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DEARLY DEPARTED, VILE VISITANT -Yandere! Chris Redfield x Divorced! Reader

Summary: After desperately trying to salvage an irreparable marriage, you and Chris Redfield have a messy divorce. A year later after you move to Germany to be with your dying mother—at her funeral you find an uninvited guest… holding his newborn daughter. Following his arrival, a series of bad luck plagues your life as you once knew it. Whether or not it's fate, or fate’s hand forced open…

!TW/CW! Use of Y/N, OOC Chris, discrimination, Y/N has dual citizenship not ethnically german unless you specify, established relationship, infertility, mentions of suicidal ideation, thoughts of wanting to self harm, little to no mention of RE 5 (sorry I haven't played it yet) mentions of RE8/village, Chris is lowkey an asshole with a bigger ego, Claire Redfield cameo, Barry Burton cameo, bad german translations, mentioneds of miscarriage, stereotypical german behavior, cancer, death of a minor character, delusion, infertility, implied one night stand, coercion using a child, assasination, car accidents, using money as manipulation, drug overdose, blackmail, mentions of past self harm, verbal abuse, emotional abuse, alcoholism, manipulation, stalking, narcissistic behavior, failing marriage, toxic relationships, PTSD, face riding, fingering, unprotected sex, rough sex, squirting, shower sex, rimming, brief sexting, switching. overstimulation

!MDNI! This is the only and FINAL warning.

!DISCLAIMER! I do not condone any actions written in this post. This is merely for entertainment purposes.

Word Count 19.7k

Chris Redfield had taken ten shots already.

It was only 5 PM. Barely keeping his head up at a bar he knew only cared for his wallet, the BSAA captain was exactly where he wanted to be after another grueling mission in a war against biological warfare and corporate greed. Bottles line the wall in various shapes and sizes. A young female bartender keeping watch, and a bottle in her hand when Chris let out a slurred demand for more.

Other sorry drunks like himself watching in pity, but Chris couldn’t care less. He’d learned long ago to distance himself from those under his command. They’d all end up dead one way or another, for nothing, like Piers. Barely more than a sorry plaque, military discounts, and whatever pity package came from the government as compensation to families for losing their children. Chris had in a way given that package to you– by not coming home almost three days after his mission. He didn’t come home for another day.

And god you were mad, made sure he knew it too. It’d been like this for the past five years, ever since Chris had returned home from that mission in Romania. One of his close friends, Ethan Winters sacrificed himself so Chris’ squad and his family could escape the Megamycte without being in the blast radius. You tried comforting best as you could, helped with now a fatherless baby Rose and Mia when you could. But you had your own life working as a nurse at the local hospital. It was a demanding job yet you still tried to be the best spouse you could be for him.

Making sure he came home to warm meals, and never going to bed unless he was out again for days at a time. Usually without any warning. And when you did confront him Chris would yell until you apologized for ‘pestering’ him when he’d left you on read five times with no little as a call. Nothing was ever his fault. Always yours. Slowly the man you had fallen in love with for his enthusiastic personality and need to constantly help others than himself began to fester resentment.

So you stopped.

Stopped leaving him meals. Stopped staying past 3 AM when your next shift was only hours away. Stopped texting for him to come home. Stopped loving him. And god you cried about it for weeks until it left nothing but a bitter numbness in your chest. The memories of your earlier lives a sour mockery to your foolish desire to cling to what once was.

You swore up and down your entire life you would never stay with a man that made you this miserable, but here you were.

The stress called ‘love’ had started to take a physical toll on you. Your hair was falling out, acne you thought was under control was conquering in the most stubborn of zits, terrible migraines– the list went on. An endless list of pain and suffering. You both were. Stuck, hoping each other would do something, so you did, until you couldn't anymore.

Counseling. He refused.

New kinks, lingerie, toys for bed. He didn’t even glance at you.

Rehab. He screamed for hours until you gave in to withdraw his name from the program.

Your last desperate attempt, trying for a baby. You started menopause that week.

Everything was fighting against you to fight for this marriage of sixteen years. Everyone was praying you would leave. Except Claire– she’d begged and begged. For his sake. And at first you gave in, but eventually you blocked her number. Not out of malice, but to finalize your reality. So, after months of trying, you did. You filed for divorce. Packing your things without him noticing was easy as Chris was never home. The hard part was actually serving him the papers.

So you did what worked best, nagging him until he came home.

God you missed the days when he’d drop everything for just the chance to kiss your feet.You blamed yourself for it reaching this point. Voices of unnecessary doubt clouding your mind. Your career being too demanding, being too mean when you first started dating, being too clingy, being you like it was some curse. But you knew it was just guilt.

So you moved on.

Seated in the once normal occurrence between you two, now one of the rarest– was a table with a hot meal no longer abandoned. Chris sits across the table from you in the furthest seat. It felt like the same ends of a magnet, always pulling away no matter how hard you pushed. The BSAA captain picks at his plate like a picky child, one of his favorite dishes, or you thought it was. Your palms grew sweaty as you held the yellow packet containing the end of sixteen years. The unbinding of vows you whispered so tenderly on a day you’d now rather forget. Chris’ icy blue eyes nearly frosted you to the dark oat seat.

When was the last time that gaze made you feel warm?

You let out a shuddered sigh from your red colored lips, sliding the packet across the table just where he could reach it. Chris pauses, feeling his own stomach drop at the sight. Part of him had known for weeks now, but he chose to drown his sorrows rather than face them. He merely grabs the packet with a hardened look on his face, opening it like an unwanted birthday gift. Chris’ calloused thumbs brushing over the bolded title in all capital letters: PETITION FOR DIVORCE.

Half of him wanted to laugh, the other to clutch your blue hospital scrubs and beg for forgiveness he knew he didn’t deserve. But it was beyond that now. There was no turning back. “Is this what you really want?” Chris utters roughly, his tone somewhat softer than the names and screaming matches you dealt with on a daily basis for a month now. You nod, tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

Your heart was pounding, half of what remained of your soul screamed it to all be some cruel April fool’s joke– but it was the middle of June. Chris’ fists curl around the paper, wrinkling as it gave way to the pressure. Staring at the ring replacing what was missing. You wanted to run, throw up, and sob all at the same time. You still loved Chris. But you weren’t healthy for each other.

So with a click of a pen, began the cracking of a sixteen year contract.

You don’t remember the drive to your friend's house. Boxes upon boxes still being condensed. Selling, donating, tossing. Boxes of half eaten takeout left on the table, energy drinks littering the floor. A mindless mantra to the now submitted divorce papers in the courthouse. You were free. So was Chris. Yet despite having long since being used to sleeping alone at night– tonight you clung to your pillow. His old T-shirt you stole from when you first started dating and he never bothered to reclaim. Still a scent of his musky cologne lingered, despite how gross it was you knew you’d never wash it again.

The one thing you allowed yourself to remember him by despite letting him go.

.

You wake up the next morning, Chris’ shirt still next to your head. You felt a migraine coming in from the scent of his cologne. You sigh deeply, reaching under your pillow to grab your phone. Scroll through your notifications and you find a message from your mother. Tensing up immediately because she never texts you. Rarely calls even. You didn’t have a strained relationship with your mother, it's just the way you two communicated. You partially blamed it on the German culture she had adapted too– but mostly the lack of understanding her generation honed when it came to technology. Reading the message your mother has written like a letter, curt as ever:

Mutti 09:45 AM

Dear Y/N, I am sorry to scare you. You are very busy. The doctor has said I am sick. Heart cancer. Please come see me. I only have a year left to live. Love, Mama

You of course were devastated, but you couldn’t help but let out a huff at her bluntness. There was no sugar coating when it came to her. You’d originally planned to move to Seattle and work as a clinical nurse in one of the hospitals, you’d already gotten the job. But now it seemed like life, the concept you were constantly at war with seemed to spit in your face once more. Letting out a shaky sigh and reach for your phone. You draft an email as you look over your half packed boxes. Blinking once at it before letting out a silent curse. A part of you felt like crying, the other wanted to kick something. But you knew in your heart you weren’t going to Seattle.

You were going back to your hometown, Esslingen. A small town on the Nekar river. It had been almost five years since you went home, because after Ethan’s death in 2021 you tried consoling Chris. He only pushed you away yet demanded you stay whenever you tried to leave for the holidays.

So, over the course of two days– you had to quadruple downsize your things. Most being sold off in a yard sale since thankfully it was summer season. The rest of what didn’t sell was distributed between friends and family within your city. You didn’t plan a goodbye party. Just dinner with your close friends. Your ticket for the next morning was bought, and you had booked a hotel for the night.

One final goodbye post to your Instagram story– thinking nothing of it you set your phone to silent. Everything felt like it was happening way too fast– your mind driving in circles still trying to comprehend your life at this moment.

Your mom had cancer, you picking up everything last minute for her last moments. You wake up early the next morning, your luggage already placed by the door. Staring at it like it was confusing. One week ago, you were preparing yourself for a life without Chris. Now it was here.

Within hours you were hovering over your seat just outside the gate. Just hours away from the freedom you so desperately wanted. But a part of you wanted to go back. It had been a constant battle of lingering regrets and feelings. But you wouldn't force yourself to stay in a miserable place, where no love grew. It had already been a struggle with the feeling of no longer having a ring over your left hand.

“Y/N.” You tense at your name being softly called from behind you. With only the tender caress a broken heart would allow. Chris. You immediately felt the tears coming back into place but you dab them away as soon as they formed. Turning to face him you have to physically hold yourself from reeling back at the sight before you. He was a mess.

A 5 o'clock beard coated his chiseled jaw, hair was tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed accompanied by large purple bags under his eyes. He gives you a light smile, polite, not at all genuine. Still wearing the black coat you’d gotten him for Christmas in 2020. The one he wore to Romania.

Pressing your lips together you gesture with your hand over him– a silent question as to why he was here at all. He quickly shows the top of his old BSAA ID, the one he’d taken last before going rogue. It made you turn your head away in barely concealed guilt. One of the lingering regrets you had was you knew he still loved you. He’d come home to your demands despite you knowing he was technically a wanted criminal in his own organization. To the house you two had bought in your early twenties, never somewhere else safe. Risking his life, and hard work just for you. It made you hate yourself, but you had to remind yourself no one was perfect in that marriage.

Fixing your suitcase closer to your body, both of you observing each other with words just at the tip of your tongues. To hold each other, to feel the other’s lips and pretend like nothing had ever happened. But it wasn’t reality. The mind is a strict guide for the heart’s foolish desires.

“Why are you here?” You ask softly, thankful the people lining up near the gate didn’t stare. Offering you a moment’s peace despite Chris’ unwelcome appearance.

He huffs with light faux amusement, you could tell he was hurting just like you. His eyebrows always twitched when he was in pain, emotionally or physically. It wasn’t hard to pick up on cues like that from a person you knew almost as well as yourself. “I saw your story,” Chris replies simply holding up his phone with a blank screen like it meant something– you huff at your own stupidity for forgetting to block him, “I just wanted to make sure… That it’s what you really want.”

You scoff, a bitter look going over your face. You tilt your head at him with an angered look– the one you hadn’t allowed yourself before when you served the divorce papers.

“You didn’t give me much of a choice, Chris.”

“Y/N, please just think–”

“Think of what? All the chances I gave you that went to waste?”

Chris raises his brow at you, nodding his head with a look of acceptance. Bitter truth as he turned his heel, ready to leave you behind again wordlessly. You watch before he stops, fingers grabbing the end of your jacket, his blue eyes flickering up to meet yours one final time as boarding makes its final call. You pull it away, giving him your wordless answer. Leaving Chris to watch as you boarded onto the plane headed towards home. Your ring finger ached seemingly for no reason at all.

Hours passed before Chris brought himself back towards the venomous arms of his favorite pub, that had long since sunken its fangs into his wallet. His memories a blur of shot after shot and waning will to live. His eyes steadied on a bartender that looked a bit too much like his ex-wife who’d just abandoned his pitiful state. Who could blame him for indulging one more time before he had to forget you like you never existed at all?

.

Your mother, Emine, was Turkish.

Immigrating to Germany in the 60s with her father as part of the Gastarbeiter program set up in 1961, a work program. She was only nineteen then. One who didn’t speak a lick of German, struggling between the vastly different Allied occupied Western Berlin and Soviet occupied Eastern Berlin. For months Emine traveled between the walls working as a tailor. Sewing countless garbs, and hemming endless amounts of dresses.

She was prideful in her work though she didn’t make as much as her fellow German seamstresses, which wasn’t uncommon for Turks at the time. But it was on August 13th, only six months after Emine had arrived when she was in Western Berlin for an appointment that the walls she traveled through daily were closed permanently.

Her visa card was accidentally taken with a customer.

Devastated, Emine wandered the streets until she came across your father. A Russian-Tibetan art student from St. Petersburg named Ivan who had also lost his visa to cross over to Eastern Berlin. One shared hotel room later– the two who barely understood each other came to rely on one another. Bonding over their shared struggle to learn German though they barely stood one another ironically with the language they were learning.

They married in 1963 at a courthouse, and eventually moved to the German state of Baden Württemberg– settling into your hometown of Esslingen.

Early on in their marriage they learned Ivan was sterile, and began to look into adopting. For years and years they were denied over and over again for one reason or another. Partially they knew it was because of their immigrant status, and also being people of color in a majorly European society.

But it was by chance you– a newborn girl they babysat for an American couple stationed here was left orphaned after a brutal car crash killed your parents during one of your visits to them. At first your family overseas had fought for you. But it eventually won in their favor after your relatives gave up, realizing you were better off with people you had already bonded too in your parent’s absence.

1980, you officially became their daughter at two years old. Never changing your given birth name as not to completely erase all traces of your biological parents' already limited role in your life.

They loved you dearly, and raised you to speak many languages growing up. By age ten you were fluent and literate in German, Turkish, Arabic, Russian,Tibetan, Mandarin, and English. Adamant from both their experience growing up with nothing that education was the only way for you to succeed.

You loved learning, especially linguistics. It was hard as a child, looking different from both your parents. It wasn’t uncommon for you to get mocked by your peers at school when your father and mother didn’t have one facial trait that matched yours. Yet you didn’t have time to linger on their folly when Emine fell pregnant.

Initially like any kid, you were devastated at having to share your parents. But soon replaced with excitement as they were born, twin boy and girl, Sofia and Eren. Both spitting images of Ivan. Blonde hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin.

Your siblings, unlike you, were not very easily able to pick up as many languages as you did. Settling for their own combination of German, Turkish, and Russian despite your parent’s disappointment. You loved being an older sister– often abducting your newborn siblings one by one from their cots and placing them in yours when your mother wasn’t looking to teaming up against strict Ivan when you deemed punishment too harsh against either of them.

You were extremely happy during your childhood. One filled with laughter and warmth of loving parents who were sometimes hard but meant well. Neither one of them forcing you to pursue their own ideals but forge your own.

You were sad to leave at nineteen though when you decided to study in the states for a nursing school in NYC– thankfully able to pay normal rates as you had maintained your US born citizenship.

It was a big culture shock to say the least when you had to go to the hospital for the first time and discovered health (death) insurance. On your winter and spring breaks you connected with your biological family who were more than happy to teach you how to be a “proper” American.

To pay for these college fees, you worked as a translator over the summer for a tourist company.

Summer of 1992 is when everything changed. It was during one of these trips you first met Chris. He was still in the airforce at this time, stationed in France for a year. You had just finished a tour of Southern France that ended in Annecy on the French-Swiss border.

Walking through town the day before you left– ramming into a shoulder when you weren’t looking and falling onto the ground. You yelped as your arm made contact with the medieval pavement, and the sickening crunch that followed after. Chris immediately broke out into apologies about your broken arm.

Everything afterwards happened so fast you didn’t even get a proper look at his face.In your drug induced state is when you finally see him. Chris Redfield, holding your hand– asleep. A bouquet of flowers resting on his lap. Once he realizes, the soldier was sputtering endless apologies quick to shove his physical one in your face. You responded with an almost drunken smile, petting the flowers like a soft blanket. “You’re cute.” You slur, trailing a finger down his chest. Chris immediately stopped his rambling, going completely silent. His face goes tomato red as you beam from your chair, eventually passing out again as your exhaustion caught up. Mouth open, head rolled back.

You wondered still to this day how at all Chris still left you his number written on your arm in sharpie all those years later at such a flattering first impression.

Over that summer you two went on dates whenever he was off duty. Dinners, small trips to the north of France. You fell in love with his bright, and somewhat reckless behavior– and that fire to fight for what was right. While he fell for your love to learn, gentleness, and constant need to provide for others.

Your last weekend before having to fly back was spent in Paris– with promises to visit each other in NYC when his term ended. There he gifted you a silver bracelet with both of your initials carved in the inside.

Something that now sat deeply in your closet.

You didn’t have to wait long though, as Chris’ rebellious behavior soon resulted in a discharge. Sent back home to New York City with his tails in between his legs, you and his newly introduced baby sister Claire comforted him. Claire immediately attached herself to you, being the big sister she never had. While Chris looked for work inside New York, you looked after Claire.

When he hitched a new job in Raccoon City for STARS, you didn’t follow suit. Staying behind to stay with Claire until she graduated from high school and left for college. She’d already been going to a private boarding school while Chris was stationed in France, but you felt guilty leaving behind a young girl in such a big city alone.

As the years passed, you got your nursing degree and started working at a local hospital. Chris often flew out when he could– you maintained contact through lengthy phone calls and letters. Detailing his new life, and news friends made you happy he was growing but sad you weren’t there for him as well.

But in the summer of 1998, everything changed.

Claire had just left for college in Maryland, and you were packing to move in with Chris where he was working in Raccoon City. You woke up late at night, the phone rang loudly in the quiet of your home. Outside your window was still abuzz with the recent celebration of America’s independence. You pick, muttering a quiet ‘hello’ into the phone. Only heavy breathing on the opposite end of the line, panicked, and harsh. It sounded like Chris had just gotten done crying. Immediately you shot up straight in your bed– staring at the boxes piled around your tiny apartment, running a hand through your hair.

“Chris?” “Don’t come. Don’t come, Y/N– they’re killing people, they’re fucking killing people!”

“Chris baby what are you talking about–”

“Umbrella! I-I can’t come back, not after this–

You gripped the phone tightly, eyes narrowing at his last statement. Chris’ breath stops on the other end, a barely contained rage boiling inside you like a kettle about to whistle.

“You’re breaking up with me? Just going to go God knows fucking where without even telling me?” You ask him with a deadly calm in your tone, staring straight ahead at his picture on the wall. God you wanted to ring his neck out. Chris sputters on the other end, excuses after excuses.

You knew he was trying in his own way to protect you but you were having none of it. Not a single word. Five years you had helped raise his teenage sister like she was your own. Flown back between the US and France which was not cheap by the way. “Shut up, Chris. I genuinely am pissed at you. You’re going to tell me everything, whether it’s tonight or a week from now. If not I’ll pay some white girl with dreads to send every fucking rat in this city to your trousers.”

It didn’t take much more than that to have him sputter out the horrors he’d witnessed in the Spencer Manor. You eventually did revoke your original threat, and your (idiot) STARS boyfriend was free of a medieval revival-esque death. From tears to fears he relayed his plans.

They were vague, but it was enough. Tracking Umbrella through any possible means. You would support him, on the condition he called– and he complied. You both knew the risks. Between missions, even after he had joined the BSAA with Jill you waited until you felt him next to you in your normally empty sheets. Never missing a single day. You knew missions took forever. Days. Weeks. Even months if the pursued was desperate or had the means too. Even when he himself felt like the only thing tying him to the will to live was you alone, he showed up.

The day he got on one knee, and you slipped a ring unto your left ring finger– you thought finally you had a life worth being proud of next to a man you would do anything for and him the same. Summer of 2009 last after he’d defeated Albert Wesker, your wedding took place in the same town you met, a small ceremony with just your families and friends. Vows of an eternity already pledged left both of your lips. You knew life already wasn’t perfect. That it never existed– it’s why you never reached for it. Yet with Chris everything felt the way it was supposed too.

But like everything eventually decays with time, as did his promises.

.

The months you had spent with your mother were short. Upon settling in, to the day of her death you were in constant movement. Too busy to let your linger thoughts of Chris even come to form in your mind. From place to place– hiking up the old trail to the top of the Berg in Esslingen to wandering the streets of Prague like Emine had dreamed of as a little girl. All in between appointments with the false hope of her magically getting better.

The impending knowledge of death was enough to make you spiral late at night desperately researching and contacting other people within your profession for a cure. But, heart cancer was extremely rare. Naturally, the heart’s cells hardly divided in the human body. One of a few kinds to do so. But of course, hers divided too fast now for her own body to even keep up with.

Your mother could only watch with silent guilt. One you both knew neither was responsible for. Even in Emine’s ailing self she chose to treat you like the little girl she had adopted from the states years ago. Cooking and cleaning up after you even though you had begged her not too, she was getting too weak.

Your own siblings, Sofia and Eren, were also begging her to stop when they‘d gone on leave from their jobs for her final moments– she would dote on them too.

It felt so strange how a woman you saw so fiercely independent and strong, dying from just a small tumor in her heart no bigger than a quarter. Her long silky black hair she prided in now shaved as it fell out in clumps. Her once plump figure looked gaunt, and pale. Everyone was crying. Even Ivan who barely showed any emotion he deemed unnecessary was crying late at night on the balcony when he thought no one was looking. Everyone was suffering one way or another. You in pure denial– thinking there could be something to end it. Something to cure it.

But your mother was the one who made you accept it– in the bathroom of all places.

Due to her fragile state, and you being the only nurse in the family you often tended to your mother. Saving your father and siblings the burden of taking care of her with no idea what to do– and allowing you to repay the favor of her sacrifices to raising you. One of these tasks was helping her bathe. It was nothing that bothered you– but rather made you emotional.

It reminded you of the hammams she would drag you and your siblings as kids to in Stuttgart away from small Esslingen which had no hammans to bathe you once a week. Scrubbed head to toe raw in a steamy hot room until you came out with one less layer of skin. While at five years old you had hated it, adult you came to appreciate it. Remembering less the brutal exfoliation your mother had inflicted and more of the innocence of the hammans. Bathing with your mother, the steam relaxing your muscles. Rare moments alone with her in the business of family life and a business to run.

