wild strand of hair cascades over her eyes, the crumpled sheet wrapped around her legs in glimmering cyan. The slits of light from outside waver, dazzling and oniric. Her chest hitches with each breath, lips slightly parted. The air she exhales grazes his collarbone, cuddled as she is against him, her head tucked under his jaw. Months have passed already, but after the billowing evening with the storm, he’s been spending most of the nights at her place rigorously. She has never offered him to stay with an open invitation; he hasn’t spoken a word about it either. They don’t mention it out loud, like they never talk about the notes or the kiss. It’s just one more unsaid thing between them. Nicholai simply cleans himself after they have sex and returns to the bed, claiming the left side. When they lie together, still awake, they put as much space between them as possible. 

Usually, she lies on her left, displaying her back to him, and he stares at the ceiling and counts the thin cracks. Sometimes, Nicholai steals glances at her, all curled up, admiring the beautiful lines of her neck and hips in the blue darkness, until a quiet slumber drifts him into a semblance of sleep. Other times he witnesses her slight trembling when night terrors come to visit her. She stirs in her sleep, but he keeps the distance even if he tries to reach instinctively. By the time he wakes up, his arm is always flung around her waist, their bodies pressed together, legs tangled up. He makes note of it because he has never spent the night with a woman after having sex with her; he has always been quick on his feet to collect his belongings and leave when he has finished.

Like many other things, she has changed the game. So now he stays, and clings to her when his unconsciousness betrays him in his sleep.

Tonight is no different. The red numbers from the alarm clock flicker in the dark, announcing it’s already past four o’clock in the morning. Soft orange hues start to bathe the room. In an hour, he should scramble for his clothes and leave the place. He’s a man of habit, and this has become one in the last months: he wakes up one hour earlier than usual, which he devotes to contemplate her while she’s still fast asleep, his hands littering her body in caresses. He has learnt all her curves and limbs like a map, marking down every spot and burning it into his mind. Perhaps his approach is almost methodical, as if he were scouting the field before a battle, but he relishes the ritual of following those imaginary paths from her back to her stomach, along her toned thighs, up to her backside, reaching the finish line on her face and jawline. 

His hand hovers around her chin, then the pad of his thumb covers a small blemish on her chin’s edge. An acne scar, he thinks; less glamorous than others, but unique in her collection. Nicholai finds himself appreciating the little imperfection; this one reminds him of her youth, hidden away by the aged look of her eyes. His hand lowers down, sprawling around her throat, nails scraping the thin skin lightly until they arrive at her collarbone. His thumb sinks in the dip between bones. He keeps treading down. She squirms a little in his arms when his fingertips draw circles around her lower back, going up to the nape of her neck, caressing the tips of her hair, and then coming back down in a slow, steady pattern. He repeats the motion until his callous fingers make her skin pebble under his touch. She sighs a low moan, pushing her body closer, her soft breasts crushed to his hardened chest. 

He shouldn’t revel in these mawkish gestures, he shouldn’t coddle this nauseating sense of sentimentality that infects him since she stepped into that shower. Yet he does, and he treasures the routine in spite of himself.

Meanwhile, the distant sounds of the city outside the apartment surround them, vibrate against the window panes, and his fingertips run up and down her back in a trail of feather-like strokes.

-

Jill waits around ten minutes with eyes closed and controlled breaths, pretending to be deeply in sleep, before she nudges her nose against his chest and speaks in a whisper, eyelids still shut closed.

 “Why do you do that?”

His hand goes pliant over her lower back. He lets out a tired growl, and the groan in his throat thrums against her cheekbones.

“What?”

“That.” With a tilt, she points to his hand spanning the expanse of her back.

“You don’t like it?” he huffs, bowing down his head slightly. His rugged chin touches her forehead; Jill opens her eyes and sees his clear gaze in the night hues of the dormitory. She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she takes in the indecipherable meaning behind his eyes. 

The rumble of an engine’s car groans outside the window, blending with dog barks and the convenience store door opening with its usual ringing sound. After swallowing a deep breath, she accommodates herself between his massive arms. One pillows under her head, stretched out, and she can count the swollen veins of his ripped muscles under the dim bright lights. 

