Em

You were a step up from a kitchen wench in a soiled russet dress near worn to rags, that was true enough. But you’re not sure the leers from hungry filthy guards, the occasional cup of watered down wine, and long hot hours of work are worth the meagre station.

But you’ve never really known anything else.

A harsh bellow of your name roused you to attention. It bowled its way to you from the doorway to the kitchen’s. Shattering off the stone in its displeasure.

Standing and stretching out your legs was a welcome relief. Taking your hands from the cloudy water and drying them on a rag. You leave your fellow maid, Alssa, with your workload.

You trudge inside. The heat sticking your thin dress to your back. Hair coated in long strings to your neck. You huff, holding your skirts, and trudging down the uneven steps, sloping drunk with age and gravity, to the bustling, noisy kitchens.

The wall of heat is suffocating when you walk in. It’s a dank cellar with no windows and no natural light. The corners crawl with dirt and rodents. The air fugged with heat and spice. Continuous chopping fills the air.

Candles shake light on numerous surfaces. Some glimmer with blood and entrails from animals being plucked or carved. Some where bread is being rolled. A huge stove where iron pots are stirred over tongues of flame.

Cook is waiting on you. Darria. A permanently cross, elder woman, with meaty arms, numerous chins and jowls, and a grey scowl that could curdle milk. Salt and pepper hair scooped back to sag like old ribbons off her craggy face. Concealed in a linen cap.

“Raela is sick. I’m short a girl. You’re the most presentable. You’ll do.” She snips at you.

“Do for what?” You ask. A simple enough request. But none of the ladies here are quite used to the boldness of your tongue. Time in royal service hasn’t blunted the razor edge of your courage just yet.

“Hells teeth girl.” She curses. Slapping a cloth down on a surface. Fingers caked in dried blood and cooking burns scarred in old rosy flesh up her arms. “To take a tray to a lords room.”

Wafting her cloth in the direction of said tray. Upon sat a flagon of Dornish wine. A goblet. A plate piled high with roast chicken, bread and cheeses.

“Which Lord?” You ask with careful derision.

“The Hound.” She declared. Unfeeling.

She reroutes her attention to wiping down the surface near to her. Ridding it of slimy black blood and chicken guts. Slopping it into a basket on the floor. The red seeping into the cracks of her skin and knuckles.

You sigh. Swallow your dry throat. Because you can’t exactly refuse.

No matter how much stories of his ferocity turn your fellow maiden girls stomachs. You’ve heard tale how he’s cleaved men in half with that sword of his. With no more effort than cutting through a cooked ham. A fierce swing of his huge arms.

He was impossible to miss at court. A towering plinth of armour by the spoilt boy princes side. All growl and bark. A nasty bite too. Lurching along in big strides like a leashed stray in clanking armour.

Always he was armed to the canines. Swords. Daggers. Eyes stormy cynical and hunting for blood. A scowl that could chill hell - made more severe by the twisted flesh of his half burned face. Covered only slightly by an unruly mane of dark waves.

And you were apparently late to deliver his supper.

Starving dogs only made them crueler.

You’ve no choice in it. You keep promising yourself you won’t walk into danger; so careful to creep silent in the shadows to avoid it. Yet here you are; apparently welcome to drop food into its lap.

“Of course.” You come for the tray and hoist it into your hands. The edge digging into your middle.

“Step lively.” She barks at you. “Wouldn’t do to keep the big brute waiting. Lest he knock the pretty teeth out your head.” She threatens. A smirk showing her twisted teeth. Ill delight.

“Excellent.” You remark archly. Under your breath.

If she heard your sniping comment, she doesn’t show it. Too busy you suppose. Feeding near 200 people was a trial on its own right. As she reminded you all so often.

You make for the steps and begin the climb from out the warm twisted bowels of the keep. Air becomes clearer. More civilised. Threaded with roses rather than dirt and sweat. You see gardens and gilded rooms. Climbing flowers reaching round yellow stone columns. Footsteps echoing off tile and courtyard. There’s pattering fountains and pleasant oasis gardens to stroll in.

You pass a group of guards posed outside a door. A royal bedchamber. You feel their glistening eyes wander and climb over you. Like you were juicy quivering prey waiting to be devoured. Some of them call after you. Their words harsh and lewd. You don’t pay them any mind. Let the words roll off your back like beaded water.

Another thing about this cursed keep. You too had to guard your steps. Tread soft as velvet. Keep a shining dagger from a smith in Volantis concealed in your skirts. You never dare invite attention in this poisonous snake den.

You travel along corridors and wind up more stairs. Eventually coming to the hounds lair. Or kennel, as Joffrey often calls it.

Fetch my dog from his kennel.

You get a whiff of the strong deep red wine as you shift the tray and knock upon the door with your elbow. A growl from within tells you to come.

He’s at table when you enter. Blocking out half the light from the window.

Sat curled on a chair at the round table in his room. The chair he occupied pulled back far from the hearth. Almost turned with his back to it. Like he didn’t want to acknowledge it.

Really for one of his station, his room is sparse. Monklike even. Really he’s lucky they didn’t just put straw down for him. Throw him a hambone and keep him chained til they have use of him.

His rooms boasted hardly any decoration. No saffron curtains, and ornaments. No frills or statues like the rest of the knights or golden lannisters rooms you’ve seen. Those lions certainly lived for their fucking gold.

He has one very wide chunky wooden bed. All solid sturdy oak. Thickly carved with a white linen canopy curtain messily tied at all four post corners. Cushions sagging, and covers messed and mushed in the middle.

One trunk at the end of it. Worn. A faint insignia painted on its top. Gold background with three running black dogs.

A chair nudged between the shaded windows. Light spotted in patterns through the wooden shutters. Casting a shaft, one that danced with dust mites onto the floor like spilled cream.

“Took your fucking time. Where’d you go for those shagging chickens girl? Essos?” He growls.

“My apologies ser. We were short a maid.” You apologise. You won’t turn meek. You’ve learnt to keep your back to the door. Be snappy. Be polite and then turn your heel and flee.

He grunts. Inconsequential.

You cross the room and set the tray on the table. Out of habit you take the flagon and pour the wine into the goblet.

Then you discover the reason why every word he says, comes dragged through a vile growl. Why there’s sweat beading on his forehead. How he seems to curl into himself like a wounded animal. Teeth ready to bare and snap.

He’s injured.

His shirt is half pulled off his shoulder, fingertips left blood smears in the linen, he’s trying with fumbling too-big fingers to mend a jagged wound to his shoulder. Lacerated at the edges. Not a clean sword wound. It looked more like a bite. You could see indents of teeth where they’ve made their home deep in his trapezius.

You put the flagon down. He snatches hungrily for the goblet. Blood coming in slow thick rivulets down his shoulder. He wipes at it with woven cloth.

He grunts in pain again. A low simmer of a growl coming under his breath.

That’s when you let your eyes and mouth stray; just enough. Just when you were busy being careful.

“That will fester if you stitch it up without washing it.” You warn.

“Don’t bother, maid.” He snarls. Hiding his pain behind a shield of anger, and then a wall of aggression. He was more shielded than a fortress. Wine sunk its heavy spices onto his breath

You take a step towards him. “I’ve tended wounds before, Ser-“ you begin to explain.

The chair scrapes the floor like a dying wail when he stands abruptly. Strange for a man of his size to move so quiet as he did.

His whole body engulfs your attention. Designed to intimidate. Wide shoulders. Huge chest. He couldn’t half move quick - sharp. Ruthless as a hot knife through butter - when he needed too. In his case you’re sure it was life or death; the matter of being quick on his feet.

“I don’t care if you’ve fucked the shagging maester before. I don’t need help.” He spells out plainly. Grunting every word harsh. They fall like rocks from his mouth. With crushing intent.

His shadow fell over you. Big as a damn grizzly bear. Made you think of the tales spun to you as a child, of when they used to pit bears against lions in the arena for sport. Big. Lumbering. Ferocious temper and teeth to match. Carpeted in dark fur. Get on the wrong side of them they’d maul you to shreds.

That seems to apply to him too.

You couldn’t fail to notice he was as hairy as one. His shirt had fallen even wider from his shoulders. Over his sternum now. The wide neck draping down over his shoulder. Nearly down to his pectoral.

His chest was carpeted in dark hair. Every muscle was crude and rounded. He was so widely built, you couldn’t take your eyes away.

“I need wine.” He snatched the flagon and poured more into his cup. Nearly sloshed it over the edge.

“Having a belly full of wine won’t help you stitch it.” You point at his shoulder. Voice laced with derision.

He gave you a look that was all thunder and cut glass. His hair shading his ruined eye. “Works fine for me.”

“I’ve seen bigger bastards than you, succumb to wounds smaller than that.” You warn.

He twisted his face into a sneer. Lip curled. Showed his blunt teeth. The ruined side of his face twitched and pulled with it. He sinks back into the chair. It’s hard to know what groans more. The wood or him.

“Aye?” He challenges.

“I’m big fucker. Tougher to kill.” He assures you. Grunting as he tries to mop away more blood.

“I can’t imagine the prince would be pleased to lose his loyal hound to infection.” You intone darkly. He glares.

“Shall I send for maester Pycelle?” You offer.

“Fucking doddery cunt.” He growls. You take it as a ‘no.’ He continues trying to stab at his shoulder with a curved needle and slowly reddening thread.

You turn. Taking his onerous mood and the lull in the speech as your queue to leave. He didn’t exactly strike you as one who waved or dismissed servants at his leisure. He was high-born but he didn’t act it.

His voice stops you when you hand touched the door.

“Not seen you here before, little maid.” He snarls the name at you like it’s filth. He grits his jaw around the words.

You step back. Face him across the room.

“I joined not sennight ago. Ser. Whilst the King was away in Winterfell.”

He grunted again. You come to realise that’s how he answers most questions.

“What kind of maid knows how to sew bloody wounds and pretty dresses?” He seeks. Dark look blazing your way. Searching into places you’d rather he didn’t dig.

A true hound with a bone to pick.

“One who hasn’t spent all her life in a wretched slum in flea bottom, living on scraps.” You answer snappily.

“And where has the little maid spent her life?” He asks.