As you gently washed her skin at this moment– she faced you. Resting a hand to stop you from scrubbing anymore. Fingers holding your jaw as you sobbed into her bony hands. Dropping the sponge into the bath as you held her hand just because she didn’t have the strength to hold it. You wanted so badly for it all to be a bad dream. To wake up in your bed as a child with Sofia and Eren as babies next to you– and her calm expression to be replaced with anger. For those eyes, so filled with love... Not to fade in front of you on her last breath. Her hand grew cold as you held her palm one last time in the final embrace of her death. A hard truth to the denial you deluded yourself was reality.

Wordless, and quiet as the hammans she bathed you in as a child.

Sofia being the one to discover you two hours after Emine had passed. So bound in grief you couldn’t even make yourself leave her side.

The funeral came quickly. It was a typical wake, as your family hadn’t been particularly religious. Old friends, and family came through. Everyone wore black as they offered their condolences and lingered around the food Emine had loved so much you and your siblings had spent days preparing. Maybe it was the combination of recent divorce and now your mother’s death that made you numb. Giving half hearted smiles just for politeness while your father Ivan didn’t even hide his own numbness. A straight face the entire time. You would’ve in the past found it disturbing how emotionless he was at times. But now you understand. It was easier to process what wasn’t acknowledged. But you had long since swallowed the accepted pill of bitterness with the thickness of swelling sobbing often left behind.

Knowing how Emine would have wanted you to be present in the moment, not just for the family but yourself. Forcing yourself to walk about, you kiss your father’s cheek before getting up.

Your brother, Eren, was leaning against the doorframe just opposite of Emine’s memorial portrait. Below it, the jar holding her ashes. Dressed in a typical black office shirt and khaki pants. Curly hair combed just like how she would always pester him to style it. It felt like she had somehow left subtle traces of herself in every aspect of your lives. As if part of her existence now carried on through old habits.

You rest on the opposite end, far enough to give the space you knew he needed, but close enough to know your presence was still appreciated. One thing that was normal in your family– was being quiet. To listen quietly to the world, in case you might miss it. Now, you were hoping to feel a ghostly whisper of your mother’s soul as it passed on to the other side. Sofia was seated in the last chair only a few feet ahead of you and Eren. Not crying. A silent triune of crumbling pillars, all trying to support the other. Closing your eyes you listen to the playlist of her favorite songs playing in the background.

Only to be interrupted by… a baby’s cry?

You open one eye, not being able to see well in the darkness– but the rocking back and forth of a stroller. One very familiar pale hand on the bar. You brush it off, blaming it on your mind trying to cope with your mother’s recent passing. Lifting yourself you walk over to the parent-child duo, crouching down to meet face to face with the wailing infant. Your face softens seeing as the girl is only a few days old. You don’t face the parent, gently bringing a finger down the girl’s nose which quickly lulls her off to sleep. Smiling lightly as you bring the covers up more.

“Wie heißt du– Chris?!” You whisper yell at the man before you, not trying to wake up what you hoped was his relative and not a child. He gives you a half hearted smile– exhausted from what you could tell was jet lag. Not even hiding the fact he had probably hadn’t showered or eaten properly in the past few days. Still you couldn’t help it as your heart clenched at his ruined state.

Why the hell was he here? Alone with a baby? And how did he know your mother had died… You hadn’t posted anything online for the wake. Sophia had set the invitations through Facebook – oh.

You sigh deeply, rising up straight. Staring down at the child who undeniably was his. The same strong brows he honed were almost comical on the newborn’s. You meet Chris’ eyes, his tired blue irises that looked utterly exhausted. Just like the day you left him at the airport a year ago. But it didn’t matter now. He wasn’t your problem to pick up and fix anymore. You’d tried but he’d fought you every step of the way. The scars he caused you were still healing, and you didn’t need anymore tears.

“You need to leave.” You gesture towards the door, Chris pauses still not having said a singular thing since you approached him. He sighs deeply, reaching a hand down into the stroller to grab the sleeping newborn’s hand. Her hand was so small it only fitted around his calloused thumb. “I can’t, Y/N. You know how it is, they find out I’m here… You’ll all be in trouble.” You pause knowing the truth behind his words. But still, it was a poor excuse.

Your eyes linger down to his daughter. Sight anger arousing in your chest as how he had dragged his daughter into this situation. But did he really have a choice? He’d gone rogue from the BSAA six years ago, which in itself was a crime. But he’d also gone through the effort of coming here… Whether it was to give his condolences or not, she shouldn’t have to be dragged to kingdom come with no guaranteed safety. No child deserved to be in a dangerous situation, by the reckless actions of their parents.

So… You gave in.

“One week, Chris. One week and then you find somewhere else to go.” You hold up one finger, eyes cold to him– but gentle as you gazed on the baby’s peaceful face. Bringing your finger down to stroke her other hand, a bitterness arising in you disappearing fast as you forced it down. Chris watches with an unreadable gaze, his own fingers tightening around his daughter’s other hand. A link between broken love, through the tenderness of new found life. “What’s her name?” You ask gently, not meeting his gaze while you stare at her with subdued awe.

“Aurora.” He replies, staring at your eyes the entire time.

.

Over the course of a few days, obviously your parents and siblings were not particularly excited about the newfound guest, their ex-in-law– just fresh into their mourning. Sophia had been the first to complain, the Eren, and surprisingly Ivan. Each morning you wake up to a different language asking you the same question: “When is your mistake leaving?” You, in turn, repeated it like an exasperated mother before morning coffee: “Soon.”

Chris, however, remained oblivious. With the warfare that came with newborn children– every night without fail, baby Aurora woke up at 2 AM howling for one reason or another. You tried to help, but Chris refused at first. Stubbornly trying to do everything himself as he failed at every single step of the process. It wasn’t until poor baby Aurora was red in the face from screaming, and her cries weak did he consult you.

The soft gazes you wished would stop never ceased, as the fingers of a child you so desperately wanted but never conceived. Dealing with children was second nature to you. From helping raise Eren and Sophia despite your late mother’s insistence you behaved like a normal child you simply loved babies. They were easier to talk to than the classmates who mocked you constantly growing up for looking nothing like your adoptive parents, or your developing German before you became fluent. With your nursing experience too, having spent some summer training in the NICU before going to generals instead you knew what you were doing despite not being a mother yourself.

It made you question– why was he alone in this process, with no support whatsoever? He did have Claire but she was probably too busy to deal with a newfound niece. She had long since abandoned her dreams of automotive design but now in the same field as her elder brother: fighting bioterrorism. Working a busy unpredictable schedule with the renowned non-profit, Terrasave.

It was one of the rougher nights. Another long and tiring one in the newborn trenches that made even a veteran like Chris relive the horrors incomprehensible to you, you had just shown him how to properly feed her. Now, the father and daughter duo lay sleeping on the couch. Her tiny body curled up on his chest– it was almost comical, she was barely even a twentieth of his size. Like a ball to an elephant.

Aurora was premature when you had first met her. Five pounds, eight ounces. Just enough to not be in the hospital, but very close to being something dangerous. While in adults, the weight of her amount being lost would be considered something worth celebrating– babies like her, born early, needed all the weight they could get in order to help regulate their rapidly growing bodies. Underweight babies had a higher risk of infection, and fighting it off. Making them more susceptible and prone to disease.

You blink once, watching from the doorframe. The clock on your phone reading 3:41 AM. A deep sigh leaving your lips.

Gently you remove Aurora from her father’s chest, pulling a blanket over Chris. Fingers hovering over the very shoulder that broke your arm in France years ago. No longer lean, but well defined muscles– a marksmanship of years spent on the field. And the same ones that held you close once upon a time when you both sought human warmth.

You pull away as Aurora lets out a soft whimper, making a shaky adjustment of her head to rest in your nape. Her breath hit your neck while you carried her into your own room, setting up two pillows on either side of her so she wouldn’t fall off the bed or you roll unto her. Falling asleep with the tiny finger refusing to let go of you, and your heart.

It was obvious to everyone in the house but you, that you had grown close to her. The days came closer to the end of their impending departure back to the states. You, in some fit of denial, were using any excuse to spend time with baby Aurora. Chris was busy trying to find a secure method of transport back home– he didn’t argue when you’d steal her away to run errands or just keep her in a sling using your mother’s plethora of scarves. Watching from the balcony, with his laptop or phone mid call with his special ops team. Admiring you from a distance, for the first time in ages. Often earning a sigh of frustration from Tundra, noting her squad leader’s changed personality.

He was softer. Warmer. Not cold, and detached like he was only weeks ago. It was unnerving to the rest of the team, even when he’d returned to Europe– especially only being a new nation away from the disaster that had claimed Ethan Winter’s life.

This however, did not go unnoticed just by the Hound Wolf Squad. Watching him was your father Ivan.

Ivan wasn’t an idiot. Far from it.

Born and spending his early years in the Stalin-era Soviet Union, he learned quickly to be observant. Caution and wary– especially as the son of a man who was killed for writing articles that criticized his former nation. It wasn’t rare due to the extreme censorship practiced at the time for people Ivan had known all his life to disappear without a word.

Especially if they weren’t ethnic Russians or mixed race like he was. Some families split apart by deportations, or ruined by the fear of Japanese spies still in a mix of the population as were the lingering consequences of Japanese Imperialism.

It wasn’t much better when he and his mother temporarily moved back to her home town of Lhasa in 1948– after his grandfather had recently become a monk, leaving the family wealth and artistry to her. Though they didn’t stay long as the Chinese soon invaded and unfortunately Ivan’s mother and other relatives had been killed in a crossfire within Lhasa he was soon sent back to St. Petersburg in 1950.

Even despite his carefulness– he had been a Stilyagi during his youth. Wearing western clothes in a society that condemned it, listening to music banned within its borders. But never outside the home, though he longed to leave a country that watched his every move. It was when he was noticed for his artistic talents in St. Petersburg he was sent to Berlin to study at the Universität der Künste, obtaining a rare visa to cross between the borders. It was hard to leave behind such a habit, double checking everything twice. Life hadn’t allowed him to breathe until he had fatefully been on the right side of the wall with your mother.

A happiness he would fight for, and vowed his children would never know such suffering, and your ex husband was threatening that.

It was too convenient he would show up just as Emine died. With a baby of all things– knowing how sensitive you were around the concept of your inability to conceive, a dream shattered to have children of your own. Reinviting himself into your own life when he knew you were at your lowest. That to Ivan, was disgusting. And in his brain, despite becoming your father years ago, he still owed it to your birth parents and Emine to ensure you weren’t hurt ever again.

Too many nights, you crying on his shoulder– weeping over the double fuckery of Emine’s cancer, and the fool who broke your heart. Only smoking cigarettes as he listened. A silent anger brewing. Ivan knew he couldn’t beat Chris in a fight. The man punched a boulder when high on adrenaline for Christ’s sake!

