Chapter Text
They fish him out of the Lanshiang bay like one of those sea turtles that's been stuck in a fishing net for too long, floating aimlessly and waiting for death to sink in its ugly teeth like a shark from the depths below.
For the longest time, he wishes they hadn't.
He's a soldier, meant to either fight on the battlefield or die there. He isn't meant to be bed bound, surrounded by lab coats rather than uniforms, hearing the hums and beeps of medical equipment rather than the familiar reloading of a gun, and seeing absolutely nothing more than four walls that are steadily closing in on him.
It's not a sensation he's familiar with, despite being on his own often enough. But there is a vast difference between laying belly flat on a roof, with the wind in your hair and your eyes on your fellow soldiers through the scope of your sniping rifle, and this enforced isolation.
The first few days—weeks?—are both the best and the worst.
He hardly notices anything as he drifts from one drug-induced slumber to another. All he knows in the few moments he's awake is a pain that makes it feel as if his veins are on fire. It crawls and it burns, and every time he finds himself wishing he would just die before he's forcefully dragged into a hollow sleep again.
It takes two months for the antiviral drug made from Jake fucking Muller’s antibodies to burn away the C-virus.
Two months of agony, of his body burning with fever and shaking with tremors as the antiviral medication does its job. Two months of wondering if he’ll ever be normal again, or if he’ll remain a quarantined security risk for the rest of his life.
Two months of isolation, before the door to his hospital room bursts open to reveal his mom.
Seeing her, Piers feels exactly like that day at the mall’s security office, when he was eight. When he’d gotten lost, and was so scared he couldn’t stop shaking. But then his mom had burst through the door with that same panic and worry in her eyes that she has now, and he’d felt so relieved, so safe, that he’d started crying.
He’s shaking now, too, and tears burn in his eyes as he croaks, “Mom.”
His mom’s smile is just as comforting as it was back then as she rushes over to the bed, and her hands are just as soft and tender as she carefully, so carefully, pulls him into a hug. Draws him into her arms and against her small frame, that Piers wishes he could disappear into and just forget the rest of the world exists for a few moments.
"Oh sweetheart,” she whispers against the side of his head and presses a kiss against his temple.
Piers isn’t sure how long she holds him, rubbing gentle circles against his back as he attempts to get his breathing under control.
When Piers has calmed down, she settles in the chair next to his bed and carefully asks, “How are you?”
He hesitates.
His right arm hurts, even if it isn't fucking there anymore, and his eye thrums like he's standing next to the bass in one of the clubs near base, and that’s ignoring his mental state which is in absolute pieces.
The short of it is that he’s a fucking mess.
But he doesn’t want to worry his mom, so he forces a smile onto his lips. “I’m fine.”
“Still can’t lie to me properly,” his mom says with a raised eyebrow. “But Doctor Haas has assured me you will be fine.”
Piers resists the urge to sigh, doubting very much that Doctor Haas has also given his mother the rather lengthy timeline of his road to fine.
How they’re not quite able to determine how long it will take for his sight to be fully restored, how he will have to slowly learn how to function with the prosthetic currently being made for him, and that he’ll be on antidepressants for the next six months at the very least.
Doctor Haas had said he can expect to be back on active duty in less than a year, and while initially that had sounded so long, Piers sometimes wonders if it’s long enough. But a year is a year, and he’ll be damned if he won’t make that work.
“Eventually,” he settles on.
His mom turns in her chair so she can face him better, sliding her left hand through his hair with a small smile and slightly wet eyes. “I’ve been so worried. When they called me…” She trails off, dropping her hand with a shake of her head. “Well, I’m here now.”
God, did they call her before or after they found him barely alive? She’s always known she might have to bury him one day. Having married into a multi-generational military family, she’s always accepted it with so much grace. But knowing you might have to do something versus the harsh reality of it…
He reaches his left arm across his body, so he can lay his hand atop his mom’s resting on the bedsheets. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”
She turns her hand around so she can intertwine their fingers. “You’re alive, that’s all that matters.”
The silence that settles between them is heavy, filled with what if’s and Piers can’t take it.
Doesn’t want to imagine his mom standing in front of an empty coffin.
“And what have you been up to?”
And just like Piers doesn’t tell her how he truly is, his mom just sighs and waves a hand in the air. “Oh, you know how it is.”
He sees it now, why everyone always says he’s so much like her.
"You know,” she says eventually, when she’s run out of exasperation with their extended family, and gossip of basically everyone else, “your Captain has been a big support.”
His Captain—Chris.
His heart lurches in his chest, and for a moment his mind flashes back to Chris’ heartbroken eyes and desperate yells as Piers launched the escape pod towards safety. He’d been so relieved knowing that his Captain, his friend—his heart—would make it out alive.
And then they both did.
“He didn’t have to be, but he’s been there for me regardless,” his mom continues, but her casual words are belied by the twinkle in her eyes.
Piers’ heart sinks, because he knows that look. Knows she isn't stupid while he, her only offspring, most certainly is for telling her he has a crush on a guy named Chris. He'd thought it harmless at the time, had hoped it would get her off his back about dating that cute son of a friend of hers.
It had.
But now, his mom smiles too sweet and too knowing, and Piers knows he's fucked up.
"Very responsible man, this Captain Chris Redfield."
There it is, he thinks with a sigh. His secret’s out. "Mom."
"Been awfully worried about you too.”
"Mom." Piers doesn’t whine, truly. He just thinks it’s a good thing that she’s sitting on his right-hand side. If she’d been on his left, he would’ve swatted her.
"I didn't say anything."
Piers huffs. "Good."
"But if I was,” his mom continues with a pointed look, “I’d say you got a second chance at life. Don’t spend it pining, sweetheart. You deserve to be happy.”
Piers resists the urge to sigh.
Christ, is this his life now? His mom telling him to shoot his shot, as if he doesn’t have a lengthy list of ifs and buts. As if he’s never thought about it, his heart so full and goddamn aching when he’s with Chris, and they’re bitching about paperwork or laughing at some stupid joke.
As if he hasn’t already decided that he values a good working relationship and a comfortable friendship with Chris more than giving in to his pining.
“Perhaps I should focus on my recovery first,” he mutters.
“Yes, of course.” His mom nods before giving him a small, encouraging smile. “Just… think about it.”
“I will,” Piers promises, because he can’t deny his mom.
Even if he wishes he could.
His feelings for Chris are perfectly fine, safely locked within his chest.
The door to Piers’ room is almost always open.
At first, his mind screamed danger and vulnerability at the open invitation to attack the incapacitated man in a hospital bed.
The nurses must have felt his discomfort, for soon after he’d been cleared to leave his bed for short periods of time, Marsha had taken him around in a wheelchair so he could see the space he’d be confined to for the foreseeable future.
It had been a very short tour.
Piers’ en-suite room is a decent size, with sparse furnishings. His bed, a visitor chair that looks awfully uncomfortable, and a small table with two chairs under the only window. He’d nearly cried the first time he’d noticed the get well soon cards and teddy bear, complete with BSAA cap, on the table.
Adjacent to his room is the nurse’s station, and a small break-room with four lockers—one for each of the nurses assigned to his unit.
Next to the nurse’s station is a badge-controlled sliding-door. On the other side is a security booth, not that he’s been allowed to see it. He assumes it’s manned by well-trained, armed guards, and the access doors to the other isolation cubicles.
It feels very panopticon, and the irony of the isolation section of the BSAA’s hospital resembling a disciplinary prison concept isn’t lost on Piers.
But while the need for security nags at Piers, it adds a layer of comfort as well. Here, at least, he is protected—even if that is from himself.
Now, there is a comfort to hearing the soft chatter or consistent keyboard clicks from the two on-duty nurses. The radio Marsha has going when she’s doing paperwork, filling the small space with upbeat, poppy tunes and Marsha’s terrible singing—although she has assured him that he does not sound any better.
A reminder he isn’t completely alone.
Now there’s a soft knock against the doorframe, which is definitely not Marsha because she’d just march right in.
When Piers looks from the TV to his unexpected visitor, his heart stutters in his chest.