You frown. Tilting your head. He barks at you. Tried to intimidate you. Bites your head off at every word. And now he’s asking after your life before this keep. The duality set your head spinning.

“The North. Living on scraps.” You tell.

“Where?”

“The cold bit.” You jest. Eyes narrowed.

“Your accent isn’t northern.” He points out.

“No. I’ve worked for many houses since I left the north.”

The slightest curl of his lip tells you he almost found that comical. He almost had a reaction. Almost let a huff of amusement crash through his chest and out his nose.

“You stitched up lots of men then. Big northern fuckers too.” He stated.

“Aye. And even spitting fury at their worst, they were still more polite than you.”

He laughed. It sounded like stones and grit grinding against each other. An underused noise, you feel.

“We can have this very illuminating conversation or I can leave now and let you bleed and fester to death. Pass me the fucking needle.” You open your hand.

He has the brass balls to look mildly impressed that you, a handmaiden, is daring to raise your voice at him. It makes a healthy change from stares, grimaces, and wailing children who cry at his very monstrous appearance. From people scurrying away from his glares.

“Stubborn wench. Aren’t you. You gonna call me to heel girl?” He challenges.

“Someone has too. Dealing with mullish bastards like you. Hound. As I said, I’m not from the south. I wasn’t raised with pretty manners and a silver spoon like every lady you bow before.” You tell him acidly.

“Yet you got yourself here without those pretty manners.” He snipes.

“I’m a good liar.”

“You’ll need that to survive here.” He warns darkly. Makes your stomach drop to hear it.

“Needle. Dog.” You command.

He sneers. “Least you didn’t call me, Ser.”

The needle glints in the candlelight as he hands it over. It looked a ridiculous implement in his huge fingers. Like something doll sized. You take it gently. Hand brushing against his. Back of his knuckles wearing the same coarse hair as his body.

“You’re not a ser? You’re of the kings guard.” You explain. Coming to his side. Approaching carefully. Some lingering advice of being wary when coming near wounded animals. Keep your hand flat and you won’t loose fingers.

“Not a ser. Didn’t want to take the oath. I’ve seen what knighted ser’s do to small folk like you.” He snaps bitterly. You don’t dive into that one. You knew that well enough yourself.

You shift more stringy hair off his neck. Soaked thick with blood. It still followed a wave.

“You’ve soap? A basin?” You ask.

He jutts his chin across the room where it sat next to a bowl and a smeared cracked mirrror. A small cake of misshapen soap in a wood bowl sat to the side.

You cross to it and lather a fresh cloth in some water with the soap. It’s the simplest. Barely any scent. No decoration or gild to anything. It was clear he preferred living without it. Or wasn’t afforded it. You don’t know which is more likely.

He does a double take when he glances at your back. Eyes gliding over your shoulder blades.

Because a twisted scar knots and tugs across the smooth skin of your back. One he recognised but nowhere near as ugly as his.

Your pain wasn’t born by fire. The flesh looked like it had been torn into. By dagger or tooth. It wasn’t clean or delivered by the sword. Great pulls across the flesh, now knitted back together, skin catching almost silver pink and new in the half light.

You had really survived tougher things.

No missish maiden, indeed. They were ten a penny in this place. Clearly you were forged of greater mettle.

Takes a lot for a person to survive wounds like those. He would know.

You bring the jug back. Set it on the table near him. Pour some into the small soap bowl. Begin to wash and mop at the injury. Water trickling down that large chest. Darkening his breeches and his blood smeared shirt.

You feel him tense. The muscles in his shoulders ruck up. He turns his head away.

“I won’t hurt you.” You reassure. Voice softer than dove feathers.

“Are you soft in the head girl? Look at my face. Think I haven’t been hurt before.” He barks. Teeth gnashing.

“I’ve no desire to add to your collection.” You tell.

You continue mopping blood. He winces, grunts at the sting of the soap.

Mending in silence. You continue mopping blood out the way to see what you’d be stitching. Cleaning as best you could as you went.

He drinks his wine. Rolls the taste in his mouth as he considers you.

You’d stepped awfully close to him. Brave.

Soft hands working at his neck to cleanse. Taking away the rotten ruined flesh. One thing he couldn’t get over; the scent of you that now seemed like it filled the damn room. Filled his damn head.

The salt of clean sweat. Soap. Sunny yellow jasmine. The softness of your body draping under that ridiculous pink dress. Braids tied around your neck. Gathering over your very nice tits. It clung to your hips and legs. Certainly a pretty sight.

Your hair is what fascinated him the most. Fell in soft waves over your back. Redder than cinnamon.

Fell past your shoulders. Twined with the scent of those yellow petals like the damn rest of you.

He wondered if he were to take those locks in his hands, how smooth they’d be. How full of scent they’d be if he put his nose to the crown of your head. Silk and perfume. All things good.

How could he dare touch something soft and kind for once in his life.

His big scarred hands had only ever touched, with the intention of bringing back blood. Only knew how to touch with knives and swords. He knew violence. Dealt it. Lived it. Breathed it.

Grizzled old dogs like him shouldn’t sniff after pretty maids like you.

“You got a name, little maid.” He turns his head. Gaze seeking for hours.

You meet it. Again, brave.

“Aye.”

You give him your name.

That tugs a laugh out him. Like pulling something hewn to a rock.

“That’s a northern cunt name if ever I heard one.”

You scoff. “Do you talk to all the handmaidens like this? Call them cunts…”

“Usually. On a good day.”

“Bet they love that. You must be popular.” you remark dryly.

Everything you’d come to know about southern bred ladies. Like the rest of your fellow handmaids here.

They were all very docile and easily flustered. Weak as doe deer in the presence of any sort of rough behaviour. Life in service scared some of them. Exposure to men and nobility and their true violence.

Some girls came to this keep green as grass to the ways of the world.

You came to it knowing full well. You held no faith in stories of knights and fair maidens anymore. You pitied those who did.

“Run a mile usually. Cower out of here crying. Clutching their pretty little skirts for dear life.”

You contemplate him a long while. Squeezing water out the rag before repeating your bathing.

Watching that big body slumped in his chair. Curling over like an autumn leaf. Hair curling like a curtain over his damaged eye.

Lords was he big.

He took up all the air in the room the way lightning steals ozone. You swear you can smell petrichor and fresh dirt. Though that could be the grit on his boots from the training field.

It’s his face that interests you more. The rough whiskery beard across his jaw and bearing only his pink lips. The sturdiness of a thick black brow whose twin had been burned away. The slight drooping of eyelid where his eye gazes out with nothing but contempt. Stitched himself together with wine and spite. This is a broken man who never disrobes himself for anyone.

Yet here you stand with your hands knotting his very flesh back together.

If you told your fellow maids you’d tended the hound, they really would call you soft in the head.

“You’re not half as frightening as you think you are.” You admit quietly. Starting to thread the needle.

He huffs. Disbelieving.

“Cross swords with me you’ll soon find out.”

That makes you smile.

He doesn’t know why but he cherishes that a little. Making a pretty maid smile. He tucks that somewhere in his big chest. Some secret pocket somewhere only he knew of. So he could take it out again later in a quiet moment and laugh bitterly at how an ugly old dog could make a maid laugh with him - not at him.

“I just wash the linens. Pour wine. And empty the chamber pots. Remember?” You sass.

“That why you got a dagger in your dress, girl.”

Your spine prickles. A hot sweet fluttering coarses through you.

Especially when one big paw of his lurches out and a finger taps to the side of your thigh. Straight onto the hilt of the dagger. He taps it. Sends a shock rippling right through you.

You shift on the spot. Annoyed. Caught out. 

Clever dog.

He winces when you pierce his flesh with the needle.

“I’ve seen worse than you bearing down on me Clegane. Dealt with worse.”

He flashes you the full scarred side of his face. He leered like he should terrify you. A sick smile on his mouth that usually worked in deterring others. “Doubt it.”

“Takes more than the sight of a burn to send me running. If you’re looking to scare me, you’ll be waiting a long wait. I know scaring people gives you joy.”

You concentrate on the stitches you’re making. Pulling the skin taut. Making sure it comes together.

Surprised he didn’t have a squire to help him. Then again, if he didn’t want a title, you doubt they’d offer him a squire for this kind of work.

“Killing gives me more joy.” He insists.

“You must enjoy your orders then. The ones that come screeching out that princelings spoiled brat mouth...”

“Some of them.” He admits.

“But never say that where the walls could have ears.” He warns.

You nod. You know full well what a royal court is. It’s backstabbing snakes and spies and disloyalty disguised as cooperation at every turn. There are those in this castle who would turn on you for very little coin at all. Rife with venom.

People who liked to deal in snide whispers and ill intent. You kept well away. Head down. Did your duties. Cursed the lot of them. 

Fuck the lot of them.

You finish looping the thread into his wound.

His hand finally unclenched from a huge fist on the table. Relaxing if only a little. The way a rock relaxed from the onslaught of rain. Barely.

“There…” You say. Finishing with a knot to hold the stitches well and true.

“Try and wash it with soap and keep it dry if you can. Seven help you it should heal clean.”

He peers around and once more makes a guttural grunt.

Your work was neat. Small stitches that spoke of a practised hand.

You wash your hands in the bowl and take the bloodied rags away. Dispose of the ichor stained water. You leave his needle and thread the soap bowl. Knowing he’d need it again.

“Anything else, my lord?” You ask.

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Certainly.” You fire back.

Gathering yourself to move the used utensils and cloths into your arms.

You made to leave across the room. Light treads creaking across the wheezing floorboards.

He chews his teeth around the words lodged in his throat. They finally birth past his tongue.

“How’d you get that scar. On your back?” He asks. Voice grisly.

Hand on the door. You give him your clever answer before you step through.

Your smile is devastating when you explain.

“Mauled. By a hound.”

You shut the door to his sneering expression. You think you almost hear laughter before the door shuts into place.

-

Some moons later, you trudged back to your room. Fully intending to climb into bed for a handful of hours of sleep if no one caught your attentions.

The kitchen thankfully was dark and empty. The silence laying thick in the keep from outside and within told you that even the rats in the kitchen had gone to sleep too.

You rubbed your eyes. Sluiced in sweat that you’d have to rise early and wash off. Bathe yourself in perfumes and present yourself prettily for your service tomorrow. Run soap and oils through your hair. Make sure your dress was spotless.

You were to be helping see to the Imp on the morrow.

You’d need your wits about you. You’d been warned he was dastardly when he had a mind to be. But he liked cynical girls and sparkling wit. Cook grunted. Said you’d be perfect for him.

You weaved through the labyrinthian corridors where the maids slept. Straw down on the cobblestone floor. Rats clinging to the edge of the halls. You come to your door and the wood whines like a howling gale when you open it.

You were lucky to have the tiny fucking rat trap they called a room to yourself. The maid whose meagre straw bedded pallet stood a hairs width from yours, had wanted to room with another.

You didn’t give two shits. Meant you got some peace and space to breathe when you retired to bed in the small hours. Just when the pink of dawn knocked slanted into your room in rosy lilac hues.

You sunk into the sagging itchy mattress. Only made bearable by thin linen sheets and a semi decent bolster pillow.

The candle on the tiny washstand flickered, melting into a puddle of wonky wax, dripping against the wood. The light cast in flickering tongues up the mouldy mustard walls.

All your earthly belongings heaped in a trunk under your bed. Your very few dresses pegged for dear life on hook in the corner. You hung dried flowers - lavender and jasmine - up to bleach in the sun, in the small spit of a window. Barely enough to shift light into the room that felt more like a cell than decent living quarters.

You hide your earnings in a leather pouch in the wall behind your bed. You know full well maids or little birds come snooping when you’re not there. You sleep with your dagger under your pillow. The lock on your door broken and old. Unserviceable if someone decided to bust their way in.

You lay back in your bed and untie your leather slippers. Your feet raw and throbbing. You sigh with ease. Shoulders straining against the bed.

You’re toeing the line of sleep and consciousness when comes a scuffle at your door. Instantly your hand sinks under your pillow. Snatches for your dagger. Warm in your hand. Deadly.

“Whose there?” You call out. Voice a terrible strain in the silence. It hums. It burns for more.

No answer comes. Just the clank of heavy steps back down the halls. Then you’re left with the silence punctuated by the squeaks of rats outside. Their little nimble tickling footsteps. And the roar of torches that barely light the way.

You open your door. Peering down. Catching the corner of a dirty dark cloak and the back of a dark wavy head as it disappears round the corner with a shifting click of armour.

You look to your feet. There sits a small whetstone. With a sprig of yellow jasmine flowers tied in a clumsy ribbon. Merry yellow and green.

You smile as you turn the stone in your hand. The flowers you lift up to savour their sickly scent.

His way of thanking you. Making sure you always had tools to sharpen your dagger. This was his way of giving you the best safety he could. Perhaps the only way he knew.

He really wasn’t the fearsome grizzled old dog they made him out to be.

"Can't believe you're letting me... do this." Leon whispers, hand spreading over the small of your back as he pushes into you, breath caught in his throat as he sinks into you, heart racing in his ears as you exhale with him.

"Mm... least I can do to thank... you." You mumble, voice coming out muffled from the pillow you've decided to cling to. "As long as you don't tell the RA."

"Oh, of course not." He mutters, eyes rolling to the back of his head as you flutter around him. "You just feel... so... good."

"Good." You mumble, lips parted as you shift slightly to get used to the feeling of him inside of you. You wonder if he knows just how full he's making you feel, the sensation resting at the tip of your throat as you catch your breath. "Go ahead. Go ahead."

Leon starts slow, hand on your back forcing you to arch further, string of curses slipping past your lips as he eventually drunkens himself with the feeling of you around him, hips snapping to meet yours quicker and quicker, desperation reeking off of him as his fingers slide down the skin of your pelvis to brush at your clit. Theat earns him a reaction from you as you tighten around him, gasping as your body shakes from the intensity of the orgasm, Leon following shortly after.

"You think they'll separate rooms for us now?" You grin at him coyly as he forces his eyes away from your back to meet yours.

"God, I hope not." He mumbles. "Even then, they couldn't stop me if I tried."

"Wow, Leon. You're not even going to ask me out? How cruel of you."

He lifts you by the hips, turning you around as you yelp, pressing his forehead to yours as his brows furrow.

"I was getting there."

"They're going to ban co-ed dorming because of us, just watch."

"Then it can be our little secret." He mumbles, lips pressed to yours as you lean back to get comfortable. "Would you like to get breakfast?"

"At the dining hall?" You raise a brow, lip quirked up in amusement.

"Unless you'd like something better?"

You pretend to think, running your hand through his hair, giving it a gentle tug as he tilts his head to blink at you.

"Please?"

"Since you asked so nicely." You hum. "Sweet boy."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." You pinch his cheek. "Mine?"

"Mine." He mumbles back, sighing as he rests his head in your collar.

“She’s also very pretty.” At the roll of Leon’s eyes, Luis tosses back his head in a show of boisterous laughter. “Oh, please. You’re a man with eyes. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“Haven’t really had the time.”

“In that case, I suppose you wouldn’t mind if we got… closer.”

“Be my guest.”

“You say that, but I’m sensing some hostility in your tone.”

He tries to bite his tongue. Really, he does. But with the heat of underground and the high-stakes stress of the mission and his temporary partner making advances toward his permanent one—

“I really should’ve left you in that sleeping bag.”

Luis brushes off the hostility with infuriating ease. Just a shrug of lazy agreement and a show of pearly teeth. “Does she know?”

“Know what?”

“That you like her.”

He thinks to argue, to defend himself, but Luis possesses a sharpness befitting a scientist… Biologist. Whatever he is.

“No, she doesn’t.”

It’s almost painful to admit, to say aloud. To recognize that he once again has proven himself lovesick and naive. He thought he was done with it all the first time. Butterflies in his chest, the insufferable longing, the inevitable heartbreak.

But it’s you. His partner, his long-time friend, his—well. He won’t say love. That would mean finally admitting it to himself.

You trained together.

You fight together. 

You bleed together.

You survive together.

During your first meeting, you bloodied up his nose then laughed in his face, then hand-scrubbed the stains from his shirt right outside the dorms in a show of apology. 

He remembers the sleepless nights, and the piss-poor rations, and your complaints about the weather. 

You’ve always been there, tucked away in some far-off corner, slumped against his side, urging him along. To keep going, to keep fighting.

Who else but you?

“You have to tell her. You know that, right?”

Maybe Luis sees something in him. Something that makes the man lower his voice, to speak with such bone-deep passion.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? It’s quite simple.”

“No. It’s not.”

“Yes. It is.” Luis suddenly halts, and Leon accepts his fate. “We should practice.”

“… Practice.”

“For your grand confession, of course. Our lady deserves something proper, from the heart.”

“I’m a little more worried about—“

“Yes, yes, the president’s daughter. It’ll only take a second.”

Ashley Graham is going to die, all because this strange, charismatic man wants to entertain hypotheticals.

Still, Leon relents.

“Only a second.”

“Fantastic. Okay, I’ll play you.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“But shouldn’t I play me?”

Luis sighs. “You are impossible.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The two men stare at each other, neck-deep in a battle of wills.

Leon breaks first.

“Fine. You win.”

Like the flip of a switch, Luis falls back into an attitude of ease, and flashes a teasing grin. “So, it would be best to do this after you’ve rescued her from the clutches of los ganados.”

“She doesn’t need rescued, Luis.”

“Just play along, alright?” Leon twitches his shoulders in a lazy shrug of agreement, and the other man continues, pacing back and forth along the path. “As I was saying: we burst into the room where our lovely lady has been… residing. After an explosive firefight (which I will let you take the glory for), the two of you reunite in a tender display of affection.”

Luis pauses. Something about dramatic effect.

“That’s when you take her into your arms and confess. I’ve thought of you every moment we were apart, and I realize now how foolish I’ve been. My heart beats for you, and you alone. If we survive this, allow me the pleasure of taking you to dinner. And then you kiss. The end.”

Leon blinks. It’s all he can do, really. The scenario is so absurd that in any other situation he would laugh himself to tears. 

“And that… works for you?”

“Like a dream.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“You don’t have to recite it word-for-word. It’s more of a guideline, you see.”

Still, Leon stands there and thinks.

This would never work. Not on you. You appreciate simplicity, have always found comfort in bare minimums. An unfortunate side effect of military life. 

But if he strips away the flowery language and trims the fat, it could work. It’s not like he doesn’t need the help where you’re concerned. 

“I’ll think about it,” Leon says, and they continue on.

When he sees you next, you kneel inside a branched-off cave, inspecting boxes and barrels. Some of the lids are broken off, others caved in to expose the contents inside. Just behind you sits three sticks of strapped-together dynamite.

The heart inside his chest threatens to spill between his ribs at the sight. Everything looks a little brighter, fuzzy at the edges.  

Luis nudges him hard in the ribs, nods over to you with wide eyes. A silent scream of say something!

“About time you showed up, Leon.” They turn to look at you as you wipe the dust from your shirt then heave out a sigh. “Hello, Luis.”

The man in question saunters over to where you stand, grin wide and wolfish.

“Ah, mi señorita.” He presses a kiss to the back of your palm, and you smile. “¿Estás bien?”

Something bitter coats Leon’s tongue.

“Sí, pero este ganado...”

You step aside to reveal a man slumped beneath a broken box, chest pockmarked with bullet wounds.

“How’d you get here?” Leon asks, cutting a quick eye to Luis and the hand he wraps around your shoulder.

The hand that curls tighter, a jesting lilt to the other man’s voice as he says, “Oh, come on. What matters is that we’re all together now.”

“One big, happy family.” You gift Leon a smile that burns bright as sunshine, impossibly warm. Like he’s been caught in a great blizzard and the mere sight of you chips away at all the lingering frost. “Right, Leon?”

You feel like sanctity, a blinding light at the end of a crumbling tunnel. A buoy, a deep-rooted redwood, an altar, the prayer itself. 

This village doesn’t know a goddamn thing about worship.

“Right.”

Luis leads you from the cave as Leon grabs the dynamite, arm slung heavy around your shoulders. He speaks to you, simple small talk, questions concerning your background.

He asks your name.

“Sorry. Only Leon’s allowed to know that.”

