TheWeepingAngelOfCas

You’ve always been on the shy side. You’ve never taken compliments particularly well. Even as a kid, you’d duck away from praise and warmth, not believing anything anyone said about you. That habit somehow followed you into adulthood. Leon, apparently, is very good at picking up on the fact that you don’t see yourself the same way he sees you. 

“What?” He sounds genuinely confused by your embarrassment. “I’m just telling you the truth.”

“You say stuff like that too easily.”

He gives a quiet laugh, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder. It’s the kind of small, repetitive motion that he knows soothes you. “I don't think I say it enough.”

That makes you look at him again. This time, there’s the faintest bit of pink dusting his cheeks. The TV in front of you both is illuminating his handsome features, highlighting his dopey smile. His expression has softened. There’s no teasing in it now, no mischievous little smile. He’s looking at you like he means every word. “You're cute when you're embarrassed,” he adds.

You immediately pull the blanket over your face. “Oh my God.”

Leon laughs. It’s warm, like hot chocolate and cookies on a cold winter night. He’s quick to tug at the blanket, nuzzling his face over where you’re hidden. “Hey, come back!”

“No!” You giggle, resisting. “I’m hiding.”

You can feel his finger tapping the blanket, feeling the fuzzy fabric. You can only imagine that he’s still blushing  a little. “You can’t hide forever, baby.”

“Watch me!” It comes out more as an embarrassed whine.

The pad of his finger brushes over the shell of your ear, tucking hair behind it. “I can see your ear. And your hair. And some of your cheek, actually-”

You groan, burying yourself further into the blanket. Leon laughs again, the sound warm against the thunder rumbling outside. “Okay, okay. I'll stop. For now.”

You peek out from beneath the blanket just enough to glare at him. He only grins. You make sure to pout at him for good measure. “You're terrible.”

“Yeah.” His arm tightens around you, pulling you against his chest. “But you love me.”

A small hum. “Unfortunately.”

Leon smiles against the top of your head, his eyes closing as he inhales the scent of your shampoo.  “Good.”

Outside, another flash of lightning illuminates the room. This time, when the thunder follows, you don't jump. Not with Leon holding you. Not with safety cradling you in his arms.

You might not take praise very well, but he’s going to change that one day. One way or another.

You don’t answer. Instead, you shift your stance. He has a feeling this fight is going to fucking suck.  

When he had snuck into this place, it had all felt pretty routine. Another bad guy to fight, another monster to kill. The usual for a merc like him. The last thing he expected was for some random broad to march in front of him, fire in your eyes and brass knuckles on your fists. You’ve knocked him on his ass twice, but he’s returned the favor multiple times already.

He hisses in pain, taking a step back and grabbing his injured arm, popping it into place with a deep groan. “You Umbrella jackasses are always such a pain.”

Your brow twitches, fists lowering a fraction as confusion cracks across your features. “Umbrella?” 

He spits onto the floor, saliva tinted pink with blood. Shit, he hopes you didn’t knock out a tooth. It’s hard to get dental care when you’re always in another fight. “You’re in a fucking Umbrella facility. Of course you’re Umbrella. What are you, some guard?”

A beat of silence. Then, you laugh. It isn't a particularly amused sound. It’s sharp. Bitter. Almost disbelieving. It bounces around the empty walls, echoing around him. “You're fucking kidding me.”

Jake's good eyebrow, the one you hadn’t punched dead on, raises. “What?”

“You think I'm Umbrella?” Your left hand goes to the opposite shoulder, rubbing at where he had landed a particularly hard hit. There’s a few bruises already darkening on your cheek.

“Are you not?” He’s already crouched, ready for another brawl, but you don’t follow. “Because I’m here to kill the bastards, and I’m not afraid to put you on my shit list.”

Your head shakes, and to his shock, you’re taking off your brass knuckles, tucking them into a pouch strapped to your thigh. “Then I guess we’re here for the same thing.”

His fingers flex around his injured arm, testing the joint. It still aches like hell, but at least it’s back where it belongs. “...You’re a merc.”

Your mouth twists into something resembling a smile. “Congratulations, Sherlock. Want a fucking cookie?”

“Independent?”

You shrug. “Usually. Why?”

“I thought I was gonna have to kill you.”

“You still might.”

That gets a grin out of him. Jake wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, looking you over properly for the first time. Bruised knuckles. Tactical gear. A knife strapped to your thigh. The kind of posture that tells him you've been doing this for a long time. You’re not a rookie.  “What's your name?”

You hesitate. He can practically see you deciding whether or not he's worth trusting, your eyes narrowing into slits. “Why?”

“So I know what to call you when you dislocate my other arm.”

You snort. “Maybe I should.”

At this point, his arm has started to swell. Shit. Fists are going to be a little less reliable, then. “Wouldn't recommend it.”

“Why?”

Jake gives you a crooked smile. “Then I'd have to shoot you.” Your eyes narrow, and he holds up his hands in defence. “Joke.”

“You're an asshole. Why should I tell you my name?”

All he can do is shrug. “Hey, I like to get to know people. Sue me.” He pauses for a second, waiting for a response. When he gets none, he offers, “Jake.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Jake?” 

He nods. “This is generally when you answer with your own, you know? Or are you not the social type?”

You glare at him again, distrustful. He doesn’t blame you. Ever since all the shit he went through in Edonia, he’s normally pretty slow to trust people too. But something about you tells him that you’re worth getting to know.

Finally, you sigh, shoulders lowering in defeat.

“... Y/N.” You turn on your heel, motioning for him to follow you. “So are we gonna kill these bitches, or not?”

Your voice is shaky as you press your hand into the exposed skin of his chest. According to the x-ray, the parasite should be right under it, curled somewhere close to his sternum. He can vaguely feel the tightness near his lungs, feel the burning ache when it tries to move. As much as he wants to chicken out and try something else, he might only have a few more days until the parasite takes over him completely. Now is not the time for cowardice. For once in his life, his only choice is to be brave. That being said, his heart is still hammering wildly against his ribs.

He flashes you a crooked smirk, though there’s a bead of anxious sweat dripping down his brow. “I trust you, mi vida. Besides, isn’t this so romantic? A beautiful date, if you ask me.”

“Still,” You don’t take the bait. “What if I go too deep? What if you bleed out? I read all the books, but I’m still not ready.”

“Hey, hey.” He tries to offer you his hand, but it’s stuck by the metal restraints, nipping into the skin of his wrists. “It’ll be okay. I trust you with all of myself.” 

You want to speak again, but you bite your tongue, looking away from him with a sigh. Slowly, carefully, you lean down to kiss him. He doesn’t miss the way wetness drips from your eyes down to his cheek.

“Ah, that’s not fair. You’re using your charms against me, senorita.”

You roll your eyes. “Neither is getting infected by my boyfriend’s parasite.”

A tiny, broken laugh escapes you. For just a second, you're both yourselves again. Neither of you are prisoners or test subjects or hosts. It’s Luis and you, against the world. Then the laugh disappears, and reality settles back over the room. You reach for the surgical tray. The instruments have been sterilized as well as either of you could manage. A scalpel. Forceps. Gauze. Sutures. A handful of things neither of you are entirely certain you'll need. He tries not to look too long at the large pair of rib spreaders that’s off to the side. With any luck, the parasite won’t be that deep, and those won’t be needed. 

You take a slow, steadying breath, and your hand closes around the handle of a scalpel. In your other hand is a rag, and he opens his mouth willingly. You look like you’re about to start sobbing as you gently press the fabric between his teeth for him to bite down on. In the light above both of your heads, the only light in the room, the scalpel glints at him menacingly. He has held that exact instrument hundreds of times. He has used it to open specimens. To cut tissue. To expose parasites. To learn how the things inside people worked. He had never once considered what it would feel like to be on the other side of the blade.

Until now.

“Ready?”

No. Not at all. This is the worst moment of his life. “Sí.”

You hesitate, blinking away more tears.  Then, slowly, the blade touches his skin. 

At first, he feels nothing. A cold touch from the metal, if that. But within a moment, searing pain rushes to greet him. It’s not deep, not yet, but it’s still bleeding. He can tell by the warmth bleeding out onto his chest, red on your gloved hand when you pull it back to grab some towels. When you come back, the scalpel comes down again, cutting deeper. The ache spreads, spiking down into his chest. He feels like he can’t breathe. Can’t think. For a second, all he knows is searing agony.

He tries to reason with himself. To think of the science and the anatomy. You’ve cut just to the left of his sternum, avoiding the pectoral muscle in order not to damage the tissues there. The skin is thin, the nerves somewhat avoidable. With any luck, if he lives, the long term issues will be sparse. The thought gives him something to cling to.

