💎 PREMIUM: Id/thepotatoevna - Collection

𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐰. 𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐰.

OHHH MY.... CHRIS REDFIELD

I don't want to be with him. I want to be used by him. Like a round of ammunition. Like a tactical knife. I want to be a tool in his hands, to feel his fingers, scarred and calloused, reloading me, aiming me, pulling the trigger of my purpose. I want him to throw me into the fire of battle, then pick me up, check me for dents, and nod—a single, brief, approving nod—because I held out. Because I didn't break.

Imagine: we're in some abandoned Finnish research facility. Snow, darkness, silence broken only by our breathing. He gestures with his hand: Stop. Wait. And I stop. I turn into a statue. I don't breathe. Because his order is a law of physics. My heart beats in time with his footsteps fading down the corridor. He is the metronome of my existence.

I want to clean his body armor. Not in a washing machine. By hand. With a rag and a special solvent. I will learn to distinguish 37 shades of dirt, blood, and B.O.W. slime on the Kevlar. I will know which dent is from a Licker's claw and which is from a ricochet. I will mend the tears in his uniform and imagine how that thread, *my* thread, will touch his skin, absorb his sweat, hold him together as he cracks another mutant's skull.

I want him to yell at me. Yes! For his voice, low and hoarse from perpetual sleep deprivation and inhaling gunpowder fumes, to crash down on me like hail: "Don't lag behind!", "Pull yourself together!", "This is sloppy work!". Every word will be like a blessing. It means he noticed. It means he cares whether I'm alive, whether I'm effective. He doesn't waste breath on those who are already dead.

And at night... oh, at night. No foolishness. He will sleep. Sitting up. With a rifle across his lap. And I will sit at his feet, back against the wall, and just... listen to him breathe. That will be my post. My watch. To guard his sleep, which lasts 22 minutes before his instincts jerk him awake at the slightest rustle. And if at that moment our eyes meet in the half-light—there will be no tenderness in his, no question. Only an instant threat assessment: *friendly*. And that will be more than any declaration of love in any language of the world.

He won't give me flowers. He will give me a survived day. He won't say "sweetheart." He will say "reliable." That will be the highest reward. To become part of his mission. To become a line in his report that doesn't end with "K.I.A."

I don't want to comfort him. I want him to crush his pain against me, like against a boulder. For him to scream, to break furniture (I will later carefully collect the fragments, every single one, as a memento), for his tears (if they ever come) to be corrosive like acid and leave scars on my soul. I want to carry that burden. Because if his pain lives in me, it means he is a little bit freer. It means he can take one more shot. Run one more operation.

I don't want to be his woman. I want to be his equipment. His first-aid kit. His spare magazine. The thing you can't go into battle without. The thing you check, clean, and take care of—not out of sentimentality, but out of practical necessity.

To be with him is not to be by his side. It is to be consumed by his gravitational field. It is to burn up in the atmosphere of his duty. It is to disappear, to dissolve into the great, terrifying, beautiful project called "Chris Redfield."

And when in the end—and there will be an end, there always is—he stands amidst the wreckage of another nightmare, drenched in blood not his own, his gaze empty and fixed on the horizon where the next threat awaits... I will be there. Wiping down my pistol. Ready. Always ready.

Because his mission is everything. And I... I am now part of the mission.