“Oh, you wound me. I thought we were friends.”

“Let’s get rid of this cult, and then we’ll talk.”

“That is music to my ears.”

If Leon didn’t know better, he’d think his skin green at this point. Something festers between his ribs, a viscous tar that chokes at his throat. Leaves him speechless and sullen.

He hates it. Hates the way you render him to useless emotion, so powerful and overwhelming.

He should be past this by now. Over it.

But it’s you, and you make him stupid.

“Unfortunately,” you duck away from Luis’s touch and move toward the entrance of the cavern, “I’ll have to catch you two later. There’s information I still have to collect.”

“Now? Really?” Leon asks, feet following you on instinct. You’re a team. Always have been. Where else should he be but at your side?

“This is what I came here to do.”

“But what if you—“

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“You know I will. That’s half the job.”

You smile at him again, until Luis clears his throat to redirect your attention.

“Might I suggest a short farewell? I can stand… somewhere else. Over there.” He stares at Leon, raises his brows in silent prodding.

Oh. His heartfelt confession. Right. 

“This place is dangerous,” Luis continues. “You never know what could happen.”

You meet Leon’s eye and nod in agreement. “Right. Yeah.”

Luis throws him a thumbs up before slinking away to the other side of the cavern, lingering somewhere out of sight.

Leon turns to you and clears his throat. Adjust the fit of his gloves. Tightens the straps of his body armor.

He’s nervous, and he’s doing a shit job at hiding it.

“So, uh. Comms still working?”

“Yeah.”

“What about guns? Have enough ammo?”

“Loaded and ready.”

“And you’re sure you aren't hurt.”

“I’m fine. Seriously.”

“You’re sure.”

You lift a hand to rest against his bicep, lightly squeezing. An attempt to reassure, comfort.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “You’re acting weird.”

“Am I?”

You level a glare at him, and he stiffens.

Because he is acting weird. There’s a certain discomfort to the air, a tension that cracks the smooth edges of his aura. And you notice. Of course you do. You know him better than anyone, and the arms-length conversation he currently holds you at has tipped you off. 

“Did something happen with Luis?”

“No. It’s just been a long day.”

He can’t do it. Not now. Not when you look at him like this, a dissection of atoms and bone marrow.

You step closer, almost chest to chest, and his head begins to spin. A stifling heat rises to his face.

You speak in whispers. “Is it because he’s been flirting with me? ‘Cause listen, I won’t let that distract me from the mission. He said it himself: that’s just how he is.”

“No, that’s not—“

“Then what is it? I know you. Something happened.”

“Have dinner with me.” The words rush out. He doesn’t think, just speaks, and his tongue burns with regret, but he can’t stop talking. “After we get out of this place and take Ashley back to her dad, we should have dinner.”

Your eyes roam his face, and you say nothing. He swallows thick, shifts on his feet with a crunch of gravel that cracks loud amongst the silence.

His grand confession, little more than word vomit. Truly, it isn’t a confession at all. You eat dinner together all the time. Hell, you sleep in the same bed sometimes, share blankets. You’ve seen each other naked.

You make him stupid, make him feel young again—a flash of red, a manipulation, a cable car kiss.

But you don’t make him feel the way she did. Your affections hold no ulterior motive, no means to an end. You care because you simply do, and he doesn’t know how to cope with that.

He should try again.

“I was worried about you while you were gone. I’m too used to having you with me, I guess.” He hopes you’ll understand, read between the lines, catch the things he says and the things he can’t yet. He shakes his head. “What I’m trying to say is: I had to live in a world without you, and I never want to do that again.”

You take a moment to process, simply stare at him, into his eyes, and he hopes you see that he’s trying. That he means what he says.

“You… oh. Oh. You’re asking me on a date?”

He exhales a laugh, and his lips curl into a tender smile. “Yeah.”

He braces for the rejection—a wince, maybe a frown, maybe you might laugh in his face. Maybe you’ll request a transfer, another partner as soon as you reach HQ. And he’ll be okay with that. He’ll have to be.

Your gaze lowers, as if searching for something in the fabric of his shirt. “I didn’t think you cared about me like that.”

“You have no idea.”

“And you don’t either, apparently.” Your lips stretch wide into a sheepish grin, and you scrub a thumb over his cheek. Over the smear of soot that he never bothered to wipe away. “I thought my hints were pretty good, but apparently not.”

“You were dropping hints?”

You laugh, rest a hand against the body armor covering his chest, and he thinks he might die. Genuinely, truly die. “Yeah. I guess I should’ve just said something. Communication and all that.”

“To be fair, they never taught us that in training.”

You toss your head and tug him closer by the hem of his shirt. “Just hurry up and kiss me before you go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Your lips meet, and although your laughter offsets the angle, and you’re both covered in a layer of grime, and he stumbles over a rock at one point, it’s sweet and tender and all the dreams he’s had over the years could never ever compare to this—you, tangible and warm and beautiful, returning his affection.

He should pinch himself later.

He pulls away and your chest expands on inhale, heavy and breathless, and you look at him like he hangs the stars in your sky, and he knows he doesn’t fare much better. 

“Maybe we should just stay here,” he says, mouth stretching into a smile. “Make up for lost time.”

“That’s tempting, but you kinda have a cult to destroy. And we can’t forget the president’s daughter.”

A thought crosses his mind, then passes by again, then sticks. He recalls what Luis said, something about being territorial, and he knows it’s weird and possessive—

But the curve of your neck is right there, and the urge won’t leave him.  

“Can I do something, then? Before we go?”

“…Now you have me curious.”

You allow him to tilt your head back, a forefinger soft beneath your chin, and his lips press to your neck. Open-mouthed kisses that leave you sighing. Then he suckles at the heavy thump of your pulse, and something coils in the pit of his stomach.

He pulls away and meets your low-lidded gaze. 

“Hickeys? Really?”

A mottled discoloration against your complexion, still slick with spit beneath torchlight.

“In case anybody tries to get handsy.”

“Like who? Los ganados?”

“And others.”

You smack the back of your palm against his arm, and he grins. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of Luis.”

He shrugs, watches as you laugh. As your nose scrunches and your teeth gleam and your eyes shape to crescents.

--------------------

“Wow… that’s… good?” you told him, lying through your teeth, thinking about how you got yourself into this predicament.

Leon had ushered you down the winding path of the village outskirts, the two of you trying to maneuver around a pervasive awkward silence after your initial meeting.

When Leon wasn’t actively trying to intimidate you, he was reserved. Almost… shy?

To break the tension, you had asked if he invited all of his visitors home.

His reply?

“Just the pretty ones.”

You laughed at that, rolling your eyes, and he rubbed the back of his neck with a chuckle before growing more serious.

“This is the first time in a decade I’ve actually talked to someone. Most people… run away before they start asking questions.” His eyes shifted over to you as he added, “As they should. You’re a special case, apparently.”

You scoffed. “You scare them away, though. On purpose. Not my fault I saw through it.”

“Well, it’s for their own good. And my peace of mind. You really managed to catch me off guard.” 

“It’s a skill few possess,” you replied with a teasing grin.

He clicked his tongue in response before leading you up to a house with large front double doors. “Home sweet home.”

You released your hold on his arm, watching as he opened them and swept his hand forward, offering to let you walk in first. 

What a gentlemonster, you joked to yourself.

You nodded and made your way inside, sliding your backpack off your shoulders and setting it down against the wall before taking in the decently sized space. It was pretty nice, though bare of decorations and a bit worn. Must be great not having to pay rent.

“Mi casa es su casa,” he told you, closing the doors.

Shutting out the day, you came to realize just how dark the place was. Even the windows did little to aid your sight, as the sun was beginning to set. 

“Uh, Leon?”

“Yeah?”

Those glowing red eyes were trained on you, even more pronounced in the shaded room. “Is there a light in this place? Or do you just… live like this?”

“Shit,” he hissed, breezing past you to a cabinet and pulling out an array of white candles and a box of matches, setting them on the dining table in front of you. “Yeah, I can kinda… see in the dark.”

He opened the small box and tried to carefully pluck a match from inside, struggling to gain purchase with his claws on the tiny wooden handle.

“Let me,” you offered, gently tugging out his hand and grabbing a match. “And night vision, huh? That sounds useful.”

He seemed genuinely shocked by the action, eyes widened slightly, before clearing his throat and taking a step back to let you strike the match and light the surrounding candles. “Uh, yeah. Guess so.”

Once the candles were lit, covering the room in a soft yellow glow, you gave him a smile. “So, you were saying about dinner?”

“Right, I’ll get on that. Sit tight.”

That was an hour ago.

And now you sat with a plate in front of you, just finished chewing a tentative forkful of the charred hunk of meat placed there.

You watched Leon eat his own in one bite, simultaneously uneased by the way his sharp teeth shredded the morsel to bits in mere seconds, and fascinated.

Leon pulled a face as he swallowed, sighing deeply. “No need to lie. That was awful.”

“Sorry. I really tried to like it,” you said with an awkward laugh.

“Don’t be. I’m a little rusty in the kitchen. Been a long time since I’ve had company for dinner, you can imagine.” He shrugged, “And if I’m being honest, even as a human, I was never really good at cooking. Much harder with these.”

He held out his large hands, and you stared at the black claws that seemed to extend straight from his fingertips, their edges like daggers. Your gaze remained on them for a few moments before you rose it back to his face.

“I’m guessing you eat your meat raw, then?” 

His eyes flicked away from you and he seemed almost ashamed. “Yeah. I didn’t, at first. Tried to keep up with cooking. But I found it easier—and tastier—to eat it… fresh. I’m not human anymore and it’s not like it can make me sick. Nothing can, actually.”

“Ah. And how does one… find that out?” you knew the answer would unsettle you, but asked him anyway. It must have been morbid curiosity that drove you.

He looked uncomfortable at your questioning, and you saw his tail swish almost irritably behind him on the stool he sat upon. “I’m not sure you want to know.”

You bit your lip, feeling guilty for your nosiness. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me. But I won’t judge you for it.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “You’d be smarter if you did. You just met me, after all. Who's to say I didn’t lure you here to eat you because I like to toy with my food?” 

“What are you, the big bad wolf?” you taunted, unconvinced. 