Anatomy. Measurements. Nerves. Blood vessels. Things he understands. Things that don't scream.

“Stay with me,” you whisper. His eyes can’t look at you, too busy tearing up and staring aimlessly at the ceiling, but he can only imagine what you look like right now. You sound like you’re crying. He realizes distantly that you’re still talking to him, trying to keep him calm. “I'm here.”

He responds with a strangled noise through the makeshift gag, fingers clenching uselessly in the restraints. When he tries to move, to jolt away from the agony, he can’t. He’s strapped tight to the table, and it only proves to make his terror even more all encompassing. The scalpel disappears from his vision as you lean closer, your face falling into focus above him. He can see the crease between your brows. The way your lips press together in concentration. A strand of hair has escaped whatever had been holding it back, sticking to your cheek with sweat. You look terrified.

He wants to tell you it's okay. He wants to tell you you're doing perfectly. Instead, another pained noise escapes him as the blade moves again. You’re cutting deeper. Trying to find the parasite where you know it must be.

“I'm sorry,” you whisper, and for a moment, he’s confused. Then, a tool comes into view, though you’re trying not to let him see it. His eyes widen. The gag muffles his screams as the rib spreader goes down into his chest. There’s a cracking noise, some unbearable pressure, absolute agony flaring into his very being-

“I see it.” You’re gasping, nearly dropping the scalpel as you go to grab the forceps. He tries to stay still, to stay calm, but the pain is still spiking through his entire torso, swallowing him whole. The pain becomes something larger than pain. It spreads outward from his chest, hot and electric, swallowing every other thought. His vision flashes white. For a moment, he thinks he hears chanting.

No. Not chanting. Your voice. Trying to claw him back into lucidity, even though all he wants is to lose his mind and get away from this pain forever. “Luis. Look at me.”

His eyes struggle to focus. You sound so far away, his pulse thundering in his ears. Somehow, your face clears into his vision. “Good.” Your voice trembles despite the encouragement. “Stay with me.”

He nods weakly. Then, he feels something move beneath the incision. His entire body goes rigid. The sensation isn't yours. It isn't the scalpel. It's the parasite. A wet, crawling pressure shifts beneath his ribs, curling away from the blade.

He tries to growl out words, but they don’t come. Instead, you take the forceps into your hand, lowering them down into his chest. He can feel the parasite squirm and writhe angrily, trying to anchor itself into his ribs, but your grip stays strong. White spots swim in his vision, his entire body trembling no matter how hard he tries to stay still. 

There’s screaming- his own, he realizes- and the sensation of something ripping from his chest, and then the forceps clatter back onto the surgical tray. You fall out of view, doing something in the sidelines, and then the feeling of agony in his ribs fades a little. It’s still brutal, still unbearable, but it’s lessening. Your hand comes into his eyelines, holding the rib spreaders to show him that you’ve removed them. He doesn’t miss the blood dripping from the ends of it. 

“It’s out, Luis. It’s out. Just keep breathing. I’m gonna try and close you up.”

His mouth opens to try and heave in a breath, and the rag falls limply to the floor, soaked with his saliva and sweat. He feels dizzy and light headed, probably from a mixture of blood loss and shock. His brief relief from earlier doesn’t last long. The needle you weave between his skin and muscles feels like it’s stealing the breath from his lungs, even moreso as you start to pull the stitches taut. It’s sloppy work, as his own stitches on you will likely be later, but it gets the job done. By the time you’re done, pulling the last knot and clipping the string, he’s not sure he’s even still alive anymore. 

The restraints pop free with a dull clink, and your arms are around him before he can register that he’s free. He can smell blood and sweat, and it takes him way too long to realize that it’s his own. 

“Fuck, Luis, oh my god-” You’re crying still, and he weakly raises his arm to place around you. Yes, he is definitely still in shock, he notes. His mind feels detached from his body, floating around the room. “That was horrible. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine…”

“It’s- It’s gone?” His voice is hoarse from the screaming, throat raw. His heart is still hammering into his ribs, irritating the already destroyed tissue.

You nod into him, and when he turns his head towards the surgical tray, he can see it. The plaga. It’s pinned to a petri dish with a scalpel driven right through it, dead. You must’ve stabbed it the first chance you got. It makes the faintest twitch of a smile show on his face. 

“It’s gone.” You echo. “It’s gone. You’ve just got to do mine, and then we can leave. We can get out. We’ll be free.”

Free. The word feels too good to be true. Somehow, he’s already halfway to it. He just has to do your surgery, and start running. He’s so close that he can taste it. His eyes drift between you and the bloodied floor. “Just give me a minute.” He tries his best to take a deep breath, despite how horribly it burns his lungs. “Give me a minute, and I’ll do yours.”

He thinks back to the pain. The current horrible burning feeling in his body. Fuck, he’s going to have to do that to you. He’s going to have to hurt you so deeply that you’ll never be the same, just like himself now. Guilt settles low in his belly, and he hasn’t even picked up a scalpel yet. 

Slowly, carefully, you help him sit up, and he slouches against your body as dizziness makes his head swim. It takes him at least an hour to gain the energy to stand, and you hold him through it the whole way, not caring how his blood is staining your clothes. You’ve bandaged him by that point, the gauze a firm but gentle weight against his ribs. 

By the time he can stand without his knees threatening to give out, the laboratory looks different. It shouldn't. The same stone walls surround them. The same dim lights flicker overhead. The same surgical instruments sit on the tray, stained with blood. But Luis can breathe. Really breathe. The pressure in his chest is gone. He presses a trembling hand against the bandages covering his wound. Every movement sends a dull ache through his ribs, but beneath it there is nothing.

No crawling. No burning. No parasite. It feels like a miracle. You’ve blessed him, just like you always have.

Luis is still shaking as he guides you onto the table, slowly but surely locking the restraints into place. You look smaller now that you’re strapped in. Breakable, almost. He hates every single moment of it. The worst part is the trust in your eyes, the way you try to smile at him but it comes out like a scared tremble instead. He unbuttons your blouse clinically, trying his best to preserve as much modesty as possible while still getting to everywhere he needs to. In the end, you’re still almost fully exposed, but it’s the best he can do. 

Just like you had offered to him, he offers the rag to you. You take it gently, biting down in preparation. So hard that he worries the fabric will tear. You’re shaking, he notes. He can’t blame you for it. He was too.

“I’m so sorry.” The words leave him like a breath of hot air. He’d give anything not to be in this situation right now. The fact he lived is a miracle, and your chances aren’t as good as his were. 

You smile at him, lips trembling. You echo his words from earlier, and it makes his chest hurt even more.

“I trust you.”

He feels wetness well up in his eyes before he can stop it, blurring his vision. He blinks it away, trying to stay strong as his fingers grasp the metal tools. For once, he isn't the brilliant scientist. He isn't the man who knows everything about the parasite. He isn't the man who spent months designing experiments and recording results. He's just Luis. A terrified man holding a scalpel over the woman he loves. 

He loves you, he’s realizing. It’s more than just feelings. It’s more than just some kind of puppy love adoration. He loves you deeply, more than he’s loved anyone else. And he’s about to destroy you. 

He watches as you let out a breath, trying to stay calm. Your eyes close, squeezing shut. He takes it as a sign to start. Slowly, carefully, with every ounce of regret he could ever have, he lowers the scalpel down to the skin of your chest. 

Crimson rushes up to greet him, blooming underneath the blade. The skin parts like risen bread dough, and he can already see beads of fat and sinew being revealed. Even though he was careful to position the blade over a spot where there were less major veins, there’s still enough blood that he has to wipe it away to see what he’s doing. 

Beneath his touch, you flinch, trying to edge away from the pain. The restraints don’t let you, and he can feel your heartbeat accelerating under his palms. “Easy,” he whispers.

The word feels ridiculous. There is nothing easy about this. He wipes the blood away with a piece of gauze, trying to keep his breathing steady. His hands are shaking. He can't afford for them to shake. Not here. Not now. “Look at me.”

Your eyes crack open. They're already wet, tear tracks falling down the side of your face, mixing with his own blood on the floor. He looks down again, towards the cut. The incision needs to be deeper. He knows that. His stomach twists deep in his gut, nausea worming its way along his aching incision. He remembers the exact moment the scalpel went deeper into his own chest. The sensation of his skin parting. The heat. The pressure. The sudden realization that there was nothing he could do except lie there and trust you. Now you're lying beneath him. Trusting him.

His hand tightens around the scalpel. “I'm going to go deeper.”

