TheWeepingAngelOfCas

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.”

“Your pleasure, you say?” He takes a step forward, even his footfalls feeling demanding and overwhelming. You shrink a little at the sight, taking an equal step backwards. “That’s not what some of my followers have told me. In fact,” His glare turns deadly, “I’ve heard that you both have been slowing our progress on the plaga.”

His heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest, but he schools his face into one of amused nonchalance. “Not at all, my Lord. We’ve hit a few curbs trying to make it stronger, but besides that, the progress is going as planned.”

Saddler smiles pleasantly. "Mr. Serra... you have always been one of my brightest minds."

Luis inclines his head suspiciously, “You are… too kind."

"Am I?" The man begins circling you both, hands behind his back. "When I found you, you were a man burdened by guilt. Umbrella had used your gifts to create monsters." He pauses beside Luis. "I gave you purpose. And yet... lately..." His eyes flit to you. "...your work has become... distracted."

The Spaniard feels his blood turn cold. His fingers curl into his palms so tightly his nails bite through the gloves. He forces them to relax a heartbeat later. Clenched fists look guilty. Relaxed hands look obedient. 

He does his best to deflect the accusation. “Science takes time, my Lord. Setbacks are expected.”

He could swear that Saddler’s eye twitches a little, his grin widening. “You think I haven’t noticed?”

Fuck. Luis’ brain is going full into panic mode, a hot bead of sweat dripping down his temple. Beside him, you’ve stiffened, your knuckle going out to brush his for a split second. It grounds him just enough to speak again.

“Notice what?”

A chuckle, dark and sinister. “Must we insult each other's intelligence, Mr. Serra? I’ve noticed things, just as my followers have. The missing samples. The extra notes. And cameras, Mr. Serra..." The smile widens. "...have a marvelous habit of remembering what men hope they have forgotten, child."

The air in the room stills. For a brief moment, he feels like he's been struck dead on the spot. It only gets worse when your head raises a little, your feet moving forward, seemingly without your own permission.

No. He knows that look. It's the same one you wore the night you stayed behind in the laboratory, convinced you could stop the parasite yourself.

"It was me, Lord Saddler-!"

Luis's hand clamps over your mouth before you can finish, your breath hot against his palm.

"No." The word tears out of him. "She's lying. She doesn't know what she's saying." He swallows hard, the saliva feeling too thick in his throat. "I ordered her to do it."

To his horror, the man starts laughing. It’s amused, almost unsurprised. "...Remarkable." 

Luis' stomach drops. Saddler clasps his hands behind his back once more, taking a slow step toward the pair of you. "Do you know what fascinates me most about brilliant minds, Mr. Serra?"

He doesn't answer. His hand is still over your mouth, clasped tight. Under his palm, you’re shaking.

"They so often believe they are capable of deceiving everyone around them."

In an instant, hands are grabbing you, tugging you away from him. The scream that rips from your throat is visceral and raw. When Luis turns his body, you’re being held by two cultist’s. One has your hands pinned behind your back, the other holding your head still to the side, your throat bared.

Luis goes to rush to you, to grab you and run, to sprint off this goddamn island, into the ocean, to swim to safety if he fucking has to, anything but this-

Someone grabs him too, the exact same way as you. He’s helpless in their hold, even as he fights as hard as he can. The plaga does an excellent job at enhancing a person's strength, he notes with bitter clarity. The irony would almost be funny if it weren't happening to you. 

"Easy now," Saddler says, almost gently. Like a parent, scolding their unruly son. "There is no need to struggle."

Luis twists violently against the cultist restraining him. His shoulder screams in protest, muscles straining until they burn. "Get your fucking hands off her!"

The shout echoes through the chamber. No one obeys. Saddler merely watches, an amused uptilt to his brows.

"There it is," he murmurs. "Devotion. It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it? When properly directed, of course. But you have been devoted to the wrong thing, my child. Luckily for you, I know exactly what will fix that."

Luis feels panic blooming into something primal. This isn't an interrogation anymore. Whatever happens next has already been decided. "Please..." The word escapes before pride can stop it. "Leave her out of this."

Saddler's expression almost softens. "My child," He steps closer until only a few feet separate them. “Don’t fret. It will all be better soon.”

From behind him, he hears a scream. It’s so pained it sounds almost animal. It tears through the chamