He looks down slightly at her: her head is bumping lightly against his chest, her mouth open. A sudden rush of remorse and protectiveness floods him, and he says gently, "It'll be okay. I'll take care of you." Her skin is as soft as a child's, and he tightens his arms slightly, hugging her closer to him. He can feel the feverish warmth of the parts of her exposed skin on his own, and it drives that sense of self-loathing and worry even deeper.
He should have come and helped the younger members, he should have done his duty as backup man, he should have done his duty as an older man, he should have been there. Richard was barely out of college; 23 at most, and he hadn't deserved to die like that, especially not after having been wounded before. Jill was only a few years older, but she still had youth clinging to her frame and face, her movements.
And they were his teammates.
God help him. God help them.
Jill had gone, if possible, even more lax in his arms, and despite him having a good sixty pounds on her, he was beginning to feel his arms burn from the effort of carrying her. God, he hated getting old; if he were Chris's age, he could have done this and ran to Raccoon to get help afterwards.
As if to counteract the fatigue, he pulls Jill in closer, and now he can hear his own breath- a little ragged, a little thin from panic. "C'mon, Jill. Pull through. You're a strong girl," he murmurs encouragement at the top of her head, slumped against his chest. For a terrifying second, he can't remember which way to go, as he casts frantically up and down the interminably long hallways.
A growl of frustration lends to his bear-like appearance, and he follows his instinct as he turns to take one path.
Thankfully, it doesn't prove him wrong.
Jill's lips have turned blue by the time he sets her down on the musty little bed in the room lined with chemicals. Her head lolls to the side as he lowers her gingerly, and he pauses to take either side of her face in his big, calloused hands and right it so that her air flow isn't obstructed. Jill was a bit old to be his kid, but having two daughters had fostered an already fatherly nature, and now he can't help but feel that familiar push of guardianship.
Wesker had given him the formulas for antidotes for a good number of creatures in the area for Barry's own safety, hastily scribbling from memory on his notepad. And now, Barry pauses for a second, his resolve to save Jill faltering as he remembers his charge.
He looks over his shoulder, and the helplessness and vulnerability written in the lines of her limbs are more than enough to quash the hesitation. Even from across the room, he can see her chest rise and fall from her labored breathing, and it sends a little cold chill of self-reproach and fear for her down his chest and back.
He mixes the antidote as the paper instructs, and even in his hurry, he doesn't fumble the materials once, following through the endeavor with the same deliberate care as he does much of the rest of his actions. That same slow carefulness is present in the motion of shifting Jill's body to get to her arm, and the injection that follows. As the needle pierces her rubbery skin, his eyes flick up to scan her face, brows knitting.
God let it work- please let it work. Please don't let me be too late.
He takes Jill's small hand in his own, glances towards the door assessing for enemies, and waits.
When color floods back into her face, and her breath evens out, and her limbs gather their regular spryness, Barry stands. The expression on his face is nothing if not concerned, and regret tightens his mouth and eyes. Jill gives a big, breathy sigh, and her eyelids flutter, her limbs shifting.
He takes a slow step back, still watching her, and then turns, head down and shoulders forward in that characteristic, bulling gait of his, and walks out the door.