He'd told his mom it was a crush, but if he's honest that doesn't even come close to describing how he feels about Chris Redfield.
And seeing the man standing in the doorway, a strange combination of relief and honest-to-God hesitance in his eyes, well… It's a good thing he's not hooked to a heart-rate monitor anymore.
“Hi,” Piers says, a rather lame greeting but damn it, he needs a second.
He’s missed Chris.
“Hi yourself,” Chris shoots back with a small grin. “You up for a visitor?” he asks, remaining where he is. As if he’s waiting for permission. As if he isn’t sure he’s welcome, while in reality Piers is so happy seeing the man he could cry.
“You’re always welcome, Captain,” Piers says and if it’s too soft and too honest, he can’t find it within himself to care.
Chris’ hesitance melts away and he walks into the room. He shrugs off his coat—because it’s fucking Autumn now—and turns the visitor chair until it’s facing the bed before sitting down.
He gives Piers an unsubtle once-over, and the guilt in his eyes is just a flash, but it’s there all the same. "You look good," Chris says, trying and failing at the attempt of an encouraging smile.
Piers bites back a snort. "I look like shit."
Chris frowns. That dissatisfied thing that means he doesn’t like what he’s hearing one single bit. "You look like you survived.”
The intense earnestness of the statement that burns in Chris’ eyes as much as it echoes in his voice, makes Piers’ heart constrict.
"Piers, I'm—"
"Don't you dare," Piers hisses before he can stop himself. He knows what Chris is about to say, can see it in the tension in his shoulders, in the tightness of his jaw and in that awful, heartbreaking guilt that’s now shining bright and obvious in Chris’ eyes.
And he doesn’t want it.
He shakes his head vehemently. “I know what you're thinking, and just— don't. It was my choice."
Anger flashes in Chris’ eyes. "You shouldn't have had to make that choice."
"Bullshit. It’s part of the job, and you know it.”
Chris sighs, long and heavy, as he drags a hand over his face. When he’s looking at Piers again, there’s something shimmering in his eyes that comes close to grief. "You did not deserve to die down there."
Deserving it has nothing to do with it, Piers thinks with a bitter taste in his mouth. There are enough good people that don’t deserve the hand they’re dealt.
Life is unfair like that.
But that doesn’t matter, because, “I didn’t.”
No, Piers Nivans is alive.
He’s alive. Somehow, like a B.O.W. still clinging on after you’ve emptied a whole clip of ammo into it.
He’s alive. He’s living, breathing, and he’ll get his old life back—he will, Doctor Haas said he could.
He’s alive. He shouldn’t be, but he is.
And he’ll be fine.
“Shit.” With a shaky breath, Piers wants to reach up his right hand to drag his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture he never quite got rid of.
Except—
“Shit.” The word trembles and tears burn in his eyes. Panic rises in his chest like a fire, hot and scorching and all-consuming. He can’t run his hand through his hair because it isn’t there. Because he lost his arm. Because he almost died in an underwater laboratory. Because he injected himself with the C-virus. But it’s fine, it’s fine, because it was to save the world—to save his world, to save Chris.
But he isn’t dead.
He’s alive.
He’s alive.
He’s—
“Hey.”
Piers blinks.
Chris’ hand is on his shoulder, firm and comforting at the same time, and he’s looking at Piers with a concerned frown. When their eyes catch, Chris smiles, small but relieved. “You with me?”
Piers takes a deep breath and unclenches his fist. “I— yeah,” he mumbles and for a moment, he closes his eyes. His screaming thoughts have quieted, like a radio that’s been turned down from blaring loud to whispering soft. “Yeah, I am. I’m sorry. I just—”
“If I can’t apologize, then neither can you,” Chris says with a shake of his head, his hand squeezing Piers’ shoulder as he gives him a pointed look.
Piers huffs weakly. “That’s not how that works.”
“Pretty sure it is,” Chris shoots back easily.
Piers slumps against the pillow at his back, deciding that it’s not worth the argument. Not when the buzzing under his skin has made way for exhaustion, and he doesn’t quite manage to stifle a yawn.