“No, I do,” she finally replies, drowsily. “I meant why do you do it when you think I’m asleep.”

“So you don’t bother me with questions,” he answers curtly.

Nicholai resumes his movement, but now his thumb traces the outline of her side, from her hips and up. She allows herself one cheeky half-snort. When her eyes shoot upwards, they take notice of a striking ivory scar across his throat. It blends with the paleness of his own skin, but she realises it’s the shadow of a past cut. A deep one, from the look of it. 

“Too late for that now,” she mutters, as her own fingers trail up between them and touch along the scar. His Adam’s apple rolls when he feels her warm fingers on his throat. 

“Is this your payback?” he snorts, and his smile pulls at the corners until it shows his canines.

Ignoring his question, she taps the old white scrape that reminds her of a knife’s edge.

“I just noticed you got way too many scars.”

She hears him wetting his lips, his chest swelling up as he takes a lungful of air.

“You’re not running short yourself.”

Her fingers land lower between his collarbones, following the crumbs of small injuries that have left tiny bumps and hills all over his chest and neck. They all look like badly treated wounds who scarred in the worst possible conditions.

“Mine have healed considerably better,” Jill retorts, frowning, and taps one thin faded line that crosses his right pec. “I guess yours look like this because you stitch them up by yourself, like a man?” 

Nicholai laughs quietly at her taunt, with the faintly malicious cadence of his cackling. His thumb brushes against her breast and sends a chill down her spine.

“They add character,” he remarks. Jill knows his sight is fixed on her, lips brushing the top of her head.

“Right,” she scoffs. She takes the chance to dig deeper. Jill is the first one to deflect personal conversation; but she has woken up in the mood to annoy him for a while with pesky questions, since he’s dodged hers. “Where did you get this one?”

Her thumb ghosts around a long, wide fleshy ridge that cuts across his right bicep.

“First year in the army.”

Lips forming a thin line, Jill prods a little bit more.

“A bit rough for a first year.” 

Jill can notice that his smirk hides a darker truth.

“It’s how we toughened up. No need for soft soldiers.” 

It sounds like a dig at her, much in line with what she knows he values above anything. Unsurprising, but it explains a lot—not that she needs to understand the inner workings of his mind for what they do. The less she knows, the better. It hasn’t stopped her from wondering the whats and whys, from time to time. 

She wonders now, again, glaring at him in the dark and listening to the revealing bits and pieces he has let on—why would someone so self-serving join the military? She suspects it has nothing to do with patriotism nor ideals. But the question gnaws suddenly, curiosity getting the better of her.  After catching him red handed tonight, she’s emboldened to go a little bit farther. 

Upside is it'd annoy him more. 

“Why did you join?”

His answer comes soon enough, with a matter-of-factly tone that diminishes the weight behind his reply. 

“I didn’t. I was conscripted at 17. Turns out I was very good at it.”

She looks up at him, her brow snapped together, not because it’s an unexpected truth (it isn’t), but because he has granted her an honest answer at all.

“Can’t imagine what that is like,” she comments, slightly taken aback. 

He puffs out another devilish laugh.

“It was better than what I left behind,” he confesses, an implied resignation behind his tone.

She blinks a few times, then twists her neck back to get a better view of him, hands sprawled over his sternum. 

As she squints at Nicholai, who wears an unreadable expression on his face, Jill ponders about something she hasn’t really considered before—that he might have been... not forced, but pushed into this kind of life. She’s not scouring for excuses to tell herself about who he is or what he has done: she knows he’s a ruthless, self-centered shithead; he has never hidden it. But no one is born like that, at least that’s what she believes. One year ago, she couldn’t have cared less about what his past might have been. 

Now it’s different, even if it shouldn’t matter. It piques her curiosity and she pictures in her mind a young Nicholai thrusted into the military, and how that must have felt.

It sounds strange. Her decision to join the army had been hers, only hers; and the price had been high. She had willingly sacrificed family bonds over what she felt was her own path.