The blade moves again. Your body jerks beneath him. The scream that tears through the rag is muffled, but it still hits him like a gunshot. Luis nearly drops the scalpel.

“I'm sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m…”

He doesn't know how many times he's said it. He doesn't know how many more times he'll have to. Blood wells faster now, spilling over his gloves. He wipes it away, trying to see through the red. He’s almost down to your ribs, but there’s still no sign of the parasite yet. His eyes flit to the surgical tray, the spreaders that you had used on him just an hour ago. He has to remind himself to keep breathing. He trusted you. You trust him. It will be okay.

He carefully cuts between the sternum and your pectoral muscle, revealing your ribs bit by bit. He can see your lungs. Your heart. It’s beating frantically up at him, a wild rhythm that looks so uneven it doesn’t feel real. For a second, he just stares down into the void of your torso, trying to will himself to keep going.

Something moves.

There, behind your heart, is the parasite. He can see a few of its limbs, twitching. Inching towards the pounding muscle. His stomach drops. He prays that you can’t see the absolute terror on his face.

If you see it, he’ll have to tell you. If he tells you that the parasite is directly behind your heart, you'll panic. And if you panic, your heart rate will climb. And if your heart rate climbs, the parasite will have an even easier target.  So he does what he has always done when confronted with something he doesn't understand.

He studies it.

The pale limbs twitch beneath the tissue. One curls around something. He has to squint, wiping away more red.

A blood vessel.

His own blood runs cold. The parasite isn't simply sitting there. It's attached. He remembers the autopsy reports. The months of research. Once a mature plaga reaches the cardiovascular system, removal becomes nearly impossible. It doesn't just inhabit the host. It integrates. It makes itself part of them. And yours is already beginning to do it. His breath catches in his throat, and when he looks at your face, he realizes you’re already watching him.

You give a low groan, like you’re begging him to tell you the truth.

He swallows, ignoring the scent of blood thick in the air. His voice breaks, and he tries again. “It’s already attached.”

Your fingers twitch, body trembling even harder. Every moment that he has you open on the table is another moment of agony. His fingers hover over the forceps. He can see where the parasite has curled itself around the vessel. One wrong movement, one slip, one tear. You could bleed out before he could even close the incision. And if he hesitates too long, then the parasite reaches your heart. There is no good choice. There is only the choice that might kill you slightly less. 

You give another noise, like a whimper, and he looks to your face again. Somehow, impossibly, you’re smiling at him. The same reassuring smile you’ve given him every time he’s been afraid. 

Through the rag, you choke a little, finally managing, “Do it.”

His eyes burn, but he doesn’t have the strength or the heart to argue. He doesn't know if he's agreeing with you or begging God or promising himself that he won't fail. Maybe all three. The forceps descend. His fingers tremble as he reaches beneath the parasite. He has to get around it. Carefully. Slowly. The metal closes. Almost instantly, the parasite starts thrashing, fighting the hold. Your back arches against the restraints, a new scream tearing from your throat. Luis nearly loses his hold on it, and it fights harder, appendages spiking out and trying to stab at anything it can get to.

It feels alive in a way it never should have. Like an animal fighting for its life. Except its life is yours. And it has chosen your heart as its home.

There’s no time to try and be gentle. Every moment it fights is another threat to your body. He grits his teeth, grips it with all his might, and pulls it away. There’s a sickening tearing noise, and blood spurts into the air above your chest, filling the cavity in moments. The parasite is dropped to the floor, his boot stomping on it for good measure. It twitches beneath the sole before finally going still.

“It's out.” His voice is breathless. Almost disbelieving. He stares at the thing beneath his boot for a second longer before looking back at you. “We did it.”

Your eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. Your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. But you're breathing. That's what matters. He grabs a wad of gauze and immediately presses it against the wound, trying to staunch the blood.

“It's out, cariño. It's gone.” Your eyes flutter. He smiles. God, he actually smiles. “You're going to be okay.”

The words barely leave his mouth before something feels wrong. The gauze is already soaked through. He pulls it away. Blood. Too much blood. It wells from beneath his fingers, bright and hot, spilling between them no matter how hard he presses. His smile disappears.

He doesn’t know exactly where the blood is coming from. Could be a vein or an artery. Even one of the chambers of your heart. That damned parasite could have damaged any of it. His hands fly to grab more gauze, and then another handful, pressing it against the wound as best he can. Still, the red keeps coming, a godawful shade that coats his hands and the table and the floor.

“Oh, shit.” The curse slips out on instinct. On the table, you’ve gone deathly pale, your jaw a little slack and the rag dropping down. Your eyes have gone shaky.

“Luis?” Your voice is weak, almost nothing.

He presses harder. “Just keep your eyes open. I’m trying to help. Just, just keep-!” He doesn’t even know what to say.

You smile again, somehow. Even despite the color leaving your face. “I love you, Luis.”

His own heart feels like it’s dropping out of his chest, joining your blood on the floor. There’s too much red. It’s never ending. The color is going to haunt him forever. “I love you too, Y/N. I love you too. Please, just stay with me. Please.”

A shaky breath, a small smile, and your eyes start to close.

“Fuck! Please, genia, stay awake!”

No response. Beneath his touch, your heart starts to slow. Sticky crimson is still dripping from the table to the dirty floor.

“... Senorita?”

His parents did what they did because… Well, he’s not sure. But you’re on that stimulant to keep you going. You have almost no choice. If the side effects mimic illegal substances, he surely can’t blame you. The muscles in his jaw clench, teeth grinding. 

“What the hell even is this place?” He kicks a small rock out of his way. It scatters to the side, hitting the stone wall.

Luis gestures around himself. “Underground. It’s sacred to the cult. This is where they discovered las plagas, trapped in ancient deposits of amber.”

You scoff. “Of course they did. Didn’t know Jurassic Park got us in this damn mess.”

Ahead, there’s a door. It’s small, only maybe ending a few inches above his head. When he steps through it, his heart drops out of him. This must be what Luis was talking about.

“You’re not seriously suggesting we ride this thing?”

In front of you all is a mine cart. It looks ancient, at least decades old, the wood splintering and metal rusted. Old timber disappears into the darkness ahead, sections warped and sagging with age. Rusted rails cling stubbornly to rotten ties that look one hard jolt away from collapsing. Holy shit, this is how he’s going to die. Not by getting shot or bitten by some monster. No, he's about to die rocketing off the side of a mountain in a rotting mine cart because some cult apparently skipped every safety inspection since the nineteenth century. 

An amused huff drops from Luis. “Do you see any other way out? Relax, Sancho. They only derail sometimes.”

You step past them both, hopping down onto the tracks. Kneeling, your knuckle taps one of the rusted wheels. Leon sees your fingers twitching anxiously in the process of it all.

“This could be kind of fun, actually.”

He has to remind himself that you’re essentially on a mixture of painkillers and super meth, and that nothing you say should be taken to heart. You’re not actually crazy, just driven a little insane by chemicals. It’s not much better than being actually crazy, he thinks. 

“That’s the spirit!” Luis pats your back. “Get on in. Leon, give us a push.”

The Spaniard helps you into the cart, climbing in behind you. Leon hates the way the tracks creak and moan as he lowers his weight onto them. They sound like they’re about to give out beneath his feet. Still, he steps up to the cart, pushing it along the tracks until its momentum lets it move on its own. Then, he climbs in beside you.

With the three of you, the cart is cramped. He can’t shift more than a few inches before he brushes against you or Luis, and quite honestly, he’d rather be against you than the man he barely trusts. You smell like rain and sweet rot, and it makes his nose crinkle. The fever is still making your body hot, but it’s almost a comfort. The air around him is cold and wet. It’s a shock, especially with the hot air of Spain only a few hours ago. 

“You okay?” His voice is low, and he realizes how loud the cart is as it starts to pick up speed. Metal grinds against metal, wind rushing past his ears. 

You don’t seem to hear him. Instead, your head is angled up, feeling the wind on your face. It must be soothing with how bad your fever has gotten. There’s still beads of sweat rolling down your face, the pressure of the wind making them evaporate and disappear. You’re smiling, even now, he notices. But it doesn’t look happy. It’s almost manic. For a second, you seem to come to your senses, your eyes widening and your hand coming up to your throat, pressing against your pulse point. He doesn’t need to feel it to know how fast it must be beating. 

The lucidity drops just as fast as it came. Your hand falls away from your neck, your gaze drifting back toward the tunnel ahead. He has to shake away the disappointment and worry. It still isn’t the time. It will never be the time. 

The cart keeps picking up speed. The frame of it is rattling and shaking as it rockets forth. It feels like he’s in a roller coaster, one that should have been condemned decades ago.