Chris smiles, removing his hand from Piers’ shoulder to pat the mattress. “Why don’t you get some sleep.”
“I’m fine.” Piers shakes his head. Tired, yes, but not quite willing to let Chris leave. Not when he’s only just arrived and he doesn’t know when he’ll see the man again. “You’re here, and—” He breaks off in another yawn.
“I’ll be here again tomorrow,” Chris says, so achingly reassuring, as if he’s read Piers’ mind. “Sleep, Piers. Let me have your back for a change.”
As Piers drifts off into the hands of sleep just a few minutes later, he can feel the ghost of a finger brush down his cheek.
He smiles against the soft fabric of his pillow, thinking that it's been a while since his dreams were off to a good start.
True to his word, Chris visits again the following day.
He walks in carrying two take-away cups and is followed by Marsha’s half-hearted warning that he “better clear those food items with us next time!”
“I think she’s jealous I didn’t bring her a white chocolate mocha,” he jokes as he sits down in the chair next to the bed, holding out the largest of the two cups.
Piers takes it with a frown. “You brought me a white chocolate mocha?”
Chris raises an eyebrow, an amused glint in his eyes. “A guilty pleasure, right?”
Piers needs a moment to remember how Chris would even know that. He so rarely lets himself have the drink, maybe twice a year, and certainly never when the team is around—not when they’re all about boasting how dark and strong they like their coffee.
He’s only mentioned it once, back in Singapore at that school cafeteria when Merah had asked about his favorite foods—when things hadn’t gone to complete shit yet, when Merah had been alive. A good steak, he’d said as his standard answer. But Merah had been such a breeze of fresh air and the conversation so lighthearted that he’d admitted to enjoying the occasional mocha as well. Merah had sighed wistfully and Chris had laughed, saying that—
“Thought you didn’t think this was coffee.”
“Oh, it’s not,” Chris says with a teasing smile. “But I figured you deserved a sugary drink. And I even remembered to add nutmeg.”
“Oh,” Piers mumbles. It’s all he can manage, because his heart has decided he’s a teenager with a crush again with how hot it burns in his chest—with how hot his cheeks burn as well, and damn it, Chris will certainly notice.
But how on earth has the man remembered this? Not only the drink, but also the addition of nutmeg, mentioned off-handedly only once.
He ducks his head and takes just a bit too long to take the cover off of his cup. “Thanks.”
If he hadn't been head-over-heels stupidly in love with Chris already, he sure as hell would be now.
Both Chris and his mom become daily visitors.
His mom reads to him while they’re having tea, and it reminds Piers a lot of his childhood. Although she didn’t read him Lord of the Rings when he was younger. But she still does the voices, her eyes shining in joy every time she gets to do Gollum—the first time she did, Piers exhausted himself laughing.
Chris has brought rummikub for them to play, and Piers is grateful he picked a game easy to play with one hand. They normally only manage two rounds during a visit, getting carried away chatting some times while other days Piers is just too tired—a combination of the fact he’s still recuperating and a side-effect of the antidepressants.
But even if he sometimes misses a minute here and there when his mom is reading, or Chris and him have to break off yet another game because Piers is too tired, the visits still mean the world to him.
So of course it lasts a week.
He should’ve expected it. His mom can’t take time off of work indefinitely, so it was a given she would have to go back home eventually.
Piers had just hoped for a bit more time.
He’s still wallowing in his disappointment when familiar footsteps near.
“Oh, Chris!” His mom smiles excitedly and, before a surprised Chris can excuse himself, waves a hand at the table she’s sitting at with Piers. “Come join us.”
Normally, Piers would be happy to see Chris. But right now, he just wants to be petulant. Which is fine in front of his mom, but most certainly isn’t in front of Chris.
And his mom knows that, and either doesn’t want to deal with him while he’s in this mood or wants some help dragging him out of it.
Or she’s scheming.
“Mrs Nivans—” Chris starts, kind and polite, but doesn’t get a chance to get any further words in.
“How many times do I have to tell you, it’s Lenore.”