He leaned forward across the table, a long tongue sliding along his fangs as he stared you down, replying in a low voice that sent a shiver up your spine, “I could be. Don’t forget you can always start running, little rabbit.”

You swallowed, trying to keep the nerves that twisted in your gut at bay. “I reiterate, no one has gone missing here in ten years. You’re not munching on anybody.”

“No one who’s been reported. You’d be surprised how many drifters are in the world.” His claws were now splayed on the wooden surface before you, digging into it.

You being you—a fool of the highest degree—placed your hand over his, hoping he didn’t grab your arm and sink his teeth into it. “You’re not scaring me off, Leon. And we made a deal, remember? You owe me for being willing to keep my mouth shut.”

He appeared dazed as he focused on your palm pressed to his knuckles, letting out a breath as he pulled away.

“You’re stubborn.” There was a faraway look in his eye as he added, “Reminds me of someone I know… Knew.”

“Someone good, I hope?”

He grinned, the already stretched skin of his mouth somehow pulling further. “The best.”

There was a tension between you that you couldn’t name, just looking at each other, when a loud scratching noise from the front door startled you.

“What the hell is that?” you questioned lowly, your vision zeroing in on the concerning sound.

Leon stood, looking unbothered as he strode over to the door, explaining simply, “Just Wolfie.” 

You looked at him as if he lost his mind, standing from your chair and backing towards the corner of the room. “Wolfie?”

Before you could protest, he flung open the door and a flash of white fur came barreling into the house, black feathers flying through the air.

You yelped as it rushed straight to you, closing your eyes and bracing for an impact that never came.

You peeked down through your fingers and saw a large white wolf-dog sitting in front of you, its tail wagging as it offered you the thing in its mouth.

“Good boy, bringing me a crow,” Leon praised in a strangely cute voice coming from… whatever the hell he was. It made something in you flutter. 

He walked over to you, leaning forward to pull the dead bird from the dog’s mouth, holding it by its neck as he inspected it. “Now that’ll be a good midnight snack.”

The dog nuzzled your leg, and you bent to pet him, trying to ignore the blood that stained his snout (and now your pants). You noticed the gray hairs that decorated his white fur.

Oh, you’re an old little man, you thought, ruffling the dog’s thick coat.   

Disregarding the implications of your observation, you decided to poke fun at Leon’s naming skills instead, saying, “Wolfie, huh? How original.”

Leon hung the bird on a rope by its feet in the kitchen, turning to face you with a roll of his crimson eyes. “Don’t start.”

You giggled and he seemed to smile at the sound before glancing at the table and grimacing.

“Sorry about dinner, by the way. That was the last of my meat, unless you want to eat the crow. I might let you cook it, though.”

“It’s okay, I brought plenty of food in my bag.”

“Still, I really suck at this whole host thing.”

“Not threatening to eat the guests would be a great start to fixing that,” you teased.

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he replied sarcastically. 

Leon took your plate and placed it on the floor, letting “Wolfie” scarf down your uneaten meal. He stroked the dog on the head lovingly, and despite how odd it was to witness the arachnid-like creature interact with a household pet in such a way, it was somehow sweet.

“Livestock,” he said after a moment, still crouched before his canine friend.

“What?”

“How I found out I liked raw meat.”

“I see.” 

He glanced up at you, then, continuing, “The villagers had livestock. Cows, pigs, chickens. Most of them were killed when the town dogs were turned by the Plagas. After I cleared out the parasites, I planned on keeping a few of the farm animals around, for eggs and milk, you know?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I tried. But then I went a few days without eating, the wildlife in the area having fled during the chaos. There was nothing to hunt. Even the fish seemed to be hiding. I… I blacked out. Woke back up digging my claws into a half-eaten pig, surrounded by the bodies of the other dead livestock. I guess I—I guess I went into a hunger frenzy and slaughtered them all. Thank god I hadn’t found Wolfie at that point. I worry what would have happened if he were there.”

Your eyes widened at his confession, visibly stiffening up in horror.

He noticed your shift in demeanor and seemed to deflate, sighing miserably. “It hasn’t happened since. As long as I have something to eat every couple of days, I’m not a threat to you.”

Having witnessed him devour a chunk of venison just minutes prior, you relaxed marginally. “Still, a shame you wasted all that meat.”

He scrunched his nose before responding, “Actually… I didn’t waste it.”

“Wow, got quite the appetite, I take it?”

“Yes, but not that much.”

His evasive answers confused you. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, I didn’t want to lose myself again after that, so what bodies were left, I skinned and chopped up, putting them in the icebox. But then I ran out of fuel and couldn’t use the generator anymore. The meat went rancid. I was going to throw it out, obviously, but I was getting hungry again and I just… ate it anyway.”

You made a disgusted face. “Yum. I guess if you can’t get sick, you wouldn’t have to worry about food poisoning. Bet it didn’t taste great, though.”

“It didn’t, but meat is meat. I could stomach it and it kept me from going feral again. Small price to pay.” He sniffed as he stood up. “You have every reason to be afraid of me. Disgusted. I know I am.”

He looked away from you, then, his tail and appendages drooping in obvious distress.

You took a shaky exhale and stepped toward him, grabbing his arm and turning him to face you again, the confusion at your willingness to be closer to him after that conversation clear in his red irises. 

“I’ll be honest, you make me nervous,” you admitted. “But you’re obviously trying your best to hang on to the more human side of you. And I’ve never met a living cryptid before, so I think I just need time to adjust. That’s all.”

“Could I even be considered a cryptid anymore if you know who and what I am now?” he questioned with a light chuckle.

“I guess not to me, personally. But to the rest of the world? Still a cryptid, I’m afraid.”

“I’d rather not be anything to the world. Except maybe a long-forgotten ghost. Would make my life easier that way.”

“Well, luck’s on your side, cos with how popular my paranormal blog is becoming, I might be able to convince people this place is a bust and they’ll hopefully lose interest in El Escorpion altogether,” you offered.

“You’d be willing to do that for me?”

“For the right price, of course,” you told him, a sly smile on your face.

He snorted. “Of course.”

Things seemed to ease after that, the two of you chatting well into the night after you chowed down on some of the food you packed yourself.

He divulged very little about his life before the transformation, opting to tell you funny stories of his antics in the wilderness instead. He asked you about your work and even after you warned him that once you started rambling, it was hard for you to stop, he encouraged you to anyway, seeming to listen intently.

You managed to circle back to why you ended up there with him in the first place, asking him about his run-ins with the occasional visitor. After describing his side of the various encounters, you both got a kick at how dramatically the others told their version of events, and how his cryptid name came to pass.

“The Scorpion, huh?” he asked in amusement, glancing at his own tail and appendages. “Guess they’re not far off.”

Eventually, the candles started burning down and a yawn bubbled up in your throat as you explained controversies in the cryptozoology community, like how some scholars speculated that certain cryptids are actually just very old B.O.W.s.

“As interesting as this has been,” Leon started after you let out another aggressive yawn, “I think it’s time to call it a night.”

“And I think I have to agree,” you said with a smile. “Where’re you putting me?” 

“C’mon, I’ll show you.” 

With that, he led you up the stairs, Wolfie hot on your heels. He took you to the door of the only bedroom in the building, opening it up to reveal a massive and very comfortable-looking canopy bed. 

You turned to Leon, confused. “There’s only one bed.”

He chuckled, plopping down on a blanket folded up on the floor next to his furry companion. “You take it. I’m good here.”

“You… sure?” you questioned tentatively.

“Positive.”

You nodded, smiling at him, and kicked off your shoes, climbing onto the mattress.

You watched him in shock as he fully retracted his appendages into his back.

He turned to catch you staring, eyebrows raised. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

You cringed, feeling ashamed you got caught ogling him and his intriguing, monstrous form. “Sorry, just didn’t… expect that.”

“Never met a cryptid til now and you already have expectations?” he joked, leaning on an elbow to look up at you. His already too-short shirt rode up further and you blushed when you noticed his lean, muscular stomach become more exposed, looking away quickly.

“You know what I meant, you jerk,” you chided light-heartedly.

He laughed, the loudest and most genuine one he’d given to you since meeting him. The sound made you feel warm, and you weren’t sure why.

“Get some rest, now,” he told you when his laughter subsided.

You stared at him for a moment longer after he turned away from you, curling up around his dog, before you replied, “Goodnight, Leon.” 

And with that, you leaned over to the bedside table and blew out the candle you had brought upstairs, darkness blanketing the room.

You stayed up for a while after that, mind going over the day, everything feeling so surreal from the moment you left the car just that afternoon. 

You could almost laugh to yourself as you drifted off to the sounds of Leon and Wolfie’s deep, even breaths echoing in the room, a soft wind blowing across the windows.

Strange fuckin’ day.

+++

Leon was the first to rouse from slumber, unfurling himself from Wolfie and slowly sitting up. 

He was a little stiff from laying in the same position on the hard floor for so long, but otherwise, it had been a good night’s rest.

That was odd, he thought.

He rarely slept at all.

He heard a light snore and turned to find your still-unconscious form wrapped tightly up in his blankets, protecting yourself against the early autumn chill that crept through the room.

Silently, he stood, petting the white dog beside him that snorted in protest at his movements, before making his way over to you.

Your hair was splayed out across the pillow, your eyelashes gently kissing your cheeks, and your round face seemed almost cherubic in the morning light that streamed in from the gap of the curtained window. 

Sleeping so peacefully with a monster mere feet from your vulnerable form.

He didn’t know what to make of you.

You had clearly been terrified the moment you saw him, and he could rationalize your initial inability to run as a freeze response, but you had heard a rustle in the foliage and got closer. You had seen glowing eyes and reached out. You had called him a liar when he told you he would eat you.

Did you have any sense of self-preservation?

Apparently not.

And then, despite your discomfort around him, you chatted with him like he was just another stranger passing on the street. And instead of ignoring his… differences… you commented on them. Asked about them as one would ask about the weather.

Well, you were a self-proclaimed paranormal investigator meeting a supposed cryptid, after all. It must have been a strange fascination that was causing you to be so curious instead of off-put.  

But what confused him the most was the fact you had touched him—gently and with ease—like you would a friend and not a literal monster threatening to kill you.