“I hope you like thrill rides!” Luis’ accented voice rings out around him, bouncing around the narrow stone walls. Ahead, the area widens to accommodate more mine tracks. Leon can vaguely hear the squeal of more mine carts rushing in his direction.

He groans, already moving to reload his handgun. The jostling of the cart makes it difficult, and he almost drops a few bullets. “I think we have company.”

To his left, your head whips around, body close to his. Without saying a word, you’re stealing Luis’ gun from his belt, ignoring his protests. You check the load of it, once, twice, making sure that you’ve counted correctly even as your fingers tremble and your hands shake. Are you even going to be able to hit something? Even without rocketing through a cave, at least 40 miles an hour? This could be bad, Leon thinks. One wrong movement and you'd either miss completely... or shoot one of them. The cart is cramped enough that it would be easy to accidentally graze him or Luis. 

The squeal of steel grows louder. Another cart bursts from around the bend, sparks spraying where its wheels bite into the rails. Two cultists stand inside it, robes whipping violently in the wind. One raises a crossbow while another grips a stick of dynamite, already drawing his arm back. Leon doesn't think.

"Down!" His shoulder slams into yours just as the bolt whistles overhead, splintering against the rock wall. The mine cart lurches violently, throwing all three of you sideways.

"¡Carajo!" Luis catches himself against the rim of the cart, pushing you back upright as Leon steadies himself. The dynamite leaves the cultist's hand. It spins once. Twice. Leon fires. The bullet catches it midair.

The explosion blooms between the carts in a wash of orange fire and shattered timber. Heat rushes over him, your own cart rattling as fragments of wood and twisted metal rain down onto the tracks. Before Leon can celebrate, another cart appears behind the first. Another man, holding another crossbow.

"...You've got to be kidding me!"

Beside him, you're already moving. The pistol comes up with shaking hands. For one terrifying second the muzzle wavers wildly, drifting over Leon before jerking back toward the approaching cart. His stomach drops.

"Rabies-!"

His hand closes around your wrist before he can think, forcing the barrel away from him. Beneath his fingers, your muscles vibrate uncontrollably, every tendon locked tight from the stimulant. Your breathing is too fast. "Easy." His voice is lower this time. "Look at him."

You blink, let out a breath, and fire twice.

One bullet hits perfectly, the cultist pitching backwards and falling out of the cart. The other hits the wood of the cart, exploding into splinters under the force. The cart shakes, now empty, and teeters off the track, crashing to the side in a hail of wood and debris.

For one beautiful second, he almost thinks that maybe he’ll get a break. As always, he’s not that lucky.

From beside him, you laugh. It’s short and breathless, almost disbelieving. Your head tips back, eyes squeezed shut as another turn throws the cart violently to the side. “This is pretty damn fun!”

Leon stares at you. “What?”

You open your eyes again, grin still spread across your face. “It’s like an amusement park.”

Luis looks between the two of you, brows raised. “I am beginning to think the medicine may have worked a little too well.”

“A little?” Leon snaps.

The cart hits a dip in the track. It’s sudden enough to send all three of you off balance. Leon slams back down hard enough to bite his tongue. Luis curses in Spanish. You, somehow, come up laughing. Then, your smile disappears. Your eyes snap toward the darkness ahead. It’s so dark that all he can see is vague shadows.

“Left.”

Leon barely has time to process the word. “What?”

“Left!” You grab the front edge of the cart and point. A fork in the tracks is coming up. One rail curves sharply to the left. The other continues straight, disappearing into a section of tunnel that looks significantly darker than the rest. Leon squints.

“How the hell can you-?”

“There!” You point again. There’s a lever beside the track, a dull rusted yellow. Luis is standing, peering over the edge and squinting. 

“She’s right, Sancho! Hit that lever!”

He doesn’t hesitate again. His pistol raises, finger pressing down on the trigger. The bullet hits the yellow dead on, but the thing doesn’t move. His eyes widen. “Fuck!”

You’re already climbing over him.

“Rabies!” Fuck. This is horrible. The cart is rocketing towards the lever at a breakneck speed.

You’re leaning so far out of the cart that his body is the only thing keeping you in it. “I've got it!”

Your bad arm hangs uselessly against your side, but your good hand catches the lever. It hits with a dull smack that makes him cringe, and your entire body strains against it. For a split second, it feels like the world is in slow motion. But, after a moment, the lever gives like some kind of miracle. The track shifts with a violent metallic shriek, cart screaming around the corner. Leon’s shoulder slams into yours. The bad one. You don’t even react to what must be a truly insane amount of pain. 

For one terrifying second, Leon is certain the whole thing is going to tip. The wheels scrape violently against the rails, sparks erupting beneath you as the cart leans so far to one side that his stomach drops. Luis grabs the rim with both hands, cursing loudly in Spanish. Instead of the cart, Leon grabs you. It’s a split second decision, one that he barely even thinks about. His arm wraps around your waist, keeping you from being thrown over the side.

“Hold on!”

In his grip, he can feel your entire body shaking. The impact must have hurt like hell, plus with all the drugs, the world must feel unreal around you. Your hair is whipping around your head wildly, and in this moment, even with the chaos around him, all he can focus on is you.

“Y/N?”

You shake your head, like you’re physically trying to clear the pained fog. “I’m- I’m fine.”

Your voice comes out too fast. Too bright. Too certain. He thinks back to hours ago, finding you in that church. You had been level headed and cautious. Now, however? The meds have made you think you’re invincible, seemingly. The difference is jarring.

The cart straightens. Leon doesn't let go of you immediately. He can feel your heartbeat through your clothes. It's hammering fast enough that it scares him. You glance down at his arm around your waist, then back up at him.

“You can let go.” Your good hand goes up to his chest, giving a light push. 

He does so, albeit a little reluctantly. Having you against him almost makes him feel better. It’s easier to keep tabs on you when you’re pressed against his side. He doesn’t have to worry about your drug-addled mind wandering off somewhere to die.

The tunnel opens up ahead. It turns into a wide, sprawling cavern, the entire area smelling like mildew and stagnant water. To the left of you all, there’s a waterfall, glimmering water spilling down like shattered glass. It’s almost pretty. 

“Look! That’s where they dug up the bugs!” Luis gestures the best he can to the right, still hanging onto the cart for dear life. 

Leon looks. He immediately wishes he hadn't. The rock formation is enormous. Black stone surrounds the cavern like the walls of some ancient cathedral, except instead of stained glass, there are dozens of holes punched into it. Some are small enough to fit a person through. Others are massive, yawning openings that disappear into darkness. And between them, amber. Great chunks of it jut from the stone like frozen sunlight. Some are small. Others are enormous, translucent slabs buried deep within the rock. Something dark seems to twist inside one of them. 

“The bugs-?!” You start, but Luis interrupts you, gasping.

The man points across the cavern, to another end of the minecart. His eyes have gone wide, face pale. “Ahead!”

Oh, shit.

Ahead, the track comes to a stop. The tracks are broken, ending jaggedly over an abyss. Leon barely has time to register the track disappearing beneath them before the cart goes over the edge.

“OH, FUCK!”

The three of you scream. The cart plunges downward. His stomach flies into his throat. Wind tears at his clothes as the cart rockets down the steep track. Luis is shouting something in Spanish that Leon can't understand. You're laughing again, one hand gripping the side of the cart, the other clutching Luis' pistol against your chest. Leon grabs the edge with both hands.

“Jump!”

Right now, his formerly mentioned prosthetic is laying on the table in front of him, metal catching the light dully. It feels like it’s bullying him, honestly. Just looking at it makes shame burn in his cheeks. It doesn’t feel like it’s part of him. It feels like something separate that he’s desperately trying to make work.

"You've been staring at it for ten minutes."

Piers looks up. You're standing in the doorway, leaning heavily against your cane. You’ve been trying to be gentle to yourself lately, letting yourself use your mobility aids instead of powering through the pain. Much like him, he supposes. It makes him feel less alone.

"I have not." He reaches for his coffee mug besides him, and almost pushes it off the table, cursing. His depth perception has been ruined by being half blind, and he’s spilt his drink or broken something more times than he can count.

“You really have, darling.” You step forward, the rubber end of your cane hitting the floor with a dull thud. “Want some help putting it back on?”

“No.” The answer comes out too quick. Too harsh. It makes him cringe. He didn’t mean to be rude, of course not. But frustration has a strange way of bubbling up at the worst moments.

You don’t look angry. That’s almost worse. Instead, you keep walking, past him and over to the couch. You sit down gingerly, and he doesn’t miss the way your face twists in discomfort as your bad joints protest. “That’s okay. Just tell me if you need me, yeah? I’ll be here.”

