Partners

​Think of the first time you slept with someone, or the first time you fell in love: that blinding explosion that left you crackling at the fingertips with electricity, initiated and transformed. I tell you that was nothing, nothing at all, beside the power of putting your lives, simply and daily, into each other’s hands.

 "Don't," Barry Burton says.

Chris Redfield, age 23, looks at him strangely. He's met Barry's wife, so his first thought is, if articulated, Did the married guy just call dibs?

Barry chuckles, like he can read Chris's mind. "First off, that's probably your new partner."

Chris stares at him, then back at Jill Valentine, who's across the room in Irons's corner office, talking to him and Wesker. She's short, with piercing blue eyes and no makeup, wearing a smart black pantsuit and looking like a runway model. He'd figured she was a lawyer, or some intern from City Hall here to give Irons a hard time.

"She would have been one of the youngest Special Forces operatives in history," Barry says, "and one of the first women. She's not to be messed with."

"She's like the Hollywood version," Chris says, slowly shaking his head. "What the hell is somebody like that doing here?"

"DADT."

He snaps his head around to stare at Barry, who grins and spreads his hands. Their squad will get their own office eventually, as per Wesker's request, but right now they've got the same desks as anyone else in the department.

"They asked," he says, "and she told." Barry leans back in his chair. "I sat in on Wesker's entrance interview. She's pretty good."

Chris nods.

"What, you don't believe me?"

"I think I'm gonna have to talk to her first."

 "What do you think about this job?" Jill asks him.

They've got a corner booth at J's Bar. He's in a bomber jacket that used to be his dad's and a pair of new blue jeans; she's still in the pantsuit from her interview. Chris has known her for thirty minutes.

Up close, it's easier to believe she's military. It's in how she moves, and in the crispness with which she speaks. Jill strikes him as someone who pays very close attention to the image she's presenting.

"I get the feeling we're part of somebody's reelection campaign," Chris says, and takes a bite of his burger. "The rest of the team's a bunch of ex-Marines and SEALs and God knows what else. It's less like a cop squad and more like we're here to invade the next town over."

"So we're proof of a zero-tolerance policy?"

"That's what I'm thinking, yeah. I doubt we'll do any real work."

She has a spoonful of clam chowder, which visibly surprises her.

"Good?"

"Yeah, very. I wasn't expecting that." Jill looks down into the bowl.

"It's a jog from the station," Chris says, "and their beer selection's lousy. Worth it, though."

"Yeah." Jill eats some more chowder. "What'd they tell you about me?"

Chris puts his burger down and swallows carefully. "DADT."

Jill nods and winces. "That's it?"

"Well, that and that you're a badass."

That gets half a grin out of her. Jill shoots a quick glance across the room, then turns back to him.

"Look, I don't have a problem with gay people," Chris says. "Lesbians are just women with really good taste."

"I'm not a lesbian," Jill says. "I'm just... I picked a bad time to be attracted to a woman."

"What'd they tell you about me?" Chris asks.

"That you were kicked out of the Air Force for being," she pauses, visibly translating what she'd actually been told, "difficult."

"So there you go. You kissed a girl, big deal." Chris puts out his hand, the one that isn't greasy from the burger. "I'm a fuckup and we'll be working together. Nice to meet you."

Jill looks down at his hand, then back up at him, and shakes it. "Yeah. Here's hoping, right?"

"Right."