He looked down at his clenched knuckles, recalling the warmth of your palm as it rested upon the back of his hand. He thought about the way you smiled at him, how you bantered with him and teased him.

After so long by himself, he wanted to bask in this human connection he made, despite knowing it was temporary. He hoped, after you left, it would tide him over until he was ready to say goodbye to this wretched existence for good.

He knew not to hope you would come back, or that he’d be lucky enough to meet someone else that would be as willing to talk to him instead of running for the hills. 

Besides, as under control as he felt now that he’d had a decade to maneuver in this new body, he wouldn’t want to risk hurting anyone. He had only ever lost control once and it haunted him ever since.

It was his worst fear, if he was honest with himself. To lose his mind—his sentience—kept him up at night. Every day, he checked for signs that he might be mentally deteriorating, acting more beast than man. The farther away he stayed from other people, however, the harder it became to recognize how it was to be human in the first place.

All he knew was that he needed to end it before he ever reached that point, going from just threatening to eat trespassers, to ripping them limb from limb the moment he caught them. 

He couldn’t stand the thought of innocent blood on his hands after spending his whole life trying to protect it from being spilled at all.

You let out a sigh in your sleep and his gaze focused on you once more.

Despite how ridiculous you were to him, he was grateful to you for being so kind. Even as a human, he knew that that was often hard to come across. And sure, he was technically paying you off to avoid attention, but that didn’t mean you had to be friendly towards him, especially after the ill-advised admittance of his eating habits.

He wondered how he should go about waking you, wondering if he even should. 

Looks like he didn’t have to, though, when your eyes fluttered open and a scream left your lips as soon as you saw him.

He jumped back, holding up his hands in a gesture he hoped would dispel your fear. Wolfie leapt up, staggering with his old body, before growling and searching for the possible threat in the room, oblivious to the fact it was Leon who frightened you.

It would almost be funny if you didn’t shift across the bed to get away from him. He could hear your heart thrumming behind your ribs like it had when you first met, and his own sank a bit.

He was still a monster, after all.

“It’s just me,” he said in a low, calming voice.

“Jesus, Leon, you scared the shit out of me!” you replied, pressing your hand to your chest. “Were you watching me sleep?!”

“Sorry, I didn’t know how to wake you up. I was trying to avoid scaring you, but that was a wasted effort.”

You let out a breathy chuckle, and he was pleased to hear your pulse rate begin to lower. “Maybe just call my name next time or something.”

He rose a brow at that.

Next time?

No, you must have misspoken.

Clearly unaware of how you vexed him, you moved to the edge of the bed and pulled on your shoes, stretching your arms as you finally stood up. “Well, c’mon, then. I’m starving.”

You petted Wolfie as you passed him by, the dog having calmed down from the excitement moments prior, before opening the door and strolling down the hall. 

Leon just stared after you, his mouth hanging ajar for a moment at your immediate change in demeanor. He still felt guilty that he had frightened you again, though this time completely by accident. It stung a bit, but he reminded himself that you should be afraid of a seven-foot-tall creature standing over you while you slept. 

He shook his head, as if to clear it, and followed you downstairs.

You had pulled out a cereal bar from your pack, munching away at it as you walked around the bottom floor of the house aimlessly. You turned to him as he made it into the dining room, swallowing a bite before speaking, “Don’t have much decor, I see.”

He shrugged. “There were pictures on the walls when I first settled in, but they were all of the people who died in the village and religious stuff. Felt weird to leave it up, so I put it all in the attic.”

“And you just didn’t bother to add anything else?” you teased.

“The only artwork I might consider using is in the old castle, but I didn’t think the hassle of getting it was worth it.” 

“Wait, there’s a castle and you chose to live here?” you questioned in disbelief.

He sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “Too big. Plus it’s just easier to hunt on this side of the lake.”

“A man of simple pleasures. I can respect it,” you told him, nodding sagely before you approached an empty shelf. “I take it there isn’t much literature around here, either?”

“Not really. Mostly journals and religious texts. Not exactly my cup of tea.”

“Anything from the cult?” There was an intrigued glimmer in your eye and Leon wondered if he would ever get used to it.

“All of it, actually.” 

“Anything… interesting?” you asked, coming closer to him and clasping your hands together, the empty wrapper of your breakfast forgotten on the dining room table. He reminded himself to tell you to clean it up before you left.

“‘Deranged’ is probably more accurate,” he said with a scoff. “But if you’re really that curious, I can go grab one of them for you. Hope you can read Spanish.” 

Your eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store and he couldn’t help but find it endearing. “Yes, I can read a bit! I tried to learn as much as I could before this trip and I also brought a translation dictionary!”

“Be right back, then.”

He quickly fished Los Illumindos’ text from the attic, returning downstairs to find you brushing your teeth in the kitchen sink. When you traveled back into the dining room he placed it in your awaiting hands, and you practically squealed as you opened the old, ornate book.

“Wow, it’s beautiful,” you whispered in awe, flipping through the pages. “And look at these illustrations! You mind if I keep this?”

“Be my guest. I have no need for it,” he replied, enjoying the way you pored over the text with visible excitement. You grabbed your translation dictionary from your pack and were about to get to work when Leon cleared his throat.

“Not to ruin your fun, but don’t you have to leave soon?” 

Your expression shifted, then, from one of glee to what he could only guess was disappointment. Almost like you didn’t want to leave. There was a spark of something at that, but he didn’t let it ignite.

“Right. My ride should be here soon,” you told him after checking your phone. Despite your words, you didn’t move, and he wondered what you could possibly be thinking in that pretty head of yours.

When you finally dragged your feet to pack your bag, Leon remembered the items he promised you as payment for your silence concerning his meager existence. He excused himself before heading into the room beside the one you were standing in, reaching into a drawer and pulling out an old ring and a handful of jewels he had collected over the years.

“You forgot something,” he said to you, unfurling his clawed hand to reveal the precious items in his palm.

You grabbed the ring first, twisting it around as you appraised it. “It seems a little early for a proposal, don’t you think, Leon?”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes, but could feel a faint heat tinge the tip of his now-pointed ears and what remained of his cheeks. “Yeah, you wish.”

You offered an impish smile before taking the gemstones as well and pocketing them. “Well, I do hope these are actually worth something and aren’t just cheap knock-offs.”

“Definitely real, I swear. Those things are antique.”

“They better be, or else I’ll have to come back here and kick your ass.”

He chuckled at the thought. “Easy there, tiger. I’m good on my word.”

You nodded and a quiet fell over the room.

“Well, guess it’s time to go,” you eventually muttered, grabbing your backpack and swinging it onto your shoulders before you headed to the door. You were slow to reach for the handle, seeming almost… reluctant. 

“Why don’t I… How about I walk you? Wouldn’t want you to get lost.” He doesn’t know why he offered. If he was honest with himself, it was likely to prolong the last human interaction he’d probably ever have.

And he couldn’t deny he liked your company, too.

You beamed at him as if that’s what you wanted him to say all along. “I’d like that, Leon.”

With Wolfie happily trotting behind the two of you, Leon led you into the early afternoon, the bright sun making him wince slightly, as it always did.

“You okay?” you questioned him. He shouldn’t have been surprised by your observation, already proving to him that very little got past you.

“Yeah, just… sensitive to the light, is all,” he replied with a squint of his eyes.

“Really? How come?”

He chuckled. Ever curious, weren’t you? “The Plagas are—were—damaged by light.”

“Then how are you even handling being outside right now?”

“Not sure. Acclimated, I guess? I couldn’t go out during the day at all when I first turned. Then I just slowly spent more and more time in the sun. It’s… uncomfortable, but it doesn’t feel like I’m burning alive anymore.”

“Jesus,” was all you were apparently able to say, gripping your backpack straps.

You were both quiet for a few minutes, and he was thinking of ways to keep talking, not wanting to end the interaction in awkward silence.

“So I get you have a passion for the supernatural and all, but why come out here on your own? Don’t you have anyone who could come with you?”

You sighed. “My family and friends think I’m wasting my time. I’ve been on investigations with others like me, but I found I preferred to be alone.”

“Not even a boyfriend worried about you, huh?” He knew that was an unnecessary pry, but he couldn’t help but wonder.

“Not at the moment, no.”

He felt a strange sort of relief, but refused to inspect it, instead pushing the conversation forward. “You must be some kind of adrenaline junkie, then, to be running around in the middle of nowhere looking for monsters.”

“Maybe a little.” You shrugged. “You must be, too, considering you were a cop and an agent, right?”

“No, that’s different. I became a cop in order to help people, not that I did much good at it. And I was forced to be an agent to protect someone. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t deny the rush of doing something dangerous, but I never really looked for it. Was just forced to face it. I just don’t understand why you’d risk your life for a hobby.”

“I guess I just want to find the truth about things, no matter what it takes.” He sensed that maybe there was more to it than that as you looked away from him, instead focusing on the path ahead.

“Well, you’re lucky you haven’t gotten hurt yet. You have no idea if you’ll run into a B.O.W., or even just a dangerous animal that won’t hesitate to tear you to shreds,” he admonished.

“I guess I am lucky,” you agreed, nodding. “Lucky I found a big softie like you instead.” 

He rolled his eyes at that. “I don’t know if you recall, but I told you I would eat you at least twice yesterday.” 

“And yet you didn’t. Interesting.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that, annoyed that you called him on his bluff. But then you looked up at him, radiant smile teasing and eyes bright.

He was surprised when the two of you were already at the lodge, past the village gate, so focused on you that he was mindless to anything else.

You moved to enter the building, but halted when he did, turning to face him in confusion.

“This is as far as I go,” he explained, Wolfie sitting politely at his side. “Don’t want to startle whoever is here to get you.” 

“Right, makes sense.”

The two of you stood there silently for a few moments, and you seemed just as unwilling to say goodbye as he was.

“Well… guess I better go,” you finally told him, kicking the dirt with the tip of your shoe.

“Probably a good idea.”

“It’s honestly a shame I have to leave already.”

He raised a brow. “And why is that?”

“Because I’ve enjoyed getting to know you,” you replied softly.  

Leon was taken aback by that, something warm settling inside of him. To say he felt the same was an understatement. He didn’t voice it. In fact, he didn’t voice anything, feeling at a loss.