He hums a response, reaching out for the prosthetic. It’s smooth against the rough, scarred skin of his hand. Putting the thing on always sucks. It’s awkward, for one. His blind eye being on the side with the missing limb makes it hard to see what he’s doing. He has a massive blind spot nowadays. It also takes an embarrassing amount of time to put it on, and once it’s secured, it tends to grind painfully against the stump of his now missing arm. He’s gotten used to it partially, but it’s still not particularly comfortable. Plus, it’s still hard getting the thing to work properly. Some days, he wishes it had been his leg that got damaged and mutated, not his arm. That would have been a thousand times easier than this. 

“How long did it take you to get used to it?” He sighs, looking over and gesturing to your cane. “I know it’s not the same thing as this, but you seem pretty good at using it now. How long did it take?”

There’s a scoff from where you’re sitting on the couch, and your hand grips the handle of your aid, hitting the end of it against your leg gently. “You think I’m used to this thing?”

He doesn’t respond, instead casting his eyes down low. The last thing he wants to do is offend you. He can hear you get up, padding towards him with slightly shaky legs.

“Piers, I’ve been using this for years, even if it was less than I do now. I’ve never gotten used to it.” Suddenly, you’re beside him, sitting in the wooden chair to his left. You always do that, he’s noticed. You sit on his left side so that he can still see you, instead of his right to where he’s pretty much blind. Your hand touches his. “Honestly, I’m still not okay with needing to use it. I thought I was just admitting defeat for a long time. But, eventually,” Your head leans over, resting on his shoulder. “I realized that I’m better off with it than without it. I can do more than I could before.”

“You think it’ll be the same with me?” His fingers twitch against the table, and you only squeeze his hand harder.

“I don’t have the answer for that.” You respond truthfully, motioning vaguely at his prosthetic. “Everyone is different. You might find that you don’t want that thing at all.”

A tired sigh leaves him. It feels like his body deflates alongside it. “So you’re telling me that after all this, I might still be useless?”

The admission feels too raw. Too real. It stings as it escapes him, taking his dignity with it. Almost immediately, you shift. Your hands are quick to try and pull his chair back a little, and when your joints don’t let you, he helps. Once there’s enough room, you sit yourself high and mighty on his lap, your hands going to his shoulders.

“You’re not useless, babe.” Your eyes find his, focusing on the left side. The one that can still see you. “Your body is just different now. Not useless. Am I useless for needing a damn cane?”

“Never.”

“Exactly.” Your arm reaches behind you, grabbing the prosthetic from the table. In your hands, it almost looks less intimidating. “Now, straighten up a bit. Let me help. We’ll figure out our issues together, okay?”

He wants to shake his head. To walk away. To stop burdening you with his broken body. But then his eyes catch on the cane beside you, leaning against the table. The way you smile at him, holding the metal prosthetic like it’s no big deal. The plump shine of your lips as you lean in, kissing him.

He pulls back, resting his forehead against yours. Everything had changed. His arm. His eye. Your cane leaning beside the table. And somehow, despite all of it, this still felt the same. You still felt like home.

“Okay.” He whispers, pressing back into your lips. “Okay.”

He grumbles, his eyes finally adjusting a bit more. He’s in a hospital bed, a thin scratchy blanket laid on top of him, tucked carefully into his sides. The beeping to his left is coming from a heart monitor, linked to a little cuff on his finger. Leon smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times, cringing at the dryness.

“... Hospital?” His voice is rough and hoarse.

The person nods, and his vision finally clears fully. You’re standing beside him, a book tucked under one arm and a paper cup in your hand. You lower it to his lips, and he drinks greedily, even if it feels so cold that it shocks him.

“Yep. The doctors said you could be a bit out of it. Do you remember what happened?”

He tries to remember, he really does. Something about a bullet and a monster and some kind of cure? It’s all a blur in his mind.

“Kinda?” He gives a small, weak cough. “Why’d they put me under?”

Your hand reaches down, grazing his cheek. This doesn’t feel real. You’re so pretty it hurts, all soft and sweet and gentle. Who the hell are you?

You tsk, a small smile on your face. “You got shot. Apparently the bullet got lodged near your ribs. Are you feeling okay?”

“Who’re you?” He blinks. “A nurse?”

You giggle again. “No, Leon. I’m not a nurse.”

“An angel?”

The giggle evolves into full blown laughter. “They were real damn generous with those pain meds, weren’t they?”

Now that he thinks about it, yeah, they probably were. He doesn’t feel much pain right now. Mostly just some discomfort. Some tightness around his ribs, probably from some kind of bandaging. Your hand moves down to his chest, pressing against his collarbone. You’re warm, he notes. He wants to curl into that warmth forever if he could.

Wait, why are you touching him?

You’re not a nurse, you said. His eyes flit around the room, landing on the wedding ring on his finger. Oh, fuck. His brain is groggy, and he can’t remember all that much, but he has a wife. He knows that. No matter how pretty and warm you are, he has a wife. 

“My wife-” He sputters, though he doesn’t dare pull away from your touch. “My wife will get mad if she sees you touching me like that. On my chest.”

More laughing. This time, you have to step away clutching your hands to your stomach as you nearly choke on laughter. You wipe a tear from your eye, finally trying to calm down.

“And my husband,” You heave in a breath, giggles still tumbling from your lips. “Would get mad if he saw me touching any other man.”

Leon nods, assured. “Husband?”

“Yes, Leon. Husband.” You lift your hand, showing a ring. It’s similar to his own, he notes. Must have similar taste. “Whom I am very loyal and loving to.”

“He a decent guy?” Leon tries to reach for the water on the bedside table, but his arm falls short. You help him immediately, grabbing the cup and letting him drink again. 

“Yes, he is.” You wipe a dribble of water from his chin. “Treats me perfect and all. Though he can be an idiot sometimes. Always running headfirst into danger.”

He grumbles. “He better be treating you right. You’re too pretty for him not to.”

Another laugh, and this time he joins in, even though he’s not sure what’s so funny. Okay, there it is. The pain. When he laughs, his ribs hurt, a sharp stinging pain that lances up his side. Leon can’t help but hiss in discomfort, body twisting a little to try and get away from the burn.

“Hurts?” Your hand is there immediately, giving the gentlest of soothing pressure. “It’s okay. Just breathe, honey. Do you need me to get the doctor? He can give you some more morphine.”

Even through his agony, Leon’s brow raises. “Don’t call me that. My wife wouldn’t like it.”

“Leon, baby, I am your wife.”

Beside him, the heart rate monitor starts going haywire, beats crescendoing into a rhythm that is definitely too fast. “W-What?”

"I'm your wife." You answer surely, still petting over his side. Your touch almost feels healing, and he doesn’t even try to shy away from it. Instead, he looks at you. Looks at your wedding ring, then his. Looks back at you.

"...No."

An amused huff. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean..." He gestures vaguely toward your face. "...Look at you."

You frown. "What about me?"

"You're..." His brain searches for the word. "...Beautiful."

You smile, and it does something in his brain that he really can’t explain right now. He still feels all slow and dumb. Morphine, you said? That makes sense then.

"Thank you."

"No, I don't think you understand." Leon shakes his head, and his hand shakily moves up to you, brushing a few strands of hair back from your eyes. He doesn’t miss the way you accept the gesture, even going along with it.

Your wedding ring is still glinting on your finger. It looks like it matches his, actually. Shit, are you telling the truth? How the hell did he get this lucky?

"I probably don't." You giggle.

"You are way too pretty to have married me."

Your eyes soften, almost getting a little teary. It confuses him. Why do you look like that? Like you love him? 

“You say that all the time, baby.” Your hand moves from his ribs, and you lean down to kiss his forehead. It sends him reeling. “You’re always saying how you have no idea how you got so lucky. I think it’s the opposite, but you never let me say that.”

His forehead is still warm where your lips pressed against it. He wants more, truthfully. Instead of prompting for another, words blurt out of him before he can stop it.

“So, do we kiss? Have we kissed?”

Your face twists for a moment, before chuckles escape you anyway. “Yes, baby. We kiss a lot.” As if to prove your point, you give him a quick peck on the lips, your nose crinkling. “Ew, you need a shower. I’ll help you clean up once you wake up more.”

The heart rate monitor has only increased. He can feel a flush come to his cheeks, making his whole damn face red. “So have we…? You know…?” His eyes sheepishly look away.

At this point, you’re wheezing. “Made love? Of course, baby. But please calm down. Before the doctors think you’re having a heart attack, please.”