“Lenore,” Chris amends with a disarming smile. But his eyes quickly flicker to Piers. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“We could use the distraction,” his mom says and pats the table. “Come on. Besides, Piers was just pouting.”
“I was—” Piers starts, but as Chris steps into the room his expression clearly shows he caught Piers doing exactly what he is about to deny. He sighs and leans back against his chair. “It just sucks.”
Chris pulls the chair at the bed over so he can join them at the table. He looks between Piers and his mom thoughtfully, too polite to ask for clarification.
“I know,” his mom says with a soft sigh, and she gives Piers a small smile. “Maybe once you get released you can come stay with us for a while.”
“Sure, dad would love that,” Piers drawls with a grimace.
His father, who hasn’t even bothered to send Piers a text asking how he is, saying he’s relieved his son is still alive. Of course not. Because even if Piers joined the army like his dad always wanted, he fucked up the moment he joined the BSAA. It’s hard to tell if he’s ever been enough, when his father has always been distant—the kind of father that makes you wonder if he even wanted a kid in the first place. Piers would rather stay in his hospital room for another month if he’s honest.
But that’s on his father, not his mom. So he gives her an apologetic smile, and says, “Besides, I’ll have all my health appointments to go to, so it won’t be possible. Not at the beginning, at least.”
And after that, he might slowly start training with the team again. Test his prosthetic in the firing range. Hell, he’ll probably even offer to do Chris’ paperwork just to have something to do—just so he has an excuse not to subject himself to disappointing eyes and a cold shoulder.
“Well,” his mom sighs unhappily before her worried frown smooths and she looks at Chris. “Then Chris will just have to keep an eye on you for me.”
Piers raises his eyes to the ceiling. Scheming it is. “Mom. You can’t just demand that. The Captain is a busy man, and I’m sure he has much better things to do than babysit his incapacitated second.”
“Don’t make it sound like visiting you is a chore,” Chris says with an unhappy frown, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“I’m sure you have different priorities.”
“Piers.” Chris sighs, and Piers feels like he’s missing something important. Especially when Chris gives him that intense look he normally gets when he’s about to give Alpha a motivational speech that never fails to give them energy they didn’t have before. That always feels so fucking meaningful. “You are a priority for me.”
“Right,” Piers mumbles and swallows down the flutter in his chest. Of course he is, he tells himself. He is Chris’ second, after all. The man that sacrificed himself so Chris could live.
His friend.
Of course he cares, there is no need for his stupid heart to get all fluttery about something plain and simple.
“Well…” Piers swallows and decides that, actually, he can’t. Not when Chris is still looking at him and his mom is fucking gloating. He waves his hand at the table at the same time as he pushes his chair back. “We need more tea now that you’re here. I’ll go get you some.”
And, like a coward, he flees the room.
A few bad—truly, horribly, bad—days follow his mom’s departure.
He feels lonely and desperately stuck.
He wants to leave too. Go home, go to work, he’ll even take a trip to the grocery store as long as it means he isn’t here.
But his viral load is still too high, and according to Doctor Haas it could be at least another week before it’ll reach a level that’ll satisfy the BSAA enough to sign his release papers. No-one has been able to confirm if it will ever go away completely, even if Doctor Haas assures him it’s still feasible for him to be back on active duty within the year—to be back on active duty at all. But she also likes to use the word unprecedented a bit too much for comfort, and when once she almost off-handedly mentions monthly or bi-weekly check-ups in-between missions, Piers is left wondering if he’ll end up a lab-rat for the rest of his life.
He tries to not let himself spiral, but some days are worse than others even if the good days are slowly but steadily increasing.
Throughout it all, Chris is there as a supporting pillar that seems to be made of the strongest concrete the universe has ever known.
Daily visits for rummikub, a listening ear in the moments Piers is frustrated, and supporting words during physical therapy sessions that Piers isn’t sure Chris is technically even allowed to attend. But he’s there regardless.
It means the world to Piers, and he doesn’t want to imagine what his recovery would look like without Chris’ support—even if he sometimes fears it’ll leave his heart in pieces.
