Disclaimer: Resident Evil and the character Billy Coen are copyrighted by Capcom. The author of this work is making no profit from this fan-fiction story and is not challenging the status of the copyright holders.

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I'm not sure how long it is when I come to again later. The helicopter is powering down and, when I look over at Billy, he's in a lot of pain. My addled brain is wondering what's going on.

“Hey, you,” I murmur to get his attention. “What's wrong?”

He flicks a glance at me and shrugs a little. “Damn monster oozed some kind of acid.”

Ah, that explains it. He fought the thing at least twice. It wouldn't surprise me if he got the shit on his hands. The way he's looking at them, that's what I'm betting happened. Of course, now that the adrenaline's worn off, the acid burns from the monster have started taking their toll on my rescuer.

“How bad are your hands, Billy?” I hope it's just the reflection of the operation lights that are making him look so pale.

“Could be better, could be worse,” he says with a bit of a pained noise.

I lean back on the seat and reach over, putting my hand on his shoulder in what I hope is a comforting manner. “Rest them, then,” I tell him. “We're far enough away that we shouldn't have to worry about what we left behind.”

He nods at me, eyes closed. “Yeah...”

I get ready to say more when the door on my side opens suddenly and I'm pulled out of my seat by an irresistible grip. I can't help the sharp sound of pain that comes from the stitches in my back pulling. It's not too hard to tell that some of the stitches ripped.

Billy's voice breaks through for a moment. “HEY!” and I can tell he's gotten the same treatment on the other side.

My initial reaction once my feet are stable is the rapid backwards motion of my head, feeling oddly justified when I feel an impact and hear the unmistakable sound of something breaking that isn't me. Unfortunately, this proves to be a not-so-good idea when my vision is swallowed by the muzzle of a gun.

Billy doesn't even manage to get a swing in before he's got a handful in his face.

Oh, that doesn't help my mood at all.

“We're fucking injured here,” I yell at the men surrounding us, “thank you so very god-damn much.” Yeah, I'm in a downright snit at the moment. My illusion of safety got shattered by some bastards in military uniforms. “You pricks are only about seven hours too god-damn late.”

I lean against the metal skin of the helicopter, weary to the bone and hurting worse than I did an hour ago. They drag Billy over near me and I can tell he's not much better off. One of the military dogs makes it worse by opening his mouth to ask a stupid question.

“What were the two of you doing in that helicopter?”

“Escaping a living hell,” I snap back with a hell-fire glare. “Do we look like we were just stealing it for kicks?” Weakly, I reach out to Billy and grab his sleeve, trying to get him closer to me. “C'mere you.”

He doesn't fight my pull, weak as it is. “Uh-huh.” Gods above, we're in sorry shape.

“She's bleeding, sir.” Apparently there is more stupidity to endure tonight. I snap my reawakened glare on the one who just foolishly opened his mouth.

“Thank you, Mr. Obvious. Your buddy with the recently broken nose ripped the god-damn stitches, so I'm not surprised.” I cling to Billy, trying to stay upright, and feel his arm slide around me. I equate him with safety after the hell of the night, so it makes me feel a bit better. “Do you think maybe we two American citizens could get some fucking bandages?”

We're dragged along on a, thankfully, short trip to see some field medics. Oh, hell... that's not good. If they get Billy's jacket off or if he forgets where he is and answers their questions, I don't know what'll happen.

They try to separate us. I resist, smacking away the moron who even dares to try with a look that could melt permafrost. The medic attending to me relents under that glare and asks me to loosen my shirt so he can look at my injury. I'll let him, even if I don't trust him a single iota.

Under these lights, Billy really is as pale as I was worried about before. “You don't look so hot,” I whisper to him.

His voice isn't much louder than mine. “I've felt better.”

One of the medics comes over to take samples of our blood. Probably to make sure neither of us are infected. That's nice. Clear me and then go the fuck away.

“You're suffering a concussion,” the man tending to Billy says after checking him over. I knew that. Billy knew that. Holy hell, how clueless can you be? This is why I don't really like doctors.

The one stitching up my back starts talking. “Miss, you really should go to the hospital. You've lost a lot of blood.”

I'm not leaving his side. Maybe I'm still high from the pain-killers, but I'll be damned if I get separated from the Marine again. “Screw you,” I say, flicking my eyes up to the man. “You're lucky I'm even letting you touch me. A hospital completely violates my religious views.”

What I said is bullshit. I just don't trust these fuckers. I'm too worried about Billy. He hasn't said a single word since the last time I spoke to him and I can tell he's uncomfortable as hell.

My mind is trying to salvage something of this situation for him. I feel so helpless. He doesn't deserve whatever they might do to him if they find out he's on the run.

“At a hospital, you can get a transfusion-” Hello, Clueless Asshole, can't you see I'm dead against going there?

“I'm female, I lose blood every four weeks – I'll deal,” I snap back, not taking my eyes away from the scene with Billy.

“Can you tell me your name, sir?” Billy shakes his head and about swoons.

And suddenly, like a gift from the goddess herself, it hits me.

“He hasn't been able to tell me his name since we met tonight,” I rattle out quickly. “I've been calling him 'Jack' ever since. I think he might have amnesia or something.”

The medic tending to him looks at me, blinking owlishly. “Are you certain about that?”

I wanna smack this guy. Instead, I tell him the obvious. “Take a look at his head,” I snarl at the medic, “it's got more lumps than a toad's ass. I may not be an expert, but I'd say there was some damage done.”

He wants Billy to go to the hospital for an in-depth examination. Billy shakes his head slowly, refusing again. I can't blame him. Chances are, if they get his jacket off of him, he's finished.

“Listen, I promised him that he could stay with me until he got straightened out. I live little more than a half-hour from here.” My medic touches my shoulder, earning another glare from me before he even gets out his next attempt at making me get to a hospital. “Give it up. I'm not going to a hospital. If you guys are about through, I want to go home. I'm tired, dirty, hungry, and in a shitload of pain. I want to go to bed.”

Billy's agreeing with me. Good. We're on the same page about what we want.

The dumb bastard doesn't let it go. He opens his mouth again. My eyes narrow and I suck in a breath. I see my savior flinch as if he knows what's coming.

Sorry, Billy, but I can't take it anymore.

I let loose. I'm pissed, rabid, and unrelenting for the next fifteen minutes as I detail everything I've been through during my night. Every time I pause to take a breath, my volume just gets louder. Billy leans away from me partway into it, leveling a “why did you have to go and set her off” glare on my medic.

“... and, in light of everything, I don't want a hospital, I don't want anymore of your help, and if you stick another god-damn needle in me, I'll do something utterly obscene with it. I'm being held against my will, without due cause, and in the United States of America, we call that 'kidnapping'. Now, unless you sons-of-bitches feel up to getting your JAGs out of bed at this late hour, someone better damn well take us to my apartment – now.”

Billy's got his eyes closed when I'm done. He looks a lot paler now than he was when I first got started. I feel bad about it, but one look at the man who seems to be in charge tells me it was worth it.

“Someone arrange for Miss Sheridan to have a ride home,” the man says, not even looking at me. It's about god-damn time. But, he omitted something that I'm going to fix.

“Thank you,” I tell him, being polite for the first time since these bastards so rudely interrupted our escape. “But, I'm not leaving without Jack.”

“Fine.” He signals to one of his subordinates and, after the last minute touches, we're in the back of a car and being taken out onto the highway.

Billy and I cling to each other, hurting and relieved. No more virus. No more zombies. No more surviving by the skin of our teeth. We're both thinking the same thing.

“It's finally over.”