update? Update? UPDATE
This morning (about three AM), I invited th3newblack to art session so we could do Chris and Sheva in their rockin alternate outfits (set one). At five, however, I started fading--right before she started on the entire reason we were oCing: The Stripes. I am a poon. To make up for it, this was negociated. For those of you unaware...
--
I drew Sheva, and the obviously superior th3newblack drew Chris and coloured both.
Now for the fic!
Fandom: Resident Evil
Client: th3newblack
Title: Switching It Up
Genre: Gerenal/Humor/Angst
Rating: K (the hell is this :/)
Characters: Chris, Sheva, mentions of Claire and Jill
--=--
Sheva fools around with her hands, trying to fight that bad habit of picking at her nails. The gold nail polish is pretty but ever since she was little she’d paint her nails only to chip away at it. In class, at church, during commercials… It gives her hands something to do, takes her mind off of the empty. It got even worse after her parents died. The house got so quiet. She does her best not to right now, however, because it would muck up her cover. Her and her partner have some information gathering to do of the sly variety-at a weapons dealing night club of all places-and a dealer’s ho doesn’t pick her nail polish off.
She shifts her weight a little while she waits for him, wondering if she feels a draft on her butt for real or if she’s just being self-conscience, when someone lets out a whistle from behind her. “Don’t tell me you’re all dressed up with no place to go,” he jokes from a little down the hall and she chuckles as she turns around.
That chuckle explodes into a full whahahaha!! when she sees him. Chris is decked from head to toe in Zebra stripes-literally: his hair is streaked and so are his shoes, and the Crazy Plum Purple spandex shirt is killing her right now. Killing her so hard she begins to double over, and while a part of her mind is screaming Hey! You’re gonna fall out of your shirt! she doesn’t really care because that? That is hilarious. He rolls his eyes with a nod.
“Oh yeah,” he says with a grin because her laugh is contagious. “Laugh it up. Yuk-yuk. We’ll see who’s knee slapping when we get to the club.” She mutters something about smearing her make up and he chuckles, letting the shutgun drop to one hand as he reaches out with the other. “Careful. You might trip in those.”
The three inch heels are a little hard to keep balance in when she’s clocking in a nine on the Richter Scale from laughter, but she’s worn their kind before. She is a girl after all. She takes his hand anyway though, and then starts patting at her wig. “Is it crooked?” She asks. “Did I mess it up? Should I go back in?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know,” and points to his head, “This is spray paint, don’t ask me anything about hair.” He has her cracking up again and continues. “And Jill’s giving me no help at all; she throws hers in a ponytail and calls it good. Sometimes. She braided it once… I think.” Sheva swats at him, trying to calm down and he shuts his mouth, proud of himself. People have been worried about him for a while now, and to be honest, she’s been one of them. But after a month off of sleeping until three in the after noon and just chilling with Claire and a few friends, he feels a lot better. Sheva can tell. He’s back to normal. Well. 'Normal.' Whatever’s normal for Chris Redfield.
After checking his watch, Chris swings the shotgun up over his shoulder, a signal that it’s time to get going. As they move down the metal and concrete corridor (why they made them get dressed in the lower levels she has no earthly idea), her heels click, her earrings clink, her bracelets chime, and his shirt and jacket pull and relax, and his shoes squeak. They fall into another fit of giggles.
There’s something a little… off about their laughter but it doesn’t stop Sheva from leaning forward or Chris from throwing his head back. They take these silly missions now on purpose: it’s a good break from the death and tragic. All Chris has looked at for the last decade is the monster that’s in all of us and its clearly taking its toll. So she keeps an eye out for these missions, needles for them. They’re fun and mindless, which seems to be what he needs right now. Of course, her actions aren’t entire selfless either: she doesn’t want to end up like him. He’s doing okay now, but the truth is that Chris is reaching that age where agents retire and he has no plans to. He burned out years ago but keeps plugging away with energy he doesn’t have. This job is killing him and even knowing all of that, she still respects and admires and aspires, and that terrifies her. So she grabs all the wacky and fun missions she can to help keep herself level. If she’s going to be the next Chris Redfield, she’s going to need a healthy balance for energy; Sheva doesn’t have an arch-nemesis to champion against or a lost love to scourer the globe for to keep her batteries (semi)charged.
So they get to dress up and be different people every now and again. Tonight, he’s a sleazy and over confident weapons dealer and she’s his dedicated, money sucking ho. It’s not really that bad.