But there are moments when there’s a question in Chris’ eyes. Something that burns for a moment, curious and defiant, before the man decides not to ask—why, Piers? Why?
Piers supposes there is something haunting about being able to ask the dead why they were so willing to die for you. An answer to a question you never thought you’d be able to ask. But if their positions were reversed, he’d want to know regardless.
But Chris, it seems, doesn’t want to know, and Piers is left wondering why. Is it because he sees the faces of all the men he lost in Piers? He sincerely hopes Chris doesn’t, considering the vast difference between men dying under his command, and Piers willingly sacrificing himself.
Or maybe, Piers thinks with a chill down his spine, Chris does know.
Of course, there are ifs and buts to his reasoning. He’d lost his arm, they were about to die and those were only the stakes for the two of them—and Piers never considered himself a hero, but if it was him versus hundreds or thousands of others, well, he joined the BSAA for a reason.
But there is no denying that he might not have been so quick to make his decision if it hadn’t been for his feelings for Chris. That he might not have fought so fucking hard to keep going, to get the man to a pod and get him out of there.
Plus, he doubts that he’d been exactly subtle in his desperation.
So maybe Chris does know, and is too kind to force Piers’ hand—to break his heart.
Stop pining, mom had said. But Piers will most certainly not tell if Chris doesn’t ask.
What he will do, however, is tease his Captain a bit when he shows up at nine sharp for the fifth day in a row in a show of ridiculous punctuality. "Did you move into the room next door or something?"
A ridiculous question, truly, considering rain still clings to Chris’ jacket and his cheeks are slightly rosy from the cold—quite an endearing look, not that Piers would ever say it out loud. Chris hangs his coat over one of the chairs before sitting down next to Piers’ bed. "Oh I'm sorry,” he drawls with a raised eyebrow, amused rather than apologetic, “is my TV too loud for your delicate senses?"
Piers grins. "Yeah, your porn is really throwing off my sleep schedule."
Chris laughs, that one laugh that’s loud, and happy, coming right from his chest and making his eyes twinkle. He leans back against his chair and throws his feet up onto the bed. A smirk pulls at his lips as he asks, “My porn, huh?”
Piers hums an affirmative, even if part of him feels he might have just dug his own grave here—the same part of him that he’s fighting to keep out of the gutter. But that doesn’t stop him from running his mouth. “Surprised you manage to show up so punctually every morning.”
Chris chuckles. “Promised your mom, didn’t I?”
It’s a light, teasing comment. But it makes Piers feel as if a bucket of ice-cold water has been dunked on him. “Just ‘cause my mom said you should, doesn’t mean you have to,” he mutters, and hopes he’s kept the disappointment out of his tone.
“I know,” Chris says, plain and simple, before giving Piers a small smile that looks more understanding than it has any right to be. “I’m here because I want to be.”
Piers swallows. The knowledge that Chris is here because he wants to be should make him feel better. In a way, it has. It’s just that the small, irrational fear has now been replaced by a familiar longing that Piers knows out of experience will echo for a long time.
In an attempt at levity, he waves a warning finger at Chris. "Doesn't mean you should trust Alpha to run itself. Don’t know who you got on the team, but I’m sure they’ll get themselves into all sorts of trouble."
He half expects Chris to joke back. But the other just sighs, leaning his head back. For a moment, Chris stares at the ceiling with a wry smile before he admits, "Alpha hasn’t been reinstated yet. You're not the only one on medical leave, Piers."
"Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Three months after his miraculous revival, he's fitted with his new prosthetic.
It's a sleek, futuristic looking thing that gleams in the dimmed overhead lights. The best of the best, with sensors and motors that work with signals from his brain to make his new arm move. It must’ve cost the BSAA a fortune—because neither Piers’ health insurance nor his savings would be enough to cover for this.
And it hangs like a dead weight from his shoulder.
Will he ever have full control over this? Move it quick enough to reload a gun in the middle of a battle, switch from gun to knife and back to gun again, the small and precise pull of his trigger finger to shoot his sniper rifle?
His physical therapist told him it takes time to get full control over his new limb, that it will all be possible if only he has patience.
Patience is something he’s intimately familiar with. One doesn’t get a perfect shot by rushing things, after all. So every time when that itchy impatience rears its head when he can’t do something, he takes a breath and imagines himself to be on his sniper perch. Mentally brings himself to the one place where he can wait forever, with intense focus and his thoughts on the goal.
Only now, the goal is lifting his arm, squeezing his hand into a fist, curling his fingers so that he can lift a glass.
He’ll get there, eventually—he believes it, most days.
It’s a good day.
Finally, his viral load is down to a level the BSAA has found acceptable enough, and paperwork to have him released from the hospital is expected to go through by the end of the week.
Finally he’ll be able to sleep in his own bed, have a burger from that place around the corner that’s almost as good as a quality piece of steak, and just… be home in his comfort zone.
He’s still giddy from the news when Chris visits, but from the moment the other steps into the room it’s clear that Chris doesn’t come bearing good news.
There’s a tightness to him, his shoulders and jaw, and something resigned as he drops into the chair at the table opposite of Piers.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. Piers’ excitement has fizzled into worry, and he wonders if he should ask. If Chris would answer.
Then, Chris sighs, and, as if he’s ripping off a band-aid, says in a rush, “I won’t be able to visit as much as of next week. I’ve been cleared for duty.”
Piers blinks. “Oh. That’s—”
Expected, that’s what it is. Chris is here so often because he’s been on medical leave. Nothing more, nothing less, and Piers knew all along this daily-visits-from-the man-he-secretly-loves thing couldn’t last. Knew all along that if there’s anyone deserving of getting back into things, it’s Chris.
But somehow it feels like Piers has been playing one of those arcade claw games, his eyes on a prize impossible to catch. And yet, and yet, for a moment it felt like he had it all, only for whatever stupid prize he thought he caught to fall and he’s left with bitter disappointment he should have expected—should not have felt at all, because he should have known better than to think he’d win a rigged game.
Piers smiles—shaky, watery, and Chris will be the decent man he is and pretend he doesn’t notice. “That’s great.”
“Yeah.” Chris’ answering smile is just as shaky, the one word sounding almost hesitant while Piers had expected Chris to be relieved, perhaps even excited—he knows he certainly will be when he can finally return to work.
I'm turning in my gun. It's time someone took my place, and I'd be honored if it was you.
The words flash through his mind, even if the conversation in the elevator feels like an eternity ago, and absolutely nothing is like it was back then. He certainly isn’t in any shape to take Chris’ place now. Nor does he want to.
He just wants things to go back to how they were.
But with Chris looking far from certain, Piers can’t help but wonder if the other’s mind is still on retirement. Selfishly, he hopes that’s not the case—doesn’t want to imagine the BSAA without Chris.
And Piers isn’t as decent a man as Chris, can’t pretend he hasn’t noticed the other’s shaky smile when worry gnaws at his gut. “You… want to go back, right?”
“Don’t you worry about me,” Chris says with a shake of his head. Then, he waves a hand in the air as if he’s dismissing the topic. “And you? Said you had some big news to share with me when I texted you this morning.”
Piers is unable to wave his worry away as easily as Chris’ hand-movement. But at least the reminder of his own news pushes it to the background. “I’ll be released from the hospital in a few days.”
Chris breaks into a smile that’s unexpectedly happy and excited. “Finally! That’s fantastic, Piers.” He clasps Piers’ shoulder. “Home this week and back with Alpha before you know it,” he says, and now all hesitation is gone.
Perhaps, Piers thinks as his heart skips a beat, he isn’t the only one that can’t imagine the BSAA with the other at his side.
With his release forms signed and his bag packed, Piers is ready to go home. He’s standing in the doorway of the room he’s called home for the past few months, bag at his feet.
“Gonna miss it?”
He turns to look at Marsha. “Nah,” he says with a shake of his head. “Might miss you, though,” he admits. All the nurses have been pleasant enough, but he’s certainly taken a liking to Marsha.
“I’m unforgettable like that,” Marsha says with a grin.
Piers chuckles. “Need to relearn what silence means after being around you for so long.”