He sputters. “S-Seriously? We’ve done that?”

At this point, your head falls into your hands, and your giggles don’t stop. “Very serious.”

“More than once?!” He tries to move, and more pain lances through his ribs.

“Yes, baby.” You press a button near his head, and almost immediately, he feels a wave of relief wash over him. The morphine drip, maybe? The call button? He has no idea what you just pressed. You continue, “Honey, we’ve been married for almost six years.”

“Six years?!” Leon coughs again. “Six whole years?!”

Another nod, and this time he’s sure that he died during that damn surgery, and went to heaven. You really must be an angel, he’s decided. There’s no way this is real. 

His eyes are starstruck when you kiss his cheek. His gaze drifts toward the chair beside the bed. Your jacket is thrown over the back. An overnight bag rests beneath it. A dog-eared book sits on the seat beside an empty coffee cup gone cold hours ago. How long had you been here? Waiting for him to wake up? 

He’s speaking again before he can even think.

“... You really are an angel.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, staring down at the notebook spread between the two of you. Every page is covered in frantic handwriting, diagrams of nervous systems, hastily sketched parasite anatomy, and entire paragraphs crossed out in frustration. "It's not just the poison," you murmur. "We'd need something that targets the plaga without killing the host."

A candle flickers somewhere in the corner of the room. Outside the laboratory, muffled chanting echoes through the stone halls, a constant reminder of who owned this island. Luis scratches another note into the margin.

Day Three: Mild tremors. Persistent headaches. Injection site spreading. Increased resting heart rate. Neither subject displaying loss of cognition.

He stops writing. Neither subject. God, he'd spent years reducing people to observations on paper. Subject 12. Subject 43. Neural deterioration. Aggression. Host expired. Now he'd done it to the two of you without even thinking. Slowly, he drags a line through the words, penning in a few new observation.

Luis. Y/N.

"Better," he mutters.

You glance over, looking up from your own notes. "What?"

"Nothing." He refuses to make you another experiment, even if every chart in front of him insists otherwise. You lean over his shoulder, reading through the notes.

"The headaches started yesterday." Your finger gingerly traces over the ink. 

He nods. "Mine too."

"...Any hallucinations?"

You spare a quick glance around the room, like you’re making sure you’re right. "No."

"Hearing voices?"

A scoff. “Only yours. You talk a lot, you know.”

He waves a hand. “It’s part of my charm.” Another page turns. "Compulsions?"

A sigh, and your fingers start drumming against the table. He doesn’t like your silence, he decides. “... Mi vida?”

“... Sometimes.” You avoid his eyes. "When one of the cultists came into the lab this morning... ...for a second…” Your voice drops. “I kind of wanted to listen to them. I thought, I don’t know, maybe they had a point, or something.”

The admission hangs in the air limply, like a butterfly with torn wings. Luis allows his hand to go to your shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “I know,” He whispers, his other hand going to his own throat. “Me too.”

You clear your throat, subconsciously leaning into his touch. “Alright, so chemical aspects for a cure are off the table. At least for now. What else is there?”

Distantly, he can hear chanting. From some of the cultists posted outside the doors to the lab, no doubt. His brain is telling him to listen, and he has to shake his head to clear the fog. He has a feeling you’re feeling the same.

“Surgery? It’s a parasite, not a disease. We could just cut it out, as long as it hasn’t progressed too far.”

You fall quiet, staring at him. "...You really think it'd work?"

Luis drums the eraser of his pencil against the notebook. Once. Twice. A third time.

"I don't know." The admission tastes bitter. "No one's ever tried removing a plaga this early. Usually..." He laughs without humor. "Usually they're trying to keep the damn thing in."

Your gaze drops to the sketches scattered across the table. Cross-sections of the neck. Cranial nerves. Blood vessels. Everything either of you could remember from months spent dissecting infected cadavers. "...We know where it starts," you murmur. "The cervical tissue. Then it migrates."

“To the heart. And then… After that, it’ll be too late.”

Silence settles between you. Neither of you says the next part aloud. One mistake would be fatal. We could die. Bleeding out is a major risk. This is a godawful idea.

Luis reaches for another notebook, flipping through page after page until he finds an old anatomical sketch of a dormant plaga recovered during an autopsy. The paper is stained where chemicals had soaked into it months ago. He turns it toward you.

"If we're going to do this..." His finger traces the outline of the parasite. "...we only get one chance."

“Neither of us are surgeons, Luis.” Your own hand goes over your heart, “There’s so much anatomy in that area. One wrong move, one of us will bleed out.”

His eyes squeeze shut, headache moving between his eyes. “Yes, but what other choice do we have? Assuming we live, we can work on a better solution later. For now, this might be our only option.”

Your hand covers his own, squeezing. It’s warm compared to the cold air around him, so warm that it almost feels hot. He makes a mental note to pen down fever. Low grade, maybe a touch over 99 degrees fahrenheit. He hates himself for estimating it before worrying about it. 

He looks down to the books again. Days 1, 2, and 3. The headaches and the compulsions. The increased heart beats and tremors. The more he looks, the more it looks like a countdown to doomsday.

"...If it comes down to it..." His fingers tighten around yours. "...Would you trust me to do it?"

You don't answer immediately. He almost wishes you would say no. Instead, you smile. Small. Tired. Completely unfair in the way it makes his heart skip a beat. That’s not the parasite, he knows. That’s just you.

"Only if you trust me first."

.

.

.

That night, you both stay in the lab, the lights dim around you. There’s at least a dozen human anatomy textbooks splayed out on the floor, your bodies laying in the center of it all. Right now, he’s pouring over the vascular system. The arteries and their exact locations. He knows that the positioning varies from person to person, but he can only hope that if he studies it hard enough, he won’t kill you when he tries to cut that damn parasite out of your body. 

“We can image where the parasite is using the x-rays in the medical bay.” You flip a page. When he looks, you’re reading over the anatomy of the throat and neck. “Haven’t you done that before with subjects?”

He nods. “Yes. The equipment is old, but it should be enough. I also know that it’s very poorly staffed from the hours of two to four AM.”

Every illustration on the page in front of him suddenly feels personal. The carotid artery isn't just ink on a page anymore. It's yours. The vagus nerve. Yours. The jugular vein. Yours. Every structure he memorizes becomes another thing he absolutely cannot afford to cut.

“Well, what are we waiting for then?” You’re up on your feet, though he doesn’t miss the way your body sways. Your vision must be swimming again. It started earlier, as you both ate your evening meal. “Let’s go irradiate ourselves.” 

“X-rays are not that strong, princesa.”

Your foot bumps his side gently, more of a nudge than the indignant kick you'd intended. Three days ago it would've made him stumble. Today it barely moves him.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”

.

.

.

The medical bay is colder than the laboratory. Luis has always hated that.

The lab pretends to be clean. It pretends that everything happening inside those walls is controlled. Stainless steel counters. Bright lights. Organized shelves. The medical bay doesn't pretend. The walls are old stone. The equipment is outdated. The lights flicker every few seconds, casting everything in a sickly rhythm of shadows and brightness. A place built to fix people. Or, more accurately, to figure out why they break.

You stand beside the examination table, arms crossed tightly over your chest as Luis adjusts the settings on the machine. “So who’s going first?”

He finishes adjusting a dial, eyes downcast. “I can. It’s my duty as your partner to be the sacrificial guinea pig.”

Your eyes roll, but you follow his lead, watching him as he lays down onto the cold examination table. The metal is freezing against the exposed skin of his lower arms, goosebumps breaking out on his tan skin. The machine shifts above him with a mechanical groan. Luis stares up at the ceiling. He hates how familiar this feels. He’s spent years on the other side of this. Standing behind glass. Watching monitors. Recording numbers. Waiting to see what the parasite would do to someone. Now he’s the one being observed. The realization settles strangely in his chest.

For once, he is not the scientist. He is the experiment.

“Luis?” Your voice pulls him back. He turns his head slightly, looking at you. You’re trying very hard not to look afraid. It’s really, really not working.

“Mi vida? What is it?”

A short huff of air leaves your nose, steadying yourself. “What if it’s already too far?”

Ah. The question neither of you wants to think about. Luis swallows. His hand reaches out, finding yours before he can think better of it. “Then we figure that out.”

The smallest of smiles crosses your features, and you shake your head. Finally, your finger presses a button on the machine beside you. There’s a quick flash, and then an image slowly starts to appear on the computer monitor across the room. Neither of you moves.

The computer whirs quietly, processing the image line by painstaking line. Luis can hear every mechanical click of the aging machine. Every second stretches longer than the last. Then, the scan resolves. He sits up before the machine has even finished retracting, feet hitting the floor hard enough to make the stool beside him rattle. 