So between cold stares and straight up ignoring the man he once considered a son, he opted for ‘persuasion’ over physicality that would likely end in a broken skull. So, Ivan had made a hard drive with copies of conversations between him and his team. Using the laptop Chris had so stupidly left out unattended over lunch when he was distracted with you and baby Aurora. Sophia and Eren had left for a few days to visit distant relatives in Berlin, so they wouldn’t be able to catch him in the act either. He wasn’t entirely clueless to technology like Emine had been either, often uploading his works digitally now instead of physically ever since the Pandemic had shut down everything. Ivan had even gained a significant following on social media too due to his unique fused style of traditional Tibetan styles mixed with Russian-Orthodox iconography. Often depicting the realities he lives through, the bad and good.

The chip sat firmly in the breast pocket of the long sleeve dress shirts he always wore. Ivan wasn’t unused to acting emotionless. Within both Russian and German culture, smiling outside of situations that permitted it was considered unusual. The hard part was presenting the evidence to you. Knowing you most likely would be angry again at your former husband.

As he was walking, assuming you were finally alone Ivan came across a conversation between him and you. Pausing in the hall he listened in.

“You don’t have to answer my question if it’s too much– but why are you alone with Aurora?” You ask softly, perched on the couch with a sleeping Aurora against your chest. Eyes flickering over the various paintings in the house your father had made lining the walls.

One scene depicts Vaisravana in a luxurious home, and just outside suffering in a crowded communal home with Mother Mary and Baby Jesus inside. The other members of the commune having animal heads or wearing broken crowns depicting a dark version of the nativity. It was bold on Vaisravana’s side where he is joined in by a mongoose at his table with luxurious foods, while on the opposite side with the nativity shows a small portion of food barely enough to feed all. Fluttering in between them various Soviet propaganda posters depicting equality between classes.

Chris’ eyes firmly on you and his daughter, seated across on the end of the couch, sighs deeply. A twinge of hurt flickering over his eyes. His fingers play with the extra bits of fabric on Aurora’s blanket. Finally he meets your gaze. “Aurora’s mom left me with her and never looked back. It was a fling, I didn't even know she existed until her mom was on my doorstep.”

“But why come all the way here? With her? I thought the European branch of the BSAA was still looking for you.” You hold unto Aurora– running a finger down the nose that was oddly similar to yours. A coincidence you brushed off as purely chance. Chris’ fingers now brushed your hand as he took Aurora into his own hands– it felt so strange how your heart had ached in the millisecond of constant. You pull at your collar, attempting to calm yourself down. Chris smiles weakly, turning his head away sheepishly. “I initially had business here, but I saw Sophia’s post and knew I had to see you… I know its fucked up. I ruined us, but we spent thirty four years together, Y/N. I know damn well half the time during the wake you were counting down the minutes so you could cry alone in the bathroom. A divorce doesn’t mean much when I can read you like the back of my hand.”

You huff in amusement to the truth behind his words. Eyes staring at the domestic scene in front of you. A pang in your heart, the same ugly bitterness of knowing this was something you could’ve had years ago. Whether it be life, or your body refusing you the wish of motherhood you didn’t know. Adoption wasn’t something you were against– but it wasn’t possible with Chris’ background. You’d get rejected even with him under a false name. You look at Chris, seeing him lean down and laying a chaste kiss unto Aurora’s forehead. Ivan pulls away from the door, sighing heavily. Eyes lingering on baby Aurora while Chris’ eyes finally meet his.

The painting behind him depicts Palden Lhamo holding various censored texts being stabbed in the heart by Archangel Micheal and other angels.

Ivan was beyond irritated later that night, hours before the alleged flight Chris had booked for him and Aurora. It was an old habit to take long walks at night, fresh air had always been something he preached to heaven and back for. Thumbing the chip in his coat pocket Ivan doesn’t pay much mind to passerbys as he walks down the narrow alleyways of downtown Esslingen. The family apartment was above a busy shopping street that changed into a string of pubs and restaurants at night– so there was the occasional drunk stumbling around trying to find his or her way back home.

Yet, it wasn’t so often they followed close behind either.

He speeds up his pace, the figure behind him does as well. Eventually he turns around angrily, spewing a string of curses at the hooded man. Push came to shove, and the chip fell out onto the street. Ivan didn’t have much time to process it as he was crossing the street, how he found himself so close to the bus within seconds. One sickening crunch, and the halted screech of tires– it was ten phone calls and five texts later before you had a police offer at your door. Chris holds you as you hysterically sob into his shoulder. Trying to hold back a smirk once the door had closed.

After all, Chris Redfield never used the same burner phone twice.

.

Sophia and Eren returned the next day from Berlin– within two weeks you had held two funerals for both of your parents.

However this one was the hardest of the two. You hadn’t had the time like you did with Emine. This one just happened. Ivan had been a quite famous artist during his life, not just for his unique combo of art styles but his messaging from within. You and the twins had each received one thing from his will. Sophia had gotten the apartment, Eren his cars, and you his paintings and studio. Each worth about the same if sold you sold them off.

But you however could not bring yourself to sell them. Each a lingering fragment of what was the beauty of Ivan’s mind. For what he lacked in words, he conveyed on canvases. Each a letter to his past life experiences. A recording of emotions he never allowed himself to express.

You sat for hours in front of them. Staring. Trying to pry and pick each of them apart like it was his brain. Only leaving when it was necessary to eat or drink.

Your siblings, often being your pillar of support, had seldom entered the room. You didn’t blame them, after all you were isolating yourself. But it wasn’t usual behavior considering you all had been fairly For one reason or another– you felt it had to do with Chris’ prolonged stay due to your father’s accident. Surprisingly Chris was your pillar. He was your shoulder to cry on, to hold you, bring your meals and made sure you got enough rest. Even taking Aurora up to you from time to time. It was during these times, you and Chris truly began to reconnect. Talking about your past, why he shut you out, etc.

You still had lingering feelings for the rouge, it had only been a year. So busy with your mother’s illness just right after your divorce you hadn’t festered a large resentment towards him. But you knew you deserved better than to wait hand and foot on a man who had taken your presence for granted.

Truly no bitterness besides the occasional unwelcome insecurities Aurora would conjure up in you for your inability to conceive. You knew your life didn’t revolve around it, but it had been a life long dream. Witnessing how Emine and Ivan had been so loving towards you had made you wish the same. But with Chris’ profile, and the expensive procedure of going through (even with the money Chris had been making at the BSAA) IVF— it was never plausible.

So you just watched, and greedily took this chance to pretend she was yours for now. That you had some Hollywood experience of birth, and went home without all the pain postpartum could bring. Still, it wasn’t fair to those who had. Those who had gone nine months, excitedly, only to go through the most painful process a woman possibly could. You’d seen it. Reconsidered but your heart had conflicted between yes and no several times. You debased it to something you would have to find out sooner or later.

Chris watched from the doorframe day after day. Closer and closer. Bodies ghosting over a much smaller one, in some sick recreation of your past fantasies. The past memories of your failed attempt at containing a failed union were enough to push you away from your father’s plethora of paintings. Chris didn’t say a word as you exited the room, Aurora’s fingers firmly attached to his index finger.

The painting above the door is a self portrait of the late Ivan. Half his face is painted like a Tibetan scroll, the other a motif found in any Russian orthodox church. Clawing at himself to reveal a hyper realistic face beneath. Titled beneath it: “Tholshing”.

Sophia and Eren, despite the stereotypes that came with being twins, were opposites. Often squabbling as children for one reason or another.

Sophia was introverted, locking herself in her room studying whatever medical material she could find. Eren was extroverted, never keeping less than twenty friends that often alternated. Sophia was a medical student, specializing in toxicology trying to get her PHD while Eren was an ex-ballerino turned tutor for the Berlin Ballet Company. So on, and so forth. Both usually kept to themselves, often seeking another's company instead of each other.

Yet despite the several (intentional or not) heat of the moment homicidal attempts that came with sibling rivalry, both loved to party— and drink. Some of which you blamed on their Russian heritage and German drinking culture. Being the eldest, they naturally leaned on you for advice and their own troubles. In turn they would as well.

But there had been an issue with this. Lately, a certain male had been in the way. Sophia and Eren hadn’t been trying to avoid you– Chris had just been reaching you first.

And they knew it wasn’t an accident either. From stalking your door nearly every hour you were in the studio, to straight up taking plates of food out of their hands with a polite smile that never reached his eyes… It was obvious to anyone with a conscience that it was on purpose. Sophia was the first to recognize the pattern.

How conveniently he showed up at just the right times, in just the right places. She had her own suspicions surrounding her father’s death as well. But just as she was to tell you, or Eren he would conveniently need something or strike up conversation to change the subject deflecting it like it was part of an attempt to lift moods in their mourning.

She gotten so anxious to the point of contacting a PI. One that didn’t want to use the anonymity of online chat, because that was easily infiltrated. Especially if said PI was going to investigate the Chris Redfield. It was common knowledge Chris had resources. A whole team that was legendary across anti-BOW organizations and governments alike.

So to discreetly look into her ex-brother-in-law, Sophia contacted ex-CIA agent turned PI, Oliver Ferrea.

Oliver Ferrea was a myth of his own right. Breaking apart several drug cartels from within, on his or with little to no resources. A highly competent man with a mind sharper than most knives in a dull chopping block. However, Oliver wanted to meet up in a club of all places. He had told Sophia over Messenger it would be too crowded and loud for them to truly be heard. Sophia manages to convince Eren to come with after explaining it one day Chris had to go into a larger city nearby for Aurora. Of course, Eren was only coming along for free drinks.

So, at 3 AM— the twins split up like usual. Eren immediately heads to the dance floor after a few shots, leaving Sophia sitting across a glass coffee table from a black haired man with a typical bouncer outfit.

Well built yet disguised enough for them to look like a typical nepo baby and bodyguard duo. The blonde felt uneasy, watching quietly from a distance while her more rambunctious brother was grinding against any willing ass. Drowning his sorrow in fun like he had weeks before just before Emine. Sophia was extremely anxious at this point, and noticeably so. It was common sense not to meet up with a stranger you met on the internet, or to come alone. But it was incredibly out of her area as well. She had always been the cautious one in your family. Rarely ever taking any chances outside of trying new foods or applying for a degree she hadn’t planned on years prior.

But it was for you, colorblinded while wearing a red target by your own grief, from falling into the bull’s ring. Chris’ ring. Of course part of her was angry that you’d allowed that man back into your life. But she knew you had always been soft for children– another reason she was angry. Angry at Chris for so blatantly using it against you, to manipulate you into allowing his presence to be around you further. Angry for the little girl stuck in the middle of it all. So, setting down the glass of bear in her hand down, just as shaky the moment they entered she meets Oliver’s.

“Thank you for meeting me here.” Sophia speaks up, sliding over a paper with various things she wanted him to look into. Details on her father’s death and other contact. Oliver nodded curtly, not replying. A part of her was relieved he wasn’t prone to small talk, especially in a serious situation such as theirs. It wasn’t like she could just tell the officers that she’d suspected Chris was her father’s killer. Or the reason behind it. It was a risk her family had been taking for years, hosting and initially inviting the rogue BSAA into their complex. Taking him in as one of their own, as if he was an extension of you. He’d saved the world over and over again in his exploits. Proved to be a good husband until around the time Ethan Winter’s had passed. They hadn’t pushed it, taking your previous excuses left and right that it was just PTSD and depression making him this way. Leeching off you while demanding you stay put. Suddenly after all the pain, and suffering he had caused– he had some Jesus moment and suddenly regretted it?

It was too convenient. Too drastic.

In barely over a year at that too, and he had reverted to his old self. The always there Chris, attentive and kind Chris. Oliver sets down the paper, breaking Sophia away from her chain of thought. She snaps her gaze back up to Oliver, reading a note beneath it. A price. And not a cheap one at that. Her chest rises with the deep sigh that follows, nodding once just like he had earlier. Placing forward the last of her loan money she had intended to use to pay off college courses for her impending PHD graduation– but schooling could always be put on hold. Your well being, couldn’t. And Sophia wasn’t willing to lose you again in the chance Chris decided he was only here to play games. Oliver pockets the cash, leaving with so little as a due date and little reassurance he would actually be able to find anything.

Before Sophia could debate on her poor financial decisions, Eren soon returned highly drunk and with two packets of white powder.

She rolled her eyes as he poured it into her drink, wondering where the hell he had even gotten it from. He gestures back into the crowd. A topless young brunette in the back, with only small blue starred pasties over her nipples. The same one he’d been grinding against all night. She gives him a flirty wave, passing around more packets. Sophia sighs deeply, watching her brother mix his own portion into his own drink. They clink their glasses, a toast to whatever faux emotions they could conjure in that moment. A toast to the dear ones who’d recently departed.

One final drunken slur left his lips, the first tears leaving his eyes since Emine had died. “Ruhe in Frieden, Mutti und Vatti.”

.

You screamed in rage the next time the police had shown up at your door again, Chris behind you, face cold as stone. Not at the officers, but just your entire life.

In a matter of two months– your entire family you had known since birth was dead.

Cold dead corpses wrapped in plastic or returned to dust from whence we all came. You hated the drive to the station to identify the bodies, hated it even more when at even the first sliver of skin you knew it was them. Still in their late thirties you had seen them as just babies.

The only memory playing in your mind is the vision of two tiny bodies, squishy newborn twins next to your mother as your father behind you gently encourages you further to meet them. Warm to the touch, and smell of new life. It was striking now standing before two fully grown, no longer holding each other. Separated by black tarp, no longer the soft white hospital blankets now stored away in the attic with Emine and Ivan’s belongings as well.

Cold, and covered in the stench of death and alcohol.

You had to be escorted out by Chris when the time came for them to be placed back into the freezer. Clutching his fabric with glossed over eyes that yearned to burn the entire world with you along in it. Plotting every which way to kill the person who had laced your baby sibling’s drinks with fentanyl. Baby Aurora was asleep in her stroller, too painful for you to even look at in the moment as your fingers threatened to repeat the actions of your youth. The scars on the inside of your elbows a cruel reminder of it. It was itchy you just needed to scratch and scratch and scratch and scratch–

“Y/N.”

You jolt as Chris’ voice was close to your face– holding your hand away from the reddening skin of your back forearm just on the verge of drawing blood. Eyes watering immediately, your lips tremble. You didn’t even have the chance to shed a tear as Chris immediately pulled you into him like so many times over the past month, but this one felt different. Like he was also mourning them, the misfortune that never seemed to leave you behind like the shadow of death that walks behind you all your life. So tight, you wouldn’t mind it also crushed you in the moment. The graze of his stubble felt against your cheek as he pulled you into a tender short kiss. Leaving you surprisingly refreshed, as you looked down to see both your hands intertwined. Eyes flickering at Aurora and then back to Chris.

With a hoarse voice you utter weakly: “Stay.”

.

You had barely left the house without Chris since that day.

For three months, you had confined yourself to your father’s studio. Wearing your mother’s scarves, and surrounded by the endless achievements of your siblings. Not a fragment of yourself in a room, desperately trying to confine that self into a shell of what once was. Holding unto the strings of what once defined you, now ceased to exist.

In short, you were spiraling.

Chris was like a drug, able to calm you down and read you in between the neverending “I’m fine” or faux smiles. You could barely sleep or eat without him there. You had no will to either. To truly exist or really live beyond what fate had served you. But the most aggravating part of it all was every time you had set a thought, it was immediately washed down with your own fear of death. Delusional as it was, it made you feel weak and pathetic for not following through in joining your recently deceased family into the afterlife. Whether or not the pearly gates of heaven awaited or the rotting falling apart picket fence called hell.

Then there was that same feeling. An unwelcome spark of renewal, that same one you felt thirty four years ago in Annecy. You weren’t flinching away from his touches anymore, not pulling away from the lingering lips against your skin. He in turn, didn’t protest when you climbed into bed with him after saying you’d sleep upstairs. Waking up in bed with him felt so strange, after years of finding it empty. Finding him sharing meals with you at the table. Part of you hated him for now changing, when you had tried desperately to hold together what was falling apart. But another part as well knew what some people only changed after they realized what they had lost.

So, in your delusions, you convinced yourself it was karma. The good kind. Life handing you back what you had lost, a sort of compensation for the emotional turmoil that killed your family. You allowed Chris to hold you, kiss you. To hold Aurora and say she was yours. Neither of you had said it yet, but you were falling in love again. You didn’t need words to describe the feeling both of you knew naturally like how air was to the lungs. Although, this one was fresher. Still you kept your distance. Emotionally. Physically if you could without seeming stand offish.

But even with all the new changes life had thrown at you, Chris managed distances he knew you were comfortable with– the heart gets what the heart needs.

It was one night, Aurora was being babysat by a neighbor while Chris had to run out on a trip to Stuttgart again nearby. He didn’t say what it was for, or why. Just that for the first time in months you were left alone again, in the silence of your family home you had grown up in. Debating on going out, or just taking a long hot shower or bath– one you knew would rack up your water bills highsky, but you needed it.

So after procrastinating on the couch for about a twenty minute Instagram doomscroll you headed upstairs to Ivan’s and Emine’s once shared master bedroom. Grabbing the various handmade hair/body care things your mother had left over and made from scratch. As you turn the knob to 40 C, your phone pings. A text from Chris saying he was

coming back early. You had typed out a generic reply, a “stay safe”-- deleted “door’s unlocked” deleted. The only thing remaining, with your finger hovering over ‘send’ being a picture of your bare body emerged in the tub.

You throw your phone into the pile of discarded clothes nearby, cheeks utterly red.

Was it too much? Was it too soon? A part of you didn’t care. A part just wanted to relive those nights he’d held you close, and loved you harder.

For Chris on the train just a block away from the apartment, absolutely not. He nearly jumped out of his seat when he opened up the text. Blinking at it a few times while making sure to hide it from other passengers he was near. Thumbing the small box inside his pocket as the scenery displayed vineyards growing up the hillside.

As the farmers plucked their supple grapes off the vine– he suddenly was craving a glass of wine.

Something to lessen his half hard cock aching in his trousers. Sighing gruffly at the intercom calling a station, part of him wondered if he could walk properly all the way back without fucking his fist in some alleyway.

You watch the ceiling, fingers trailing up your side in the mirror– long since draining the tub, and instead opting for the spacious shower in the master bathroom. Your father wasn’t particularly extra in life, but your mother was. It was her insistence that when it was remodeled the bathroom would be modeled after a cave hidden behind a waterfall. Thus the showerhead was directly attached to the ceiling, and poured downwards mimicking a waterfall’s natural flow. Inside various seating arrangements made for lounging or sitting. One based off a fainting couch, and another a typical bench.

You sit underneath the shower head, heart pounding as the door shut closed. The sound of his footsteps approaching the door made it thrum even harder– your eyes meet, and you see his own flushed frame. Eyes soft, yet holding restrained yearning behind them. You face him, hair slicked back to prevent any stray locks from entering your vision. And yet despite knowing this man for thirty four years, you still covered your breasts before him. Watching as he undressed slowly from behind the glass wall dividing you. Every muscle and contour of his body glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. Did he run here?

Those blue eyes bore into yours, intense and swirling with lust like a siren’s call. Unwavering in their hold as he reached for the door handle, his biceps flexing as he pulled himself in. Large hands cupping around your jaw while steaming water entrapped you both. Droplets of water going downwards tickling your newfound sensitive skin make your cunt throb with that familiar ache.

It didn’t matter how many years had passed, he never failed to bring that side out of you.

You feel his breath on your cheek before finally crashing your lips together. His tongue prying inside your mouth like it was searching for salvation. You would have melted from the heat if you hadn’t pushed him away just in time. Feeling his calloused fingers comb through your hair while dipping down in front of you.

You don’t stop him as he kisses up from your ankle to your inner thigh and licks the out part of your cunt to taste the dripping essence. You shudder at the flat of his tongue hitting your nub so delicously. Then the slither of his thick arms circling around your waist forcing you to straddle his chest as he lays down against the warm tile.

It takes you a minute to register you were no longer on the stone bench center of the shower. You look down to see his head in between your legs, then his hand on your ass. Before you can question Chris, guiding your dripping pussy to hover over his face. In a state of minor panic you try to move away but instead feel your clit make contact with his nose. Gasping as you hold yourself steady hands against the tile he guided your hips in a repeated motion across his face. Slurping noisingly, biting, sucking, torturing your poor cunt like he was worshipping it.

You can only let out pathetic sobs with each pass of his snout. Rutting your hips as you saw stars each time your aching core made a hit and run with each touch. You were heaving, his tongue was lathering and teeth nipping trying to get you closer and closer to the edge. Your hand clamps in his hair, forcing a groan out of the male.

Your vision going white as you come, legs shaking from the sheer intensity of it. Geyersing hot pulses of liquid unto Chris. Not caring in the slightest if you had drowned him with a lifetime’s worth of stress now coating his face. One slap on your ass and you rolled over onto the tile next to him. Staring at the twitching cock left abandoned.

You reach a hand down, stroking him slowly. Chris lets out a breathy moan– his hands twitching to grab something as you move further south. Closer and closer to nirvana just past his balls your tongue dragging against his sculpted frame.

You don’t know what overtook you, but seeing him laid out like this, stirred something within you. These past few months, everything had changed including you. Usually it was Chris who topped– nothing you were opposed to after a long day at work, him taking care of you. But, even with the impending divorce from before, when he’d barely made eye contact it was him. By then, sex between you had just been like a mating session. One and done. Not the intimacy it was before. Soft, or rough depending on what was wanted for that night.

But this was now, the present. A new you, and a new chance of renewal. So, wrapping your arms around his beefy thighs like it could do something you dipped down. Closer and closer to that sensitive area between his cock and hole– to his breath hitches, immediately jolting as your tongue meets his ass.

“Baby, please, that’s dirty–”

“Chris Redfield, I’ve known you for 34 years. You wash yourself religiously. Shave religiously. I thought you were gay our first time living together.”

“It’s not gay to be clean.”

Chris immediately rolls his head back with a huff, a rare tint of pink coming to paint his pale skin, a reluctant yield to your sudden brazenness. Your grip on his legs tighten. Shifting your position you move one hand unto his leg and slither the other to his poor abandoned cock tenderly . Soft palms met with the angry red shaft twitching in protest, you pump it slowly.

Chris’ breath hitches while running a hand down his face. Half mortified, half the most aroused he’s been in years. Tongue circling around slowly, the larger male has to physically hold himself back from crushing your skull as his legs instinctively try to shut close. You let out a soft moan at the feeling of the pressure, hand on his hips as you finally press your tongue inside. Swirling your wet muscle inside, curling, in any possible way you could manipulate it– you were doing it.

Chris was growing increasingly red. Toes clenched against the slick wet of the tile. Water trailing down the sculpted vastness of his chest and torso and hair sticking to his forehead. The simultaneous pleasure from both his cock and ass were making him damn near lose his mind, his dick was leaking pre-cum all over your hand, and the unfamiliar feeling pleasure of your tongue hitting his prostate momentarily had ropes of hot cum spilling unto your face.

But that didn’t stop you, no, you weren’t satisfied until you saw him quaking from you.

You pull away, letting the water wash off his cum from your face as you grabbed a body wash from the items you had grabbed earlier. An oil-based soap with good lather, you pour a small amount into your hands. Watching as Chris runs a hand over his face, giving you a satisfied smile of disbelief as he watches. You walked over, eyeing his half hard cock still leaking against his abs while you squat down in front of him. Brushing your hands down over his chest where he was sitting underneath the shower head. Massaging his abs with your hands, leaning into lay a scatterplot of hickeys across his exposed nape. Noting how you wouldn’t mind doing the same to his tits pecs, another time if you weren’t aching for him inside you so badly. Chris brings a hand to your face, but you merely kiss it– pushing it away as you sit yourself on his lap.

Still lying on the ground as if his last orgasm had quite literally sucked the life out of him. His cock quickly twitching back to life as you grind your bare cunt against it slowly– face scrunching in pleasure as you rolled your hips forcing your clit to his sensitive cockhead. Letting out a small chuckle as his hand grabbed your ass, a small warning to his waning patience. “Fine. Brat.” You tease him, hand brushing down his pecs and squeezing them as you raise your hips.

Guiding his thick cock into your pussy. Even despite it being a year and you not so willingly being abstinent due to past circumstances– he entered easily with little prep. You didn’t need it much when you two had been together so long. And god, it still didn’t make it fail to make you feel the parts of your walls even sex toys didn’t hit just right.

You begin moving slowly, keeping a hand firm on his chest you ride his shaft with memorized motions. Rolling your hips every time you hit his base. The only noises leaving you both being your shuddered breath and Chris’ labored breath watching you two connect and disconnect repeatedly. His large hands are firmly placed on your hips keeping you steady. The steam surrounding you two was making everything hazy like a thick layer of fog had set over the room. Picking up the pace, your knees go just a tad weak as his mushroom tip hit your spongey bits– a soft moan leaves his lips feeling your walls clench around his shaft. Bouncing up and down on Chris’ cock was always a workout. Sweat had built up on your brow, tits moving in sync with your movements. Chris pants lightly feeling his own impending orgasm as you uttered an incomprehensible warning.

It was so soon– but just not enough.

Chris grabs your hips, holding you still mid air– water splashing as he slams straight into your g-spot. Memorized to even the right degree, if this was a job interview you would’ve hired him on the spot– thirty fours years of experience never failed to make you utterly incoherent. Brain short circuiting as Chris rutted into you like an animal in heat. His thumb trailing up to your clit and relaying the same abuse he was delivering to your cunt. You lay your head against his chest, drool leaving your slack jaw as the pleasure was utterly mind numbing. It wasn’t long as the heat of your 40 C shower had caught up to your mind, and your cunt as Chris with one final grunt slammed inside of you spilling. You followed suit, biting down on his pec as you clamped around him and came hard. You both go slack as the water from the showerhead washed away any evidence of your utter filth.

A satisfied sigh leaves your lips as Chris drapes an arm over his face, soon breaking out into a low chuckle. Hand coming up to play with your utterly soaked hair. His own brunette hair sticking to his forehead while adjusting himself to sit up.

“We should wash up.” He whispers softly, cupping your face as he brings his forehead to rest against yours. And so you two did, not without going one more round (this time you getting the brunt of his pent up frustration).

You walk shakily out the shower using the various railings and counters to help you navigate your shaky limbs. Chris sitting on the bed with a lit cigarette, his coat next to him. You reach over and pluck it from his lips, giving a playful smirk at his annoyed look. Grunting in irritation as he extinguishes it. You jut out a lip, reaching into his coat for the age-old lighter engraved with the angel on one side, and the STARS logo on the other. The same one he had gotten off Rockfort Island when saving Claire years ago.

Instead you find a box. Small. Smooth, like it was coated in velvet. You pause, gently prying your fingers over it and dragging it out. Chris blinks once, a soft smile on his face as you brush your thumb on the fabric. You face him, a wordless question as you hold it to your face.

“Fuck, baby, I don’t even think I get on one knee for this even if I wanted too.” He groans as you stare at the box, the same amethyst ring with a silver band he’d proposed to you with in Annecy seventeen years ago. This time with an added Tourmaline gem, Aurora’s birth stone. Engraved in the ring, ‘To finding and loving perfection, in the imperfect. 1992.’ His fingers brush yours, taking the ring out and gently sliding it onto your left hand. Bringing it to his lips, making contact with the gems first. Blue eyes boring into yours like daggers.

“Why don’t we give this another try?”

.

Holding your ring up to the light, you smile lightly. Seated next to Chris, baby Aurora now four months old seated in his lap, sitting up with his hand supporting her.

Waiting on Claire as you two were seated in some minimalistic boring millennial grey restaurant not too far away from the TerraSave HQ she often was at when not on missions. It was strange to think, but the whole town just reeked of plastic fauxness. Corporations liked to give the landlord special with cheap cookie cutter houses and random businesses on every street corner that only upper middle class people would bother going to regularly. It seemed far removed from the places past Claire would have usually gone, let alone tolerated more than a few days.

But like everything, and everyone, we inevitably change.

Online, when you posted a picture of the ring there was a flurry of comments. Most supportive, some backhanded or surprised at the suddenness of getting back together again with Chris. Your divorce hadn’t been as public, a year prior. But now as you are settling back into the States you wanted to make a statement. That second chances did exist, some things just needed renewal.

All within two weeks of his proposal, you’d sold everything in Germany. Your father’s paintings, the cars, your mother’s business, the apartment, and your siblings' things. Everything. You had no desire to live in the past, the pain that resided in your hometown of Esslingen.

After all, Chris was right. What were they but the things they carried and honed? When your past had been all consuming, it was safer to let go.

You only kept one thing each of theirs though. One small painting, one dress your mother had sewn for your first wedding but never got to use. One you planned to use for the wedding reception– a fusion of Russian and Turkish styles. The original wedding dress from 2009 wasn’t bad, or too out of date for your changed tastes… You’d just gained weight as a side effect of menopause, and sold it after you had divorced Chris. And you didn’t have the time to get it altered in time with your mother’s dress. A pamphlet for one of the shows Eren had a major role in, and a copy of Sophia’s research papers that would’ve landed her a PHD.

While you had made quite a large sum of money, you hadn’t touched it yet. Some of it ending up in a savings account for Aurora in the future– most of it in a high interest account for when you and Chris did inevitably retire within the next fifteen years. You knew your family would have wanted you to be happy, and live comfortably. But still it stung selling off quite literally your entire life away. Everything you were back in Germany was now in the hands of those who could use it.

After all, what is a dead person’s memento to you, when all it did was take up space and cause pain… Right?

The mechanical door chime sounds disrupts your thoughts as Claire walks in. A small flicker over the three of you, wasn’t immediately beaming as she met eyes with Chris. But soon changed to joy as you met hers, a quick series of hugs and baby Aurora now in her aunt’s arms it wasn’t long before you got to chatting. Chris did most of the talking, you just holding his hand under the table nodding along. Debriefing his entire trip to Europe and the tragedies that had struck. Claire didn’t reveal anything in her expression but you could tell from her body language she was off. Little to no banter between the siblings, while their language was polite and smiles here and there– there wasn’t much connection.

It was strange, when had they become so distant? So cold?

The conversation soon shifted to more light topics on the upcoming wedding. It was going to be another small ceremony this time– held within a city not too far outside of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Jill, Leon (although no guarantee as he was busy with the DSO and his own upcoming ceremony), Barry, and a few of your own friends and biological relatives that you had reconnected with were set to arrive in a month.

Everything was happening so fast, Chris had suggested you’d two just elope and move somewhere safe but you wanted to celebrate. Your last wedding had been perfect and the last divorce had soured them. New memories that wouldn’t have you feeling pain anymore but happiness. A very rare and often sporadic thing in your life that often showed up more in the fashion of unhealthy foods and late night TV binges than actually meaningful. Chris soon left to use the bathroom, leaving you girls alone at the table. You speak first.

“Look I’m sorry for blocking you before. It was just a crazy time back then. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But would you consider being my maid of honor again– and pick out a dress with me?” You ask her biting your lip anxiously while fiddling with your ring under the table, Claire lets out a strained smile and nods. Bouncing Aurora in her laps as the baby began to fuss. As you take her from your arms– you notice the way Claire’s gaze shifts between you two.

A bright smile with hidden restraint breaks on her face. “It's all in the past. When are you free?”

As the ceremony was approaching its date you were growing anxious for reasons you couldn’t quite understand. A strange gut feeling that you shouldn’t go ahead with it, the fears of Chris turning out to be the same swirling in your mind. You pushed it off as pre-wedding jitters, forcing yourself out of bed early that morning to get ready. Doing your hair and makeup to envision what it would like on the actual day of yours and Chris’ wedding.

Claire had chosen the shop– as you had an idea of where to go but not exactly in mind what you were looking for. Some local bride shop you hoped wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg. When you arrived a few hours later– everything was initially light, and all smiles. Your bridal consultant more than over the top with her enthusiasm, something you envied while Claire followed closely behind with a tight lipped smile. Between a vast number of dresses you had picked out for you and Claire you are left alone with her in the dressing room. Finger’s brushing over the various shades of white and textures, and fabrics with a conflicted feeling of softness.

And dread.

Claire watches you from the side, the same blue eyes as Chris. She sighs lightly, placing her pale hand on the first dress and holds it up to your frame. A quiet tension between the two of you while she sorted through them. Pausing as she notices the way you held your old ring. Nostalgic but lacking the euphoria that often came with it. Second chances were rare, but you seemed less than thrilled.

The brunette hooks the dress back onto the peg above your head and sighs deeply. Helping you into the one dress the bridal consultant had left slung across the couch. A square neck dress with sheer white off the shoulder sleeves, a structured waist and a long full length skirt with a bit of a train. A bit of lace sewn onto the ends of the matching veil and train.

You drag your hands over your waist, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. Lips thinned into a straight line at the sight. The dress was gorgeous, simple but not in a minimalistic way. Decorated yet not gaudy.

Claire watches from behind you– her own feelings mixed. In the original wedding she’d played your maid of honor as well. Though now in the mirror was no longer the beaming woman, happy to finally legally be a sister to a woman she damn near considered a motherly figure. Her hand originally fixing the veil into place rests on your shoulder, is met by yours. And a concerned look from your reflection in the mirror she was all too familiar with.

“You’re off, Claire.” You whisper gently, being mindful incase your hired help was putting their nose where it didn’t belong– as you two had been in the changing room now for a little while. She only nods her head, not even trying to deny it. Blinking a few times as she sat on the stool across from you. Running a hand through her loose hair before finally meeting your gaze.

“I know, I know. It’s just… happening all so fast. Don’t think it’s a bit too convenient?” Claire replies with a cautious tone, trying not to probe at the wasp’s nest in case you decide to sting. You blink once, brows furrowed. Tilting your head with a more serious expression.

“Too fast? We’ve been together thirty four years. I don’t think that's really possible, Claire.”

“It took you seventeen to get married, Y/N.”

“Claire, that’s not really a fair assumption to make. You knew Chris’ circumstances didn’t allow for much time until after Wesker had died.”

Claire sighs again deeply, absorbing your words. While they held the truth– she could tell you were growing more and more defensive by the minute. And visibly upset but the way you had narrowed your eyes at her.

Ironically, it was you hanging onto the threads of a fallacy titled ‘Y/N and Chris’ this time, and not her.

While Claire had been the one initially to beg you two to stay together in the beginning under the guise of protecting Chris, it was truly more not to break the family that had been rebuilt by you and him after losing her parents. But now, it was conflicting. On one hand, she was glad her selfish desire for you and him were getting back together– everything had just been too convenient. Too… artificial for her liking.

It was one thing, and horrific at that to lose your mother to an incurable disease but another to have your whole family slaughtered within a month. Anyone could tell, mentally, you were not well despite how well you had hid it behind smiles and the freshness of renewal. Too convenient the moment Claire has a new niece, and by God’s divine intercepting grace or life’s bullshit ending for just a moment– your sister posted a date for your mother’s wake. Intended for close friends.

She remembers that day clearly, newborn Aurora and Chris at her door. He looked completely unhinged, like he saw the pearly gates. His second chance. And the next morning he was gone. Baby in tow.

You furrow your brows. Calming down your rising tension at the sight of Claire’s taught frame. Distraught. You crouch down next to her, gently moving hairs out of her face. Pulling her into a tight embrace. A familiar position, one you often did before sending her off to school the weekends she was allowed to come home when she was at the boarding school. You pull away, pulling her hair into a ponytail while she finally gains the confidence to speak again. “You both wanted kids with each other– but never got the chance. He knew it hurt you as much as it hurt him. I just feel like, in a way, he used Aurora to get closer to you and got morbidly lucky. He just left one day, and didn’t come back until you had the ring back on.”

That makes you pause halfway through tying off her ponytail. Eyes flickering back to the mirror. You’d never looked better. Yet why did it itch so bad?

.

Not another word was uttered. The dress shopping cut short as you bought the one, and Claire left soon after with her own amethyst colored dress. You took a taxi home, watching the streets warp into dense metropolitan to suburbs until finally you stopped in front of the house you had pressured Chris to buy years ago. Claire’s words echoed in your head like a mantra as you headed inside.

Dress tossed haphazardly onto the couch littered with baby toys and unfolded laundry. Chris and Aurora being out for a pediatric appointment for most of the day. You knew deep down, she was right, yet it still didn’t fail to rip you in half how easily you had allowed him to snake his way back into your life under the guise of needing help when he had everything he needed here. Of comfort. Of being a changed man yet he was no different from the fact he’d cleaned up his act of deception he had lured you into for years.

Running a hand over your face, you rip off the ring and set it on the counter next to his car keys– somewhere you knew he wouldn’t miss it. One messily scribbled note, filled with the same bitterness he had bestowed you a year prior next to it. Not naming Claire inside of it to prevent her from getting in the middle of it.

You couldn’t stay here. You couldn’t allow that kid of his, the one you were going to adopt the day of your wedding to be used anymore. If Chris was incapable of living for himself, he would live for her.

Blocking his number, your bags packed in such a frenzy you didn’t care for the mess or if it was irrational in general to leave without a word. Life hadn’t given you the pleasure of rationality when it stripped away your entire existence you had just sold off for a man who was everything you had promised not to entrap yourself too. For once, you spit at the circumstances by booking a hotel for the night in the next city over.

Sitting and staring up at the ceiling mindlessly– until you hear a shuffle of paper. You sit up immediately. Staring at the envelope with mild anxiety and tension. Walking over to pick it up with a plastic bag from the takeout you had bought, you take it over to the bathroom just in case it was laced. A tip Chris had given you year ago when you asked about his job. Opening it you find a letter, and a USB drive. You read the letter first.

Typed and printed out. Whoever sent this, didn’t want to be found.

Dear Ms. Y/N,

My name is irrelevant. But know your late sister, Sophia Ivanova, had hired my help to investigate your ex-husband (now fiancee) Chris Redfield. I know it’s not hard to track down people in today's world through technology. She conveniently passed the night of hiring me. Just like how your father conveniently passed the night your beloved had been texting a hitman, with this very USB in his pocket.

I have also added unto other findings that may be of use to you. It seems whoever he hired wasn't particularly pleased when they found out the family they’d been tasked with killing was his client’s ex-wife’s. A strange moral compass for a person whose profession is ending lives, but fortunately they turned it over to me after learning of my investigation through the grapevine.

It's your choice to stay with a man like that. All I am doing is simply finishing off the job I was hired for.

And my condolences for your loved ones.

OF

You drop the letter in the sink. Pure and utter chills running through your spine. A mantra of Claire’s voice echoing in the sudden hollowness of your mind. It’s too convenient.

The person of thirty-four years you thought you knew almost well as yourself is suddenly a stranger. The USB clatters against your counter– you don’t reach for it right away. Thoughts scrambling with the possibilities of what could be inside when you rush to find your laptop. So lost in your panic you lost it for a few minutes. Finally plugging it into your laptop you spend all night reading over the files. Screenshots of email links, chats, and recordings of phone calls. His voice behind every single one.

Between his team– and the assassin. How cold his tone was when he ordered their deaths, forging their existence to an accident. Depraved of any emotion, like they were numbers on a sheet. You knew Chris was serious when it came to his work– but seeing this side of him, ordering the deaths of your family… It was only then you could comprehend: he was willing to go to any and every length possible.

Almost deathly pale by the time you were done. You hid it in your bag, in the deepest pocket where you knew it wouldn’t just be snatched off like a keychain. This was evidence. Blackmail if you had too– if it had to resort to that.

Fully convinced in that moment he would be coming for you next.

So you left the US, again. You weren’t risking losing the only family you had down south, even if they’d never give it a second thought. Straight up north to the vast great plains of Southern Canada– Saskatchewan.

You had only one man in mind– one you hadn’t spoken to since your wedding in 2009. Barry Burton.

You had added him on Facebook, and occasionally had liked his posts here and there. All you knew about him was from Chris, an old STARS member he had great trust in. It was a big risk going up, uninvited. Especially him being Chris’ old friend. But he was one of the few people Chris trusted with his life to also protect you as well as he allegedly did. You use an old address, hoping he would still be there. But it was slim considering Umbrella had targeted Barry and his family before. Barry and his family had retreated up here after the events of Spencer Mansion in 1998.

A small farm, with an old Victorian farmhouse nestled close to a small pond. You stare at it from the unpaved driveway. It was late– 10 PM. But not so late that all the lights in the house were out. Only one, in presumably the living room with the NFL playing on the TV. You sigh deeply, trudging up to the door as the gravel crunched beneath your shoes.

Rapping on the door once. No response. Before you could raise your fist for a second time, the door creaks open. The shiny barrel of a gun is the first thing you’re greeted with. You immediately tense, seeing the large shadow of Barry loom over the door with a cold gaze. Once he takes in your frame he retracts the firearm, a flicker of recognition in his eye but still cautious. “Y/N? Jesus Christ– what the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry. It's late, but you’re my last choice.” You utter, preparing yourself for the white lie you were about to tell him. The guilt you had festered on the long bus ride up had long since dissipated. Selfishly imposing your survival on him– and his family. He doesn’t ask why, or how you got here.

He already had a small feeling as to what your reasonings were for showing up at his doorstep this late. Kathy, his wife behind him, watches from the hall. Halfway down the banister with her grey haired frazzled from quickly rising out of bed. “Come inside. We’ll chat at the table.” The elderly male replies gruffly, ushering you in with a wave of his hand. You smile weakly at Barry in gratitude as he opens the door.

You set your bag on the bench near the entrance. Standing awkwardly until Barry walks past you and into the kitchen. Watching as he opens a random drawer, punches in numbers, and puts the gun inside. Knowing how Chris was, Barry probably also kept multiple safes around the house. You never truly recover from what you see. Their decor is typical asides for Kathy’s assumed fondness for chickens (half the trinkets and signs had some chicken themed correlation).

You watch with quiet tension, seating yourself across the table from Barry as Kathy sets a glass of water in front of you. Seating herself next to Barry. You’d met once at the wedding, never spoke again. Still— here you were, at practically a stranger’s doorstep seeking sanctuary. “Does Chris know you’re here?” Barry asks, not wasting a moment while peering through his glass. You tighten your grip around your own untouched one shaking your head. Kathy looks between you two and grabs Barry’s hand.

“No.” You reply quietly, casting your gaze to the spruce table. Bringing the glass up to your lips. Keeping your answers honest, yet vague. It's not like you could straight up tell him ‘Hey, your old friend of 30 something years killed my family and might be after me next. Pretty please let me stay at your house.’ Barry lets out a curt sigh, turning his head. Half annoyed, half trying to comprehend why his friend’s wife showed up at his door.

There were only a few reasons women did that.

Especially the wives of men like Chris Redfield.

“Did he hurt you? Is someone after you?” Barry asks, his voice growing more serious than it already was. Kathy turns her gaze away, seemingly overwhelmed by it all. “Not physically, no— I’m sorry, it's not something I want to really speak about now.” Your voice still faint, like a mouse’s footsteps. Barry nods slowly, not entirely understanding or accepting of this situation. More just tolerating it for the sake of it being the middle of the night.

With that, Kathy quietly stands up and brings you upstairs. Showing you into one of their daughter’s old rooms for the time being.

Assumably Moira’s from the old magazines and objects left around it like a time capsule. Dusty, yet frozen in time. You smile politely at Kathy who sighs lightly– fingertips brushing over some 2000s rock band poster, a wave of nostalgia passing over her brown eyes. “I’m sorry if it’s not as clean. We don’t often come in here, but we also can’t bring ourselves to throw away all her old stuff she never takes back with her. It feels like we’d be throwing away part of Moira, and us.” Kathy utters, eyes flickering to the clock on the nightstand that’s off time. Letting out a huff before pulling away. “Get some sleep, Y/n. Who knows how long you’ve been without it.” Your thoughts drift back to all your family's things. The ones Chris had made you sell. The painting you left behind of your dads. Mixed in with his own.

When the door clicks shut, you lay yourself down against the frame of Moira’s bed. Digits brushing over the synthetic fabric pattern in neon colors. Rationality seems to overwhelm you in the face of your own selfishness. Here you were, at a strangers house where they’d taken you in with the only question being of your safety.

Too long you had been blaming reality for your issues, when it stemmed from one man. Sure, your mom’s cancer wasn’t his fault. But everything after his was. It wasn’t fair for you to continue the cycle of suffering by imposing it unto Barry’s family. They’d lost everything like you once. They shouldn’t have to lose their lives, if it meant benefitting your survival. Who were you to choose who lived and died in the face of your existence, when the man who’d ruined your life had done the same?

In a way, you were becoming Chris. While you still didn’t intend on telling Barry the full truth– you no longer would sacrifice his life for yours. Not that is justified in the first place, but realization is the first step of accountability. Acting was second.

.

For three weeks, in the summer heat you’d helped around the farm. You weren’t unfamiliar with the work, your American side having a small poultry farm and large garden they shared with neighbors. While most of the property was empty aside from a small patch of dying corn Barry swore was just for Kathy’s chickens, your chores now consisted of gathering eggs and helping Kathy pickle her ripe vegetables and fruits when it came time to do so. For the first time in a long time– it was genuinely peaceful. Not the fauxness that came with Chris’ artificial insertion back into your life.

You’d often avoided going into town with them, mostly because you were afraid of being seen by the wrong people. But it wasn’t long til you were often helping Kathy with her groceries or local elderly with various tasks. Part of it was embarrassing to you, doing these side gigs after years spent in the healthcare workforce but it was also humbling. Starting from square one, with the new knowledge you had gained in a period in your life when you thought you had already known the world enough. And this time spent away had opened your eyes– painful as it was to be away from the infant girl you had practically claimed as your own.

Barry on the other hand kept his distance. Often watching from the window, or the fields as he worked. You knew, despite his supposed subtly he was trying to read you in a way. Puzzle together the pieces of your sudden appearance. Conflicting himself between the feelings of caution and duty. On one hand, he felt a responsibility towards Chris, on keeping you safe. He’d been entrusted with that when his old friend had asked him to be his best man. Of course, despite never truly getting to know you. You were a busy woman, faithful to your career and family. It's not like you could’ve taken a weekend off here and there to come with Chris when he did make the rare trip up to his cabin.

That was the past now, even with the supposed oncoming wedding he wasn’t even sure was still happening. While on the other, you were staying at his house– eating with his family, practically moving into Canada with the intention of staying here with so little as an explanation. Kathy hadn’t been pushy, assuming the worst. But part of Barry, horrible as he felt about it, wasn't so sure.

So he sent Chris a DM on Facebook to one of his burner accounts. Short, and curt as ever. Lacking any warmth their previous exchanges had ensued to the recent engagement.

Barry Burton 11:56 PM

Hey. Your fiance is at my place. Did something happen?

Chris, clenching his phone so hard it cracked under the pressure, sighs deeply. Nearly a thousand miles away from you, baby Aurora asleep in a Pack-N-Play not too far away from him in a house littered and torn apart by you and partly him. Blue eyes flickering over his daughter– the girl he’d used to get you back. The one chance of redemption he took, had now horribly backfired in his face.

You left almost everything behind, even your father’s painting. One he’d made for you as a child. Still wrapped in protective cloth, and hidden under the stair’s closet. Chris had half a mind to burn it when he read your letter spitting with rage and hatred towards him. Hurt and betrayal. Stubbing his cigarette he had lazily held with his lips on a dirty dish next to him Chris’ eyes grew cold as he stared at the family portrait of you as a child with the family he’d paid to be six feet under. Or in their case, car “accident”– and overdosing.

Brushing a hand to dust off cigarette ash on his black tight fitted turtle neck. Sighing deeply as he opened his laptop and messaging Tundra to book him a flight to Saskatoon. All you needed was a bit of persuasion. Reminding of the old times, and how he’d been there. Then you’d go back right to where you belonged, in his arms.

You felt every bone in your body freeze, the morning you walked to the kitchen seeing Barry and Chris at the table. Baby Aurora on a blanket near Kathy, playing with toys beams at you with a gummy grin once she recognizes you. Your heart clenches— feeling three sets of eyes on you waiting expectantly. Your fingers clench around the door frame, body screaming to leave as Chris’ faux tired yet sad smile etched his way onto his face. Playing some sick act like he’d been searching for you everywhere.

Barry analyses you with a sympathetic look, far removed from what cautiousness he’d given you over the past few weeks. Kathy was nearly holding back tears, a part of you knew what it was. Those same looks you once sought comfort in the failing dreams of motherhood your body couldn’t handle. You knew them anywhere, because it had happened over, and over, and over again until you finally gave up. You felt physically ill, memories swarming of the past. The piles and piles of positive pink pregnancy tests sifting somewhere through a landfill with your miscarried children. What had he said to them?

“Y/N, Chris told me everything.” Barry starts, gesturing to the seat next to him. Your body screamed ‘no’, wanting to refuse but you knew otherwise. Placing yourself next to your family’s murderer, you force a strained smile to Chris– not at all hiding how terrified you were in the moment. You just hoped someone was wise enough to see through it. To notice something was wrong with him. Was wrong with you. You flinch at his hand brushing your thigh, gripping it tightly as if to keep you in place. Barry sighs deeply, Kathy’s sobbing heard from behind you.

Questions circulating through your mind: Was he going to kill you too? Drag it on in some sick way or hire another person to make it seem like an accident? Martyr himself with the image of a faithful husband, tragedy striking him as he took off with the money you’d made off your families deaths? “I’m sorry for your loss. It’s never easy losing the children you never meet. This, on top of losing your family– anyone would break down.” Barry whispers, pulling Kathy into him comfortingly as she walks over with Aurora. You could feel the strain in your jaw as you kept it shut.

Anyone would break down.

He was making you look like you were something that needed to be coddled. That pity, a vise for the deadly path of no one taking you seriously. You left the table at that moment– prying away the hand that tried to keep you there. Tears brimming down your face as you rushed back upstairs, the only thing in your mind being that USBC. Mind ensuing with the same panic you felt that night at the hotel, tearing through your bags until you found it. Breathing heavily as your thumb brushed over the neon blue plastic. That last thing your father had died for trying to give you. The evidence your twin siblings were poisoned for. A flicker of hope, extinguished by a large shadow looming over you.

Had he always been that big?

“I know you killed them— I’ll fucking show them, Chris!” You hiss at Chris while those blue irises met yours. Shaking it in front of him. No longer containing that tired relief from earlier. Not saying a singular word, or denying it all. Watching. Calculating. Like a hawk stalking its prey from the sky. He scoffs once before stepping forward. One foot at a time. It wasn’t long until you backed into a corner— Chris eyes not meeting yours, coldly staring at the USBC like it was a nuisance. Bringing his large hand to pull you into him, a tight embrace while he pried the USBC from your fingers and crushed it to dust. A hum of content as he felt your tears stain his sweater, whispering soothing words you wished to cut out of his tongue. Stopping as you dug your nails into his skin.

“Say a word, I’ll kill them both. Then the girls. Run away again, I’ll kill the rest of your family back home.” He leans into your ear— running a hand through your trembling frame. Pausing at your shivering frame. Leaning in closely to kiss your nape once, nose nestling into your skin as he made sure a snooping Kathy who’d just missed everything sees it from her hiding spot behind the banister. Just so you'd understand you were right where you needed to be.

.

Kind people are never seen.

It is the loud, the egotistical, and flashy who write history. It is not the soft spoken comforting whisper of a mother that echoes within our minds but the screams of anger that makes us shake from our father. Whether it be a limb, or a life. We cry for peace to be made, but can never agree on a single thing. Our world runs on negativity because it is ceaseless. It does not run on positivity because we do not allow room for it. We do not make the effort in which it is required to maintain it. For it is easier to hate than it is to love. Because to be kind, you must understand and look at things outside of yourself. To acknowledge the flaws you have and constantly try to better yourself for it.

So why then… Do we live off the intoxication of hatred? Of course the world runs off of balance. Hatred and kindness will never cease to exist– but you cannot measure human emotion on a scale. You cannot compare the tragedies that follow with hatred, to the miracles kindness offers. Ironically, the same people telling us to love are sometimes the ones that hate the most. Wearing the face of kindness our society demands of us yet few can offer.

But when kind people are revered, it is when they make great sacrifices. Life or limb. Richer or poorer. How often are we truly rewarded for something others just are handed for doing nothing or making things worse? Why are those who speak out, and try to do anything at all for even the slightest glimmer of hope are silenced? Those who fight back with words and not weapons are taken down first?

You wouldn’t know. Because for the lifetime you tried to do everything right– you were entrapped. Caged in the walls of a home you had hoped would house your dreams. Maybe you hadn’t been the kindest. Or the cruelest. But you had goddamn tried. You fought for change, made that change– only to let in the one thing that had broken you in the first place. And now you were here. Trapped financially, emotionally, to a man you hated. One you had been kind too– one you had tried to understand in his lowest moments.

You didn’t even look back at Barry’s and Kathy when you had left. Eerily silent over dinner. Numb. Forcing yourself to eat just despite having no appetite so Kathy wouldn’t question what was wrong. One wrong move, and Chris would kill them all. Such kind and loving people, yet only a sliver away from a bullet each in their brains if you messed up. You had to put your entire focus into your hands so they wouldn’t shake from the pure adrenaline coursing through you, and dropping your fork as Chris’ hand came to rest on your thigh. From nearly choking to the strange looks from Barry and Kathy, Chris made the classic excuse of calling you ill. You half near glowered at him, half near squeeze his hand too tightly as you placed your own on top it just in a pathetic attempt to placate anger you were unsure of was there.

Baby Aurora gurgling next to you in the high chair– a baby you knew was your trap, and prison despite how much you had grown to love her as your own daughter. The unknowing checkmate in a long and drawn out plan that had you playing the role of fool in your deck of cards.

So you returned home. The broken woman walked down the aisle. Smiled and laughed, with his hand wrapped around your waist the entire day. Signing the marriage documents and Aurora’s adoption papers. Forever linked to him, through her. Your mother’s dress the only thing keeping you grounded in the eternal fight between consciousness and disassociation. Wishing partially that your body would give out from stress. But it didn’t. Stubbornly fought to keep you alive and conscious. Making sure you suffered just so Chris’ selfish desires were never once threefold.

As months turned into years, and the house grew to house another lifeform other than your own. You hunch over your newborn son, stroking his cheek while Chris watched with tender eyes from the side. Your menopause had been faux, induced originally by the stress of what Chris had inflected upon you. Now in place what you had convinced yourself everything was fine was a functioning womb— in a scenario you would’ve never considered to have children in. A cruel irony. Another carbon copy of the man who kept you chained not literally but financially and the threat of ending everything you once were. You look above at your father’s last painting. One Chris never allows you to keep.

The scene depicts a gilded angel wearing a heavy coat. A small horde of angels flying up to a cloud parted by beams of light. Holding a sword in one hand pointed at the other, and inside a crying Kurukulla no longer dancing and joyus— but surrounded by a pile of extravagant gifts, which peel away at the heel of her red body to reveal their true identity as demons and curses.

Titled: “The Deception of Joy.”

Written by @flowers-in-mae. 6-20-2026

Big big thank you as always to my beta reader @notnormalgirl.

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