“Shut up, I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.” Marsha teasingly gives his shoulder a shove. “But we can exchange numbers, go for coffee sometime.”
“Sure!” Piers whips his phone out and opens a new contact, holding it out for Marsha to put in her contact details.
When she’s done, Marsha looks at him with a smirk. “And when you’re not in my care anymore, I can finally ask why the hell you haven’t told that handsome Captain of yours that you’ve got the hots for him.”
Piers almost chokes on his own spit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Christ, has he been that obvious, or has Marsha just overheard a conversation he’s had with his mom?
“You’re only fooling yourself,” Marsha tuts. “Well, and him. Somehow.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” Piers mumbles.
And then, as if the universe thinks that his life is one big joke, the door to the isolation unit slides open to reveal none other than Chris Redfield himself.
“Chris? What are you doing here?” Piers asks, because he’s pretty sure he told the other there was no need for a visit today.
“Taking you home,” Chris says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“What? But— You don’t have to, really.”
Chris raises an eyebrow. “You gonna take the bus?”
Next to him, Marsha makes a choked noise as if she’s holding back a snort, and Piers is wondering why he wants to be friends with her.
Piers shrugs. “Was thinking of a taxi, actually.”
“Well, your taxi is right here.” Chris waves at himself with a grin and then inclines his head to Piers’ bag. “You ready?”
“I am,” Piers says. He was ready weeks ago.
He turns to Marsha and, when she holds open her arms slightly, draws her into a hug. “Thanks for everything.”
“You’re welcome, Piers. Take care of yourself,” Marsha says and then, with her brown curls tickling Piers’ ear, she whispers, “And maybe consider telling him.”
“I will,” Piers says with a sense of déjà vu.
It’s strange to sit in Chris’ small jeep.
Strange to be outside, to know he could go wherever he wanted right now. That he’s going home.
He puts his seatbelt on, and he’s still feeling rather proud of having managed to with his prosthetic without a problem, when Chris says, “You two have grown close.”
It takes Piers a moment to understand he means Marsha and him. He glances at Chris, and finds him looking at him with an unreadable expression. Piers shrugs. “Stockholm syndrome, I’m sure.”
Chris makes a face “Not funny.”
Piers raises his hands in apology. “Sorry, sorry.”
For a moment, Chris doesn’t say anything but from the thoughtful expression on his face it’s clear there’s something on his mind. Then, he asks with a frown, “You felt like a prisoner?”
Piers blinks, the question taking him by surprise. He thinks back to feeling like a lab-rat, wondering if he’ll ever be able to live his life again, to endless days and nights spent alone in that room.
“Sometimes,” he admits. “Took a while before they figured out what to do with me, you know?”
“Don’t make it sound like you’re some kind of zoo animal.”
Piers sighs. “Might’ve been if the viral load hadn’t dropped.”
A desperation flashes in Chris’ eyes, quickly replaced by relief. “But it did.”
“It did. And I’m finally going home,” Piers agrees with a soft, relieved smile of his own. But then, something comes to his mind, and his eyes widen. “Fuck, it’ll be so dusty. And my plants! Should’ve asked mom to get a house-sitter.”
Chris chuckles. “Don’t worry about it, your plants are fine. I took care of them.”
Piers blinks. “You’ve been watering my plants?”
Chris’ smile, small and just a little awkward, is all the answer Piers really needs. “Well someone had to. The pancake one died, though.”
Piers tried to sear the image of Chris Redfield sorting his post and watering his plants into his mind. It’s so kind, so domestic, and it makes Piers’ heart ache. Fuck, he can’t love this man more even if he tried.
“That’s fine. Finicky bastard anyways,” he says, thankful he manages to keep his voice steady. “Just the fact that you did… thank you, Chris.”
“It’s the least I could do,” Chris says with a small shrug.
The least I can do, like it doesn’t mean the world to Piers. He shakes his head. “It’s a lot already. I know it’ll still take a while before I’m back, but your support has helped a lot.”
“Just take your time, okay? We’ll wait. You belong with Alpha,” Chris says with a smile that warms Piers all the way through. “Now, buckle up. Time to get you home.”