To dispel the tension, you quickly and teasingly added, “And I didn’t get to explore this place nearly as much as I wanted to.”

“Well, there will always be other places.” He cringed at his own words and how stupid they were.

“There sure are.” You laughed, the sound melodic, and he was reminded of your singing. How your voice alerted him to your presence just yesterday afternoon. It felt like a lifetime since then, and simultaneously like a blink of an eye.

“It was nice to meet you, Leon.” You held out your hand to him, and he realized after a moment of staring at it you meant for him to shake it. It was a far cry from the day before, certainly. 

“You too,” he said, gingerly touching his palm against your own and shaking your hand carefully, enjoying the warmth of it against his always-cool skin.

You released him—far too soon, he felt—and his arm fell lamely at his side.

You petted Wolfie, scratching his ears affectionately as you said goodbye to the old dog, before focusing back on Leon.

You seemed almost somber as you told him earnestly, “I hope the rest of your life is kind to you.” 

He looked over your form, committing everything to memory. The shade of your eyes, your round cheeks, your soft curves, the shape of your lips and how they framed your smile. 

The urge to caress your face was a shockingly difficult one to ignore.

With all his mental strength, he managed to refrain, saying instead, “Same for you.”

You nodded once, offering a final wave, and then you were through the door.

Leon stood there for a long time, hearing your footsteps getting more and more distant. He stayed in place even as he heard you greet your ride.

He stayed until the car pulled away, the sound of it fading completely.

All was quiet once more.

It felt suffocating.

Wolfie nudged Leon’s leg and finally, he moved, begrudgingly turning on his heels and heading back to the house.

He was lost in thought as he arrived, closing himself into the dark once more.

He grabbed the crow that Wolfie had caught the night before, planning on plucking it clean and sharing it with him, until he noticed a folded piece of paper on the kitchen counter.

Curious, he stopped in his tracks, picking it up and gently prying it open with his claws. Inside of it was a small, crude drawing of a rabbit, a short note scrawled underneath that read:

Something to remember me by~

Your lil bunny rabbit

He couldn’t stop the chuckle that left his mouth, echoing in the empty room.

After a moment, he set down the page, sighing deeply—warily.

Leon was alone again.

+++

The rest of your day had passed in a blur, barely able to hold a conversation with the local who picked you up from the village and took you to your hotel room. You paced for a long time once you arrived, eventually ordering takeout to abate your growling stomach, but eating it without really tasting it.

Your mind could only focus on Leon.

Maybe you were crazy, but he seemed just as regretful to say goodbye as you had been.

He did say you were the only person he’d spoken to in ten years, so you didn’t want to let yourself hope that perhaps the connection with him you felt you made was genuine. He was just lonely, and you were just a stranger, after all.

You sighed, pulling the golden ring he gave you from your pocket as you sprawled across the bed, holding it up to the light to watch the ruby set into it shimmer. It reminded you of his eyes.

You groaned.

Your flight was tomorrow morning, and now you had to make up some lie on your blog that was interesting enough to read without encouraging anyone to seek out the village themselves. 

Tall order.

You tried to focus on what you could potentially say, but all your thoughts led straight back to the strange creature you spent the night with.

He was lonely, yes. But so were you.

You glanced at the time on your phone, knowing you needed to sleep before your flight home.

But then an idea crossed your mind.

This trip was meant exclusively for business, not pleasure, and you realized you hadn’t been on a proper vacation in a long, long time. Your savings were in good shape, your rent was paid for the month, and you worked from home.

You held the ring in your hand, closing your fist around it, the gem decorating it digging into your palm just hard enough to sting.

It was set, you decided.

You were going to stay.

--------------------

--------------------

Leon succumbed to the parasite.

He managed to defeat Saddler and his monstrous puppets, being able to somewhat retain his mental state without a master to control him.

He got Ashley to safety, but he told her he was staying behind, knowing what might happen if the government got its hands on him. He figured it could go a few different ways: they’d either kill him immediately because he would be deemed a threat, they’d experiment on him, or they’d use him as a bioweapon—the thing he’d been fighting against this whole time.

Ashley tried to convince him that she and her father would do what they could to prevent those outcomes after all he’d done to save and protect her, believing (as a young girl would) that he could be fixed and live a normal life.

Leon knew better than that. And so he asked her to tell them he died when she made it out. Despite her protests and her tears, she did just that.

He then met with the merchant after saying his goodbye to Ashley. The strange man let Leon trade his weapons and equipment—things he’d never need to use again—for basic supplies to ease his transition into living in the wilderness.

Leon had always preferred civilization to the great outdoors. The irony that he'd spend the rest of his life in the middle of nowhere after lamenting this fact was not lost on him.

With a cheerful adieu, the merchant packed up his things and left, never to return.

Leon was alone.

At first, it was almost peaceful.

He lived off hunting the animals in the woods and spearing the fish in the lake with his new scorpion-like tail. He even maintained a friendship with the dog he helped (that helped him in return), aptly naming him “Wolfie”, because Leon had never been the creative type.

Even with his animal companion, though, Leon felt… lonely. He had lost everything; his friends thought he was dead, he no longer had a purpose to fulfill beyond survival, and his humanity had been ripped away from him—one of the few things left he ever really held onto while fighting monsters for so long.

He craved human connection more than anything, but knew he had to settle for what he had.

And so, when the occasional curious hiker appeared nearby, he did what he could to scare them off. He rarely had to do much to ensure that they wouldn’t come back, using the decomposing bodies of the Ganados and the carcasses of his prey as “decorations” around the entrance of the village.

Of course, there was the occasional brave soul who ventured into his new home. Leon had to take matters into his own hands by either darting between trees and buildings to feed their paranoia, or simply showing himself from a distance, standing to his full height and glaring them down.

They always ran screaming after that.

The longer he lived alone, the less human he felt he was, giving in to baser instincts to survive and provide for himself and Wolfie.

But he tried to maintain that human side of him that somehow still persisted, in any way he could. He’d talk out loud to himself and his furry friend. He holed up in the mayor’s house and took care of it to the best of his ability. He would set traps for rabbits and birds. He’d even use the old motorboat to go fishing in the lake, though it eventually ran out of fuel, forcing him to rely on the four appendages that sprouted from his spine as makeshift paddles.

He did his best.

The years slipped by and his loneliness only grew.

Wolfie was old now, and Leon worried what would happen to the little sanity he had left when his only companion died. He did what he could to keep the wolf-dog comfortable, ruffling his clawed hands through his fur, as he’d done a million times. But now gray tinged the animal’s coat, and Leon wondered how he never noticed it before.

What about Leon, then? Was he aging, too?

In a fit of rage, during the early days of his transformation, he had broken all the mirrors in the house, not wanting to look at himself and what he’d become.

So now he traveled to the well outside, staring at his rippling reflection in the dark water.

The skin of his face was still smooth—or what was left of it after his mouth ripped apart to make room for the rows of deadly sharp teeth that burst from his gums.

His once blue eyes were now a vibrant, glowing red, his vision having been improved vastly by becoming the ultimate apex predator. Just another step further from his humanity, he thought.

He kept his hair the way he always liked it, though learning to use the rusty scissors he found while out rummaging in the village had been a challenge with his new needle-like fingers.

His body had been slowly… growing… over the years. Elongating. His arms and legs, once thick and corded with muscle, were thinning into gangling limbs.

God, it was like a second puberty. But infinitely worse.

He barely fit into any of the clothes he’d collected, the articles simultaneously too loose on his form but far too short to cover his lower abdomen and calves. He didn’t bother with shoes anymore, none able to be pulled onto his taloned feet.

It was fine, however, as the ground wasn’t painful to traverse now (even on the roughest of terrain), and he no longer experienced the cold or the heat in a way that could affect him. That was one of the few “improvements” he welcomed over time, after facing the sweltering summers and winters blanketed in snow.

Despite these changes, though, Leon realized while studying his mirror image that there wasn’t a single indication of aging to be seen. Not a gray hair or wrinkle in sight.

Internally, he began to panic.

If he didn’t age, would that mean he’d be stuck living like this forever? That once Wolfie passed, he’d be alone for eternity?

He wished he had just gone with Ashley and hoped whoever greeted them would have gunned him down on the spot. At least then he wouldn’t have had to live this half-life, practically a ghost already haunting these woods.

He wondered if even the cruelty of experimentation or being used as a weapon would be worth no longer facing this suffocating isolation.

He chided his younger self for his optimism that being left behind was the best option.

It was set, then. After he buried his dog, he would finally pluck up the courage to kill himself. It wouldn’t be easy for him. Leon had always been a fighter, never wanting to give up. But he was tired, and there was nothing besides his animal companion that was keeping him tethered to the world. He was listless.

And yet, there was still a part of him that hoped something might change. He of all people—if he even had the right to call himself a person anymore—knew better than to let hope lead him.

It had been a decade of the same, hadn’t it?

The monotony of his days was almost too much to bear. He thought, years ago, before he was infected, that he would enjoy a life like this. It was peaceful in a way, wasn’t it? He realized now he missed the chaos.

A far-off noise suddenly jarred him from his thoughts.

Another “improvement” had been his enhanced hearing. He could pick something up nearly a mile away.

He tilted his head to better decipher the sound.

Footsteps.

Well, that wasn’t unusual, given the area. It was full of wildlife, after all.

But then he heard something else, something that made his whole body freeze up.

Something so distinctly human, there was nothing else it could possibly be.

He heard singing.

+++

Your family and friends had called you ridiculous when you told them you wanted to hunt the supernatural for a living.

Perhaps they were right, but it was a passion of yours to seek out the weird and wild. Maybe that was why you were so compelled by what went bump in the night.

You weren’t sure you truly believed in ghosts and cryptids and the like, but you had an open mind and the ambition to seek out answers. Given the state of the world and the B.O.W.s that terrorized it, you supposed the supernatural might not be far removed from reality, anyway.

You had always been deemed “strange” by others. Had always been on the outside looking in, wondering why being normal never came easy to you.

It didn’t help that your body type—short and plump—made you feel further removed from everyone else. You never thought you were ugly or unattractive, but that didn’t stop others from deciding you were, based solely on something so trivial.