“There you are, you little hijo de puta.”

Nestled in the meat of his chest is the parasite. No larger than the end of his thumb. Its pale body curls around the surrounding tissue like the roots of a young plant searching for purchase. His stomach twists. He knows that shape. He drew that shape. He designed experiments around that shape. He spent months documenting how it changed as it matured. Seeing it inside himself is somehow infinitely worse than seeing it inside a hundred cadavers.

His fingertips brush over the monitor, feeling the smooth screen. “It’s closer to the heart then I would like, but it’s still in the middle stage. Not past any point of return yet.”

For a moment, he forgets that the image is him. It’s just a subject, anonymous. Not real in the slightest. But then his vision blurs for a moment, headache returning, and he’s very painfully reminded that none of this is anonymous anymore. 

“It’s gone farther than I would like.” You’re beside him, pressing yourself into his side. The warmth of it allows his heart to calm just a little.

He nods. “Yes, but it could be worse. Now, go get comfy.” He pats your shoulder. “Your turn.”

You hesitate for only a moment before climbing onto the examination table. The freezing metal earns a quiet hiss through your teeth. The room falls quiet again. Luis adjusts the position of the machine with hands steadier than he feels. Every movement is deliberate, practiced. Raise the arm. Lock the angle. Check the alignment. Ignore the way your head is pounding, Serra.

Luis' thumb hovers over the switch. For the first time in years, he doesn't want to know the results of an experiment. He presses the button. A sharp click. A brief burst of light. Then silence.

Slowly, slow enough to hurt, the image comes to life on the screen. 

His breath turns to concrete in his throat, suffocating him. The shape that he’s come to know better than himself is curled deep in your chest, right beside the chambers of your heart. 

“Luis?” You’re still on the table, your line of sight blocked by his figure.

The parasite almost looks beautiful. Curled delicately through the tissues like the roots of a white flower. Luis hates that. He hates that something so monstrous can look so harmless. 

"What is it?"

He doesn't answer. He can't. If he opens his mouth now, he's afraid the truth will come out before he's certain of it. Instead, he steps closer to the monitor. His fingertips press against the edge of the desk until his knuckles pale. He checks again. A third time. Maybe he's reading it wrong. Maybe the angle is distorted. Maybe maybe maybe. Maybe the Earth will open beneath him, swallowing him whole. No matter how much he says maybe, that doesn’t change the fact that your time is much more limited than his.

Behind him, he hears the examination table creak. "Tell me."

You don't sound frightened anymore. Instead, you sound resigned. That hurts even more. Luis forces himself to turn around. His expression gives him away before he can speak. You know immediately.

"Oh..." Your gaze drops toward your own chest. "...Mine's worse, isn’t it?"

He wants to lie. God, he wants to. But lying would be even worse than the truth, for once. False hope isn’t allowed in places like this.

“... Yes.” It hurts to say it. It’s the cruelest word he’s ever spoken. You climb down from the table in silence, joining him in front of the monitor. For several long moments, neither of you speaks. Your hand finds his, and the motion is so slow and sweet that he wants to cry.

Your voice is steadier than his when you speak again.

“.. We’ll do your surgery first.”

Luis blinks. "W-What?"

“Yours hasn’t progressed as far, so you have a greater chance of survival.” Your gaze doesn’t leave the monitor. “So yours will be first.”

Luis looks back at the monitor one last time. Two pale shapes stare back at him from the screen. One inside him. One inside you. Side by side. Like they belong there.

He reaches over and switches the monitor off. The room goes dark.

“Fine.” His words are unsteady, and he can almost feel a tear fall from his eye. He can’t argue with that logic, as much as he wants to. “... Fine.”

Luis raises his hands defensively, shrugging. “No need to be suspicious! I said I’d help you, and I meant it.”

Leon scoffs, eyes turning back to you. Your fingers are grazing a wooden post beside you, tapping over the worn lumber. Ahead, the small tunnel seems to open up into a large mine. It would make sense. There’s mine carts and pickaxes scattered about, old oil lanterns dangling above his head.

“Little hard to place my faith in someone who used to work for Umbrella.”

At the mention of Umbrella, your head whips backwards, towards them both. Your eyes have sharpened into something lethal. “... Umbrella?”

Luis nods sheepishly. The moment his head stops moving, you’re there, inches from his face. The speed of it makes Leon’s head spin. Your fist has already found the front of Luis’ jacket, tugging him closer to you. Your face has gone red with rage.

“You worked for Umbrella?”

Another nod, his hand coming up to grab your wrist. “Si. But Umbrella’s done for, senorita. You don’t need to worry about them anymore.”

Your eyes narrow suspiciously at the brunette, fist gripping tighter into the dirty leather. “What are you after?”

Leon’s mind thinks back to Raccoon City. The damned pharmaceutical company that started it all. Had that familiar red and white logo haunted you all these years too? How badly had Umbrella scarred you?

Luis is trying to smile, but it comes out more as a grimace. “I just want to feel good about myself. Make amends, or something like that.”

For a brief moment, your injured arm comes up, fist raised. Leon is quick to grab your hand.

“Rabies. Focus on Ashley.”

At the mention of the girl’s name, your face falls, hand dropping from Luis’ jacket. The man lets out a shaky breath of relief, but you don’t apologize. Instead, you start walking again, eyes scanning the tunnel. But, still, you’re moving wrong. Like your body has been overclocked, strung thin by stress and whatever drugs Luis had pumped into your veins. It looks wrong in all the worst ways.

Ahead, the tunnel comes to a close, a large grate the only exit. Bands of warm light stream into the tunnel, though Leon can’t see beyond the metal slats. When you get to the grate, you kneel down, fingers touching the rusty screws keeping it pinned to the wall.

“I think I can get this open…” You jab your nail into the screw, starting to loosen it. But your hands are jittery, and your nail slips out of it easily.

Before you can try again, Leon is already bringing his leg up, landing a firm kick to the center of it. It falls open with a deafening clatter, metal falling into the room beyond. Your brows raise, annoyed.

“Or we could just do that, I guess.”

He shrugs, looking back at Luis for a second before peering into the new room. “You’re shaking. My way was easier.”

Luis approaches from behind, putting a hand on his hip. There’s dust clinging to strands of his hair. “If you two are done,” He gestures vaguely to the now open hole, “Ladies first.”

“What a gentleman.” You roll your eyes, moving towards the light. It’s only then that Leon sees the large figure waiting below.

“Stop!” His hand grasps the back of your shirt before he can even think, throwing you backwards. You fall to the dirt, your bad arm knocking against the ground, but you don’t seem to notice the pain. You’re staring at him, wide eyed, almost horrified.

He understands why a second later, when a large, giant sized hand encircles his legs. It’s a crushing weight, his bones grinding uncomfortably beneath the pressure. Not enough to break, thank god, but enough to bruise him for days. He can feel a hand grab his own- Luis’, he realizes- Before they’re both being dragged into the light, bodies falling to the metal floor below. 

He can hear your scream for him, but he’s too busy staring wide eyed at the monster before him.

It’s two of the giant behemoths from before, the El Gigante, he can remember reading. They’re massive, towering above him, at least seven times his size. They have disfigured, disgusting faces. Eyes too big and bulging, lips too thin. It makes him grimace. 

“Leon!” You call from above. He spares a split second to glance upwards. You’re leaning out of the hole in the wall, looking down at him with wide eyes. “Are you okay?!”

He almost wants to laugh at the question, but he doesn’t have the time. One of the monsters is slamming its foot down in his direction, and he just barely manages to roll out of the way in time. Gunshots erupt beside him, and he can vaguely realize it’s Luis, shooting wildly to try and get the monster away from him. 

“Shit!” He hears you call out. “I’m going to go get something to help! Keep ‘em busy while I’m gone!”

“She says that like it’s easy!” Luis barely manages to jump out of the way of an incoming fist. It’s Leon who shoots this time, aiming for the monster’s head. It roars when a buckshot slams into its eye, viscera shooting out like a busted hose. There’s blood and pus and other things that he doesn’t want to think about. They’ll haunt him later, when he’s out of this damn place and trying to sleep. For now, all he needs to focus on is surviving. The monster howls, one massive hand clawing at its face where the buckshot tore through flesh. The sound rattles through the mine, bouncing off the stone walls until Leon feels it in his ribs. The creature’s arm swings blindly through the air, catching the edge of a wooden support beam and snapping it in half like it’s nothing. Splinters rain down around them. He ducks beneath the swing, boots sliding against the dirt as the force of the impact sends dust clouding around his feet.

