Chapter Text
Sherry volunteers.
It has to be her. Sherry knows Claire, and Claire is Chris’s sister, and Leon says that Chris will respond positively to a familiar face and she volunteered, damn it, so why does she feel so unsure about it now?
She stops in front of the hallway mirror on her way out the door, tugging her fingers through her short blonde hair. She looks pale, even to herself. She narrows her eyes at her reflection, her mouth thinning into what she hopes is a fierce, determined line.
“You volunteered,” she tells herself loudly, turning face the mirror fully and putting her hands on her hips. “It’s decided, you’re going.”
She hears his chuckle from the other room. A moment later he’s grinning at her, head poking around the corner. “Second thoughts?”
“Jake Muller, you shut your mouth.”
“Anything for you, supergirl.” He slouches into the hall, doing his best to play it casual. But she can see his knee bouncing, seeing her ready to go, and he looks unfailingly nervous for a heartbeat in time. “You got my number on speed-dial, right? If there’s trouble, you’ll call me?”
“There won’t be any trouble,” Sherry says, exasperated. “But of course I’ll call,” she adds, seeing his expression. “Just...don’t worry about me.”
“I never do,” he says. Too quickly.
“Jake.”
“You gonna get going, or what?”
“I’ll see you tonight,” she says, putting a hand on his chest, leaning up on the tips of her toes to kiss him.
He’s really not very good at this dating stuff.
◌◌◌
Chris is nursing his third beer when someone calls on his apartment's intercom.
It’s a loud, obnoxious buzzer. It’s disconcerting to hear it at all. They don’t get door-to-door sales around here, this far from the city center, or political glad-handers. And he hasn’t been in touch with anyone from his old life in...what, almost half a year, now? Not even Jill.
Maybe the guy next door locked himself out again. Setting his beer down and dragging his bare heels off the table and onto the carpet, he gets to his feet, accompanied by the pop and crack of joints that haven’t experienced movement in far too long.
The intercom buzzes again, louder and insistent this time; Chris swears foully and repeatedly as he crosses the room to grant access and unlock the front door. And he's still muttering curses as a emphatic knock issues from the hallway, which is how the fuck do you want ends up being the first thing that Chris Redfield says to Sherry Birkin that day.
She peers up at him and tucks her hair behind her ears, unflinching. She’s been greeted with worse. And she's tougher than she looks; everyone knows that.
“Damn,” says Chris. “Birkin?”
“Chris,” says Sherry, and tries not to look completely appalled.
His shirt is inside out. He doesn't seem to have shaved in at least three weeks. He’s barefoot, eyes bleary with sleep-- and, after taking a hesitant sniff and suppressing a recoil, she has to wonder how long it’s been since he’s taken a proper shower.
A quick once-over of the apartment behind him reveals more empty bottles than she’s comfortable with.
“Have you been drinking?” she asks, her eyes flicking back towards him. “Sorry, I have to ask. I can come back later.”
He grunts. "Yeah."
"Are you drunk?"
“I’m-- no, not really. I’m sober enough. More or less.”
His expression is clear and honest. She doesn’t know him as well as she knows Claire, but she isn’t sure he’d be any good at lying even if he tried. “Good,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “Then are you going to invite me in? Or should we just stand out here and stare at each other some more?”
Chris smiles-- eyes creased tight at the corners, without humor-- and steps back to let her past him. At least he’s trying; Leon had told her to be prepared for anything. With all the worst-case-scenarios that she'd had in mind, she's mostly just relieved to see him in one piece.
Maybe that only goes to show how low they've all sunk.
“You wanna join me?” Chris is rummaging through the fridge, crouched down to sort through old take-out boxes. “I've got some wine coolers, I think. You seem like a wine cooler sort of girl. And I could've sworn I had a good old PBR in here, somewhere…"
Sherry isn’t listening, not really. She's toeing off her shoes, taking a good look around. The apartment itself is a decent enough place, even if it is on the small side-- modern appliances, high ceilings. There’s an open kitchen leading straight into the living room, then three doors across from one another: one to the bedroom, she assumes, one to a bathroom. And a guest room, maybe? An office? Not many places to hide, she thinks, an after-effect of China. Wouldn’t be much use in a shoot-out.
There was enough in Chris’s retirement fund to live more than comfortably, but it doesn't look like he's taken advantage of the money. The carpet is littered with old stains, the counters lined with crumbs and dust. Empty pizza boxes are crammed into the trash can, overflowing. The only real furniture is what’s already in the kitchen, the living room couch, and a low-end table, pushed up against the wall. She can only imagine what his own room is like: bare beyond minimalism, just a bed and maybe a dresser.
There's some old boxes out in the living room, the type you lose to the back of the closet. It looks like he's been going through them-- for nostalgia's sake, or maybe to make room for new memorabilia he'd rather forget. She notices a baseball glove resting on one of the couch cushions and picks it up, turning it over in her hands. "I didn’t know you played," she says.
Chris looks up from the fridge for a moment, and grimaces. "Used to. Not anymore."
He doesn't tell her that he'd been offered a college scholarship his senior year of high school, one that he'd turned down in favor of the Air Force, STARS, and eventually, the BSAA. He'd been team captain-- it’s laughable now, it’s ironic. But back then he hadn't had to worry about leaving anybody behind. They were always on the field with him, at his back or in front, right where they were supposed to be.
Everyone is out-of-place, these days. Him most of all.
Sherry strokes the leather with one finger, unable to know the thoughts in his head. He's got his name inscribed on the side of the glove in silver. “Not anymore?” she repeats. “Why not?”
“Who the fuck would I throw to?”
There's a lingering, bitter silence, then. It grows until he can't stand it, digging back through the fridge, trying not to think too much about anything.
"Oh, hey-- I knew I had that Pabst." He picks out one bottle among the many and sits back on his heels, rolling the cold glass across his palms. "You want that drink or not?"
She sets down the glove abruptly. "Chris," she says softly, "I'm going to tell you something, and you have to promise me to stay calm."
He raises his head again. Wary, this time. “Sure.”
“I’m serious, Chris.”
“I’m listening, Sherry.”
She takes a few uncertain steps and leans over the counter, looking him full in the face.
"We have a location on Piers Nivans," she says quietly.
The bottle slips through his fingers, and crashes to the floor. "Fuck," says Chris. But he's not talking about the mess.