But you weren’t completely alone. Your family loved you, you made good friends, and you even had your fair share of relationships over the years.

You learned that normalcy was bullshit, and so you embraced your strangeness.

And that’s what led you to this abandoned village, hidden deep in the Spanish woodlands.

The locals of a nearby town had told you of the horrors that happened here. Stories of missing hikers and a cult seeking to take over the world through a parasitic bioweapon; of the daughter of the former United States president being rescued by a young agent who died tragically while saving her life.

You knew all of this already, of course. You had done your research on this place, and what had happened to it.

You knew that Ashley Graham made it home safe—traumatized, but mostly unharmed. You knew the cult and its monsters had been completely wiped out. You knew the place was practically a ghost town, the forest beginning to reclaim the ruins.

None of that, though interesting, was what brought you to this village, however.

What caught your attention was what came after.

Many were curious about the place when the news broke, but only a rare few dared to visit it. Fewer still ever made it past the gate.

But those who did spoke of a creature who lurked in the shadows. They claimed it was tall—nearly seven feet—and its eyes glowed red. No one had managed to snap a photo of it in their state of panic, but the descriptions were all consistent.

El Escorpion, they called it.

It seemed like a solid lead, and even if you never found this recently discovered cryptid, the tragic and insane history—not to mention the creepiness factor—of the location would be enough material to write a compelling post for your paranormal blog.

Despite your family and friends’ initial concerns about your career of choice, you were doing well for yourself.

You still had to work on the side to pay for your rent and all the expenses that came with your investigations, often cranking out clickbait articles for a quick buck. But your blog had only recently popped off, your posts receiving a ton of new followers after an emotional visit to the ruins of Raccoon City (and likely a dangerous one, considering the radiation).

People liked your methods. They liked that you explained the story behind every location you visited with great detail and respect, but managed to keep it fun while still building up a spooky atmosphere.

If you were honest, the popularity of your blog wasn’t something you really cared about. Although it was nice to see the numbers rise and people engage with your hard work, the content was controversial, and you were often belittled for your passion. The only thing you wanted was to get as many followers as it would take to receive sponsorships, in hopes of making enough money to take your investigations to new heights.

It definitely wasn’t easy trying to live your dream, but so far, it had been rewarding. You hoped this trip would be, too.

You had just exited the vehicle of the friendly (and very, very chatty) local who was kind enough to offer you a ride to your destination. They were a fan of your blog, they told you, and warned you to be careful.

Once they drove off, nothing could have prepared you for the horrifying sight that greeted you when you began your journey.

Bones and rot littered the ground—were even strung up on the surrounding trees like party streamers. Several of the carcasses seemed awfully fresh, and you weren’t sure, but some of those remains looked… almost human?

No, you had to be imagining it.

But if the visuals didn’t make your stomach turn, the smell definitely did.

Ignoring your watering eyes and the gag reflex threatening to trigger, you pulled the collar of your shirt over your nose and snapped a few promising pictures before moving forward.

It was a bit of a walk, having to travel through an old hunting lodge that had seen better days in order to finally reach the village gate.

You balked at the human skulls that lined the top, a chill lurching up your spine at the realization. Instead of allowing the sinking feeling in your gut to control you, you took some more photos instead, determined to see this through.

You took a deep, calming breath and opened the gate, having to use most of your strength to push through the rust that coated its hinges.

You practically vibrated with a mix of excitement and anxiety as you looked at the village before you.

It was terrifying to do this alone, but you had grown used to the solitude during your investigations. You reminded yourself that the most you had dealt with in the past were other people pulling pranks on you, and so you continued on, not wanting to feed the needling fear that someone or something could have been left behind.

You spent some time in the village, singing to yourself to help settle your nerves, before leaving out of another gate. You didn’t have a map of the area, no one having been much further than the village in the ten years since its abandonment, so you simply had to explore on your own and hope you didn’t get lost.

You were walking down a wooded path, taking in every detail as you meandered forward, when you heard a rustle in the trees beside you. 

Whatever it was, it must have been huge. You prayed it was a deer.

Gathering your courage, you faced the direction of the noise and drifted closer to the edge of the forest, your movements careful and deliberate in hopes of not scaring whatever it was off or goading it to attack you.

It was broad daylight—just past noon—but you were struggling to see into the shade cast by the densely packed foliage.

“I won’t hurt you,” you whispered gently as another movement from whatever it was jostled the bush in front of you.

It was stupid, but you felt inclined to reach out your hand, hoping it wouldn’t get bitten.

That’s when you saw the pair of glowing eyes staring at you through the leaves, roughly waist-height to you.

You felt some sense of relief at that, believing it to be some woodland animal.

That is, until the eyes started to move up. 

You froze in place, hand still outstretched, as a massive creature stood upright before you, their features obscured by shadow. 

Your mind screamed at you to run, but your legs remained locked in place.

This is it, you thought. I’m going to die.

Well, at least it was a good run.

The creature stepped forward into the light, and you were met with possibly the most horrifying beast you had ever seen.

It was over a foot taller than you, its form similar to that of a human, if not for the four long, spidery appendages that unfolded from its back, a scorpion tail whipping behind it.

It had talons on its feet and long claws instead of fingers, the tips of them dangerously sharp, its worn clothes hanging off of it awkwardly. 

Your eyes eventually climbed back up to its face, its mouth split nearly to its ears as it bared its fangs at you, glinting wickedly in the midday sun.

Your gaze met those glowing, red orbs once more, the creature’s expression akin to a glare.

Something about its face seemed so familiar to you for some reason, the mix of confusion and terror only further cementing you to the ground.

You still didn’t move when it took another step closer, its leg nearly brushing your still outstretched hand.

“You should’ve been running by now.”

You were startled by its voice, the sound deep and masculine. And pleasantly human, despite the obvious threat.

You knew you had heard it before.

He leaned forward, his head level with yours as he searched your face, looking clearly befuddled by your refusal to escape.

“You’re practically begging me to eat you, little rabbit. But I prefer a chase.” He sounded serious, but he made no move to touch you.

Your hand finally fell to your side and you swallowed hard.

“You’re lying.”

He raised an eyebrow at you, barely visible behind a curtain of choppy blond hair, before replying, “Excuse me?”

You took a shaky breath. “You’re lying. You’re not going to eat me. You’re not going to hurt me at all. There hasn’t been a disappearance in the area for ten years, and everyone who’s come here since has lived to tell the tale.”

He laughed in surprise, running a claw through his hair. It was so uncanny how human it was. And how familiar. “Maybe I’m just a bad hunter.”

“Well, if those animal remains at the front of the village path are anything to go by, I highly doubt it.”

“Not all of them were animals, you know.” 

“The ones that weren’t are too old, though, aren’t they?”

“You’re observant, I’ll give you that.” He folded his long arms across his chest, red eyes looking out across your surroundings, sounding almost sheepish as he added, “You know, this might be the most I’ve talked to someone I should be eating instead.”

He shook his head and chuckled to himself before meeting your gaze.

And then it clicked.

“You’re… you’re Leon Kennedy, aren’t you?” you breathed.

He stiffened at the name. “How do you know who I am? Did someone tell you? Did someone send you here?”

He took another step during his inquisition, your noses nearly touching, his hot breath fanning across your face as you glanced at his sharp, sharp teeth.

“I’ve seen pictures of you. Interviews, too. You were all over the news when you survived Raccoon City. And again when President Graham claimed you died in action.” You paused for a moment in thought before you asked, “Did Ashley Graham know you survived?”

He scoffed, pulling back and stepping around you to add some distance. “I asked her to tell the world I was dead so I could live the rest of my days in peace as this… monster.”

“Ah, and all these curious visitors are like annoying kids in your front lawn?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Something like that. Why are you here, anyway? You seem kinda far from home.”

“About that…” It’s your turn to look sheepish as you try to explain, “I’m a paranormal investigator, and I came here because there were cryptid sightings in this area. Guess you’re the cryptid. Mystery solved.” 

He rushed back over to you, grabbing your arm. The movement jostled you and made you flinch, but it didn't hurt. He winced at your reaction, though, and loosened his grip. “Listen, please don’t tell anyone I’m here. I don’t need this place becoming a tourist hotspot. Not yet, anyway.” 

“Not yet..? What does that mean?”

“Don’t worry about it, just… Please just promise me you won’t tell anyone about this.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “The problem is that I spent a lot of money on this trip, and if I don’t have something to show for it, my career could flop.”

He sighed deeply, releasing his hold. “Look, I can make it up to you, okay? If you’re strapped for cash, I have a shit ton of gemstones, jewelry, and expensive little knick-knacks. Take what you can carry, got it?”

You thought on it for a moment, considering your options. You wanted to respect his privacy, but it was difficult to let something this big go. However, if he was willing to pay for your silence, you supposed you couldn’t complain. Maybe you could even buy better equipment when this was all said and done.

“Okay. Deal.”

He moved to shake your hand in his clawed one but pulled back when he noticed you eyeing it nervously. “Cool. We’ll get you your stuff and send you on your way before it gets dark.”

“About that… My ride isn’t coming to get me until tomorrow morning. I was planning to camp out here tonight,” you revealed.

He gave you an incredulous look. “You’re telling me you heard rumors about a monster living in the area, and you decide you’re going to spend the night here? No backup plan?”

“What can I say, I like to live on the edge. Besides, I didn’t really believe there was a monster out here, anyway. Egg on my face, I guess.” 

He rubbed his eyes with his palms as he let out an exasperated breath. “Right, well I guess you could spend the night, then. There aren’t any B.O.W.s left in the area except me, obviously. But some of the wildlife isn’t exactly friendly. Would be safer for you to stick with me.”

Your lips parted in surprise at his generosity before you offered him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mr. Kennedy. I appreciate it.”

“Please, just… Just call me Leon.”

“Well, thank you, Leon,” you said, proceeding to give him your own name. 

His lips peeled up in what could almost be described as a bashful smile before he pointed further down the path. “C’mon, then. I can get us dinner.” 

You shocked him by hooking an arm through his, beaming up at him.

“We better get to it, then.”

+++

We.

Leon hadn’t heard someone say that in a long time.

Maybe things could be different.

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