Nicholai had that choice taken from him, but his words share a familiar ringing. The need to leave behind a home that doesn’t feel like one, live new things. She surprises herself thinking it—that she could somehow find relatableness in their experiences.

Fingers squeeze her hand and break her out of her own thoughts. He touches a small, faint mark that still expands across her palm. 

“Now it’s my turn,” he utters amusedly. His thumb pats the scar. “What’s the story?”

Jill raises her eyebrows, huffing a half-laugh. A sharp pang of guilt shoots through her, because she has allowed the conversation to get like—this, personal, littered with brief anecdotes of their lives, like a small peephole to what they are outside their monthly meetings. 

She has snared herself in a trap, and now it’s too late. So she yields and gives him an answer.

“Fell down my bike when I was eleven.”

Nicholai chuckles in mock. To her surprise, he brings her hand to his mouth, and licks the scar like he’s tasting the blood it once dripped.

“Poor Little Miss Valentine, you ran to your mama weeping?”

She finds she’s amused by his quip, her lips twitching up at the corners to draw a grin. In retaliation, she gifts his bicep with a light slap of her free hand and a quiet ‘hey’ muttered between teeth. The gesture comes naturally, without thinking, and Jill is gripped for a second by the normalcy it exudes. A playful, flirty motion her brain has reacted to inadvertently. Little things that slip by, reminding her she doesn’t behave around him like she used to—like they are on the edge to kiss or shoot. But, in a blink of the eye, she lets the thought pass and focuses on his scars again. Her finger prods at one of the most striking ones he owns; a lumpy thing under his left pec, between his chest and abdomen. It expands to the valley between, like a small scale mountain range. The pad of her fingers trace it slowly, then she jabs at the scar.

“Ok, what’s this then, big guy?”

The weird built feeling of easiness vanishes when Nicholai gazes down, making sure what scar she means. Immediately after, he rolls his eyes, lips pursed.

“That was a present from my father,” he explains caustically.

“What?” It’s all that she can produce, her voice breaking as she says it. His words inject ice in her veins. A sharp breath clutches around her throat, while something heavy and twisted churns in her stomach. His better than what I left behind drums differently now, like a curtain draped over a horrible scene.

“Not going to like the answer.”

She hesitates, incapable of thinking an appropriate answer, if there’s even such a thing. So she settles for obviousness. “Guess you don’t get along with him.”

Another tired, unfunny cackle erupts from his mouth. 

“Who gets along with their parents?” Jill blinks languidly, the statement hitting perhaps too close for comfort. He reads her like an open book. Her eyes give away much more than she can express.“Ah, seems we have that in common.”

Jill doesn’t have it in her to contradict his guess, because it is true in a way. Jill watches him caress her knuckles with his lips, playful and a bit wicked, yes, but with warmth. She heaves a long, charged sigh. Nicholai and she couldn’t have been more different, but in the end, Jill ponders, they are people: raised by someone else, and carrying a load of invisible baggage over their shoulders. Maybe that is simply a universal truth, but it feels—important, somehow.

Even so, comparing her problems to presumably physical child abuse leaves a bitter taste in her tongue. Inspecting the scar, Jill knows his story hides an even sadder tale. The idea makes her skin crawl.  

“Yeah, no, I don’t think my parental issues have anything to do with yours.” 

“No, no, no, no,” he quickly corrects, sliding his arm from under her head and propping himself on one elbow until he towers over her and the dim lights from the street are shadowed by his bulk. Smirking toothely from above, he points his finger at her. “You have issues. I just had a bastard for a father. When he died, he did me a favor.” 

Shrugging, he talks about it like it’s nothing, the sentence chanted like an irrelevant joke. That seems fitting for him, Jill thinks. Nothing haunts him, not even the nightmare from Raccoon City, in exchange for any drop of humanity he can wring out of himself. 

She’s no psychologist, she can’t profile—but it just makes sense for someone like him. Nicholai slowly moves on top of her, forearms resting on each side of her head like a cage. His thumb strokes her temple in circles, tantalizing; Jill spreads her legs to accommodate, his chest pressing lightly against her as it swells with every breath taken. 