For something that big, it moves too damn fast.

“Oi, Sancho!” Luis yells, “Any idea what that friend of yours has planned?!”

When he looks over, the man is narrowly dodging another massive punch. “No fucking clue!”

As if on cue, your head appears in the hole again, calling down to them. “Luis! Can you get to high ground somehow?! Anywhere?!”

Luis whips his head around for a moment, landing on a ladder and a high platform across the room. “Yes, I can, Senorita!”

You nod surely. “Then catch! You take one, I’ll take the other! Leon, for the love of fuck, distract them!”

Something red drops from above, falling directly into Luis’ hands. It takes a moment for Leon to register what it is. When he does, his stomach feels like it drops out of him. It’s dynamite. At least multiple pounds of it, red sticks heavy in Luis’ hands.

“How the hell did you get that?!” He yells, but he doesn’t get an answer. Luis is gone, running towards the ladder. You’re leaning your head down again, calling to him this time.

“Could you lead one of them over here?!”

Your plan suddenly comes together in his mind. It’s so insane that he almost laughs. It’s stupid and reckless and absolutely absurd, but at this point, it’s the only option he can take. With any luck, if it doesn’t kill the things, it’ll stun them long enough for all of you to somehow escape. 

He nods once, and begins shooting at one of the creatures. The bigger one, with larger arms and ganglier legs. It roars when a bullet hits its neck, some blood and ooze dribbling down to its chest. It begins to charge at him, and he barely even has a moment to jump out of the way before it’s there. He lands on his side with a painful thud, looking up at the monster feet away from him. Two seconds too late, and he would have been a pancake.

Like some form of reckless, feral angel, you’re leaping down from above.

From the hole in the wall, you jump, red dynamite tucked under your arm like a football. It only proves to him that you’re still thinking clearly enough to come up with strategies. Still sharp enough to analyze the room. Still the same person who fought through a church full of infected villagers and kept Ashley alive for days.

And yet he knows the truth.

You’re only still moving because some chemical Luis shoved into your veins is convincing your body it isn’t dying.

You somehow manage to land on the creature’s back, coming to your hands and knees, barely managing to balance as it thrashes. A hand comes up to try and grab you, but its arm isn’t long enough, and it barely falls short, much to Leon’s relief. 

For one horrible second, all he can see is Raccoon City. Another person disappearing in front of him. Another person he couldn’t save. But, you’re not another one of those people. You’re in front of him, somehow managing to strap the dynamite onto the creature’s back, and jumping down to join him. 

You fall right beside him, landing on your good side, heaving in a heavy breath. 

“Leon! Shoot it!”

He does so without hesitation. It takes only a moment for him to line up the shot, the creature still trying to swat the new weight off of its back. The trigger pushes down beneath the rough pad of his finger-

The dynamite explodes into a burst of flame and soot. A heatwave hits him so hard that it feels like he’s burning, and when he forces himself to move past the smoldering feeling in his lungs, he can see the monster falling to its knees, a gaping hole where its back used to be. Viscera is raining down from the ceiling, falling with wet slaps beside him, blood and gore splattering towards his body. 

“Rabies?” He rasps, head whipping around. Across the room, he can see Luis on top of a platform, luring the other creature closer to him.

A wet cough, right over near the wall. “Over here!”

You’re up against the stone wall, dirt smeared along your skin and viscera around you. You must’ve been close enough to the shockwave that it threw you against the wall. You’re still trying to catch your breath, chest heaving. Leon doesn’t get a chance to go to you. Across the room, the other giant roars.

“Oi! You two!” Luis screams, jumping down from the monster’s shoulder. “Shoot it! Now!”

Again, his finger tightens on the trigger. Again, a blast of heat as blood shoots outwards from where the monster’s back used to be. This time, he’s able to watch as the creature screams in pain, doubling over and falling to the ground with a force that makes the Earth shake. As soon as the chaos had begun, everything goes painfully silent.

Luis takes in a few breaths, shaking the dust and debris off of himself. “Sancho, I think we can get out over there.” The Spaniard is gesturing towards a large metal door. To the side of it is an opening, high above his head. “Give me a push, eh?”

You’re already up and walking, though Leon doesn’t miss the unsteady tremor in your steps. Again, it’s like your body is trying to move faster than it’s able to. Like you’re doing too much to something that can’t do anymore.

Every muscle in his back protests as he kneels so that Luis can get onto his back. “You handle yourself pretty well. You sure you’re just a researcher?”

A weight lands on his shoulder blade, and he grimaces through the pressure as Luis gets on top of him, jumping up to grab the edge of the metal. He manages to haul himself over it, dropping down with a loud thud.

He can hear the man tsk. “What can I say?” He laughs, voice muffled by the metal barrier. “I’m just the average guy who happens to be quite the ladies’ man.”

From beside Leon, you groan, rolling your eyes. “Whatever. Can you get it open?”

“Yes, yes.” A quiet huff. “Do you have no sense of mystery?”

You nearly growl out your response. “We’re in a death cult’s underground mine. Open the damn door.”

With a click, the door unlocks, and Luis opens it with a smile. “You couldn’t ask nicely, doncella?”

You don’t bother answering, already pushing past him, almost stumbling for a second before catching yourself. Your eyes squint to peer around at where you are. “Where are we headed, anyway? You sure this will get us to Ashley?”

Leon watches the brunette man nod, gesturing vaguely ahead. “I am sure, though it will likely be a wild ride.”

Somehow, you’ve stuck beside him through all of it. Every single test and surgery. Every bad day. Every time that he broke down about the monster he felt he was, you were there. Through thick and thin. It felt like a miracle that he didn’t deserve. Every time you reached for him without hesitation, he found himself waiting for the moment you finally wouldn't. For the day the fear caught up to you. For the day you'd look at him and see what he saw in the mirror.  Especially now, when he’s trying to hide from the world in bed, and you’re curled up against his back like there’s nothing wrong at all.

His arm hurts. The one that isn’t there anymore. The phantom pain of it still bothers him on a regular basis, a dull ache where his fingertips used to be. A tingling where his shoulder turns into a stump, puckered scar tissue itching and burning. The feeling extends up to the rough scar etching across half his face, and it still keeps him awake at night.

He shifts, trying to relieve the ache, and you hum a little in response. 

“Is it your scars again? Do you want me to go grab your meds?”

He doesn't answer. He just stares into the darkness, jaw tight enough to ache. The medication dulls his nerves, but not his brain. His single eye is transfixed on the window. On the drawn blinds, hiding the moonlight that’s trying to leak in. It’s almost pretty. He feels like he doesn’t deserve to see it. 

You sit up a little, hand gingerly going to his bicep. “Piers? Baby? Are you okay?”

His eye squeezes shut, face turning to burrow further into the pillow.

“What if they’re wrong?”

A small sigh. It’s not annoyed, no. Somehow, you’re never annoyed with him. If anything, it’s a little sad, your fingers petting over him. You already know what he’s talking about.

“Baby,” You begin, pressing yourself more into his back. It’s a firm weight, one that you know ground him. “The doctors are very good at what they do. If they were worried, we would know.”

“But what if they should be worried?” He wants to shut up. God, he wants to. But the words keep coming. “I keep thinking if something changed. If I stopped.. I don’t know, being me, or something.”

You’re silent for a moment, but he can feel your arm wrap around his middle, careful of the oversensitive scars. He can feel you lay back down beside him, pressing a kiss to the back of his head. Your lips are warm and soothing. Everything he needs without even realizing it.

“Piers…” You choose your words carefully. “If something changes, we’ll figure it out together, okay? I’m still here.”

“But what if I hurt you?”

The sentence slips out before he can stop it. It takes everything within himself not to get up and run. To flee the bed, the house, the city. To jump back into the ocean where he should have died, and finally go to rest there. 

He can feel your fingers slowly caress his chin, carefully positioning it so that he can look back towards you. You’ve sat up again, in his eyeline. His single eye opens to look at you. There’s a soft, reassuring smile on your face, your eyes gentle as you gaze down at him.

“If you were going to hurt me,” Your fingers pet over his cheek, the one with the scars. It’s so tender that it hurts. “Then you would have done it months ago.”

It’s then that he breaks. 

He tries not to do it often around you. When he breaks down, it’s usually alone. In the bathroom, or at work, tucked away in some storage closet that no one ever goes in. His tears run hot down his cheeks, irritating the rough skin. Piers has to muffle his sobs into the pillow, biting the soft fabric between his teeth. Through it all, you’re still holding him, whispering tender praise into his ear.

One more kiss, this time against the shell of his ear.

“I’m still here, baby. I’m still here.”