It’s not like the alternative is doing them any favours.
--=--
There we are. That felt nice. PLEASE ACCEPT MY APOLOGY D8
--
I drew Sheva, and the obviously superior th3newblack drew Chris and coloured both.
Now for the fic!
Fandom: Resident Evil
Client: th3newblack
Title: Switching It Up
Genre: Gerenal/Humor/Angst
Rating: K (the hell is this :/)
Characters: Chris, Sheva, mentions of Claire and Jill
--=--
Sheva fools around with her hands, trying to fight that bad habit of picking at her nails. The gold nail polish is pretty but ever since she was little she’d paint her nails only to chip away at it. In class, at church, during commercials… It gives her hands something to do, takes her mind off of the empty. It got even worse after her parents died. The house got so quiet. She does her best not to right now, however, because it would muck up her cover. Her and her partner have some information gathering to do of the sly variety-at a weapons dealing night club of all places-and a dealer’s ho doesn’t pick her nail polish off.
She shifts her weight a little while she waits for him, wondering if she feels a draft on her butt for real or if she’s just being self-conscience, when someone lets out a whistle from behind her. “Don’t tell me you’re all dressed up with no place to go,” he jokes from a little down the hall and she chuckles as she turns around.
That chuckle explodes into a full whahahaha!! when she sees him. Chris is decked from head to toe in Zebra stripes-literally: his hair is streaked and so are his shoes, and the Crazy Plum Purple spandex shirt is killing her right now. Killing her so hard she begins to double over, and while a part of her mind is screaming Hey! You’re gonna fall out of your shirt! she doesn’t really care because that? That is hilarious. He rolls his eyes with a nod.
“Oh yeah,” he says with a grin because her laugh is contagious. “Laugh it up. Yuk-yuk. We’ll see who’s knee slapping when we get to the club.” She mutters something about smearing her make up and he chuckles, letting the shutgun drop to one hand as he reaches out with the other. “Careful. You might trip in those.”
The three inch heels are a little hard to keep balance in when she’s clocking in a nine on the Richter Scale from laughter, but she’s worn their kind before. She is a girl after all. She takes his hand anyway though, and then starts patting at her wig. “Is it crooked?” She asks. “Did I mess it up? Should I go back in?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know,” and points to his head, “This is spray paint, don’t ask me anything about hair.” He has her cracking up again and continues. “And Jill’s giving me no help at all; she throws hers in a ponytail and calls it good. Sometimes. She braided it once… I think.” Sheva swats at him, trying to calm down and he shuts his mouth, proud of himself. People have been worried about him for a while now, and to be honest, she’s been one of them. But after a month off of sleeping until three in the after noon and just chilling with Claire and a few friends, he feels a lot better. Sheva can tell. He’s back to normal. Well. 'Normal.' Whatever’s normal for Chris Redfield.
After checking his watch, Chris swings the shotgun up over his shoulder, a signal that it’s time to get going. As they move down the metal and concrete corridor (why they made them get dressed in the lower levels she has no earthly idea), her heels click, her earrings clink, her bracelets chime, and his shirt and jacket pull and relax, and his shoes squeak. They fall into another fit of giggles.
There’s something a little… off about their laughter but it doesn’t stop Sheva from leaning forward or Chris from throwing his head back. They take these silly missions now on purpose: it’s a good break from the death and tragic. All Chris has looked at for the last decade is the monster that’s in all of us and its clearly taking its toll. So she keeps an eye out for these missions, needles for them. They’re fun and mindless, which seems to be what he needs right now. Of course, her actions aren’t entire selfless either: she doesn’t want to end up like him. He’s doing okay now, but the truth is that Chris is reaching that age where agents retire and he has no plans to. He burned out years ago but keeps plugging away with energy he doesn’t have. This job is killing him and even knowing all of that, she still respects and admires and aspires, and that terrifies her. So she grabs all the wacky and fun missions she can to help keep herself level. If she’s going to be the next Chris Redfield, she’s going to need a healthy balance for energy; Sheva doesn’t have an arch-nemesis to champion against or a lost love to scourer the globe for to keep her batteries (semi)charged.
So they get to dress up and be different people every now and again. Tonight, he’s a sleazy and over confident weapons dealer and she’s his dedicated, money sucking ho. It’s not really that bad.
It’s not like the alternative is doing them any favours.
--=--
There we are. That felt nice. PLEASE ACCEPT MY APOLOGY D8