Glaring back at him, Jill finds nothing to say, knowing they are already sinking in uncharted territory. So she waits for him to make his next move.

Nicholai tilts his head, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her expression.

“Do you want to talk about your issues, Miss Valentine?” he asks after a brief silence, his lips pulled in a grin. There’s an edge to his question, but the way he glares tells her he’s listening.

Her gaze drops down and she gives a quick shrug.

“Not much to say. They just… didn’t like my life choices.”

Nicholai hooks a finger under her chin and forces her to look at him directly.

“Then you chose right,” he states, earnestly, bowing his head until their faces are barely an inch apart.

She rolls her eyes with skepticism, because nothing has felt right for her in a long time.

“Considering what my life is now, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“You’re a survivor. That’s all that matters.”

Their eyes remain focused on each other, unflinching. She opens her mouth, ready to rebuke him. She wants to, because he’s wrong—she knows all too well that survival isn’t everything. Not after Arklay and Raccoon City and whatever else the future awaits her. Surviving for the sake of it, at the expense of others, is never worth it, like bargaining for a twisted, wretched existence. But, after all, that’s where their common ground ends, she thinks. The abyss that separates them, still miles apart, linked together by a weak bridge that threatens to crash down at any moment. 

It saddens her, for the first time. 

“You haven't seen my best one, though,” she blurts, wanting to shift the topic as quickly as possible. Raising her forearm between their pressed bodies, she pats an old, long scar that goes down to her elbow. 

“Tell me, Miss Valentine,” he snarks.

“When I was... fifteen I think, my father told me I couldn’t go to the movies with my friends on a Saturday night,” she explains, eyes going blank as she remembers how furious it had made her back then, the kind of untamed anger that starts boiling up in your teens. “He thought I was lying and meeting a boy or something…”

“Were you?” he quips mischievously, showing his teeth in a smirk.

“No, I just wanted to have fun with my friends,” she says, slightly exasperated. “So I escaped through my bedroom’s window. I climbed down, until my hand slipped and I fell down on my ass in the garden. I got this baby thanks to a broken tile.” The faked pride in her voice fades away, followed by an absent chuckle. “Guess I was a bit of a troublemaker in my teens.”

Nicholai’s laugh echoes in the room, and she feels it between his ribs.

“A bit? I bet you were big fucking trouble.”

“Didn’t you like trouble?” she asks, throwing him a defiant smirk.

“I do.”

Whatever she might have thought to say gets lost inside his mouth when his lips trap hers. Nicholai’s hand, draping all over her midriff, clutches tightly around her waist. She hooks her arms around his back; her blunt nails bite down his shoulder blades. She can feel the faint red scrapes it’ll leave, alongside the coarse, scarred skin. His tongue pries her mouth open with a wet sound, stealing a breath out of her when their teeth clash. Heat pools down her belly as his hand goes up to cup her breast, sucking hungrily at her swollen lips. The whimper that escapes her mouth when he grazes her nipple, all perked up, dies down in his throat, and his hips buckle in response. 

She chews at his bottom lip, one hand slithering down between their scalding bodies. When she wraps her fingers around his already half-hard cock, stroking in lazy motions, Jill drinks the growl that he can’t contain, brow set. His propped arm wobbles and he almost loses his balance; but his mouth remains fixed on her, lapping at her lips wolfishly. Jill works him up and down, his breathing growing erratic with every stroke she treats him to, the rhythm increasing gradually. His hips rock in unison to her hand, while his fingers squeeze around her breast, fingertips brushing against the sensitive skin, and draw a pained moan out of her lungs.

The muted sounds and the heat of their bodies dispels any other lingering words; they wash away the conversation about their pasts, their problems, their lives. As they continue, his hitched moans turning louder, Jill thinks it’ll make it easier to pretend they never spoke about any of it, that it never happened—and maybe that’s the reason she’s doing it, in the same way Nicholai has tried to kiss her into silence.

They would drive each other into a brief release, ignoring everything else that hangs between them, pretending this is about blowing off steam, and they would say their goodbyes until their next meeting as if nothing has changed. That’s what Jill guesses while he smothers his grunts in her mouth.

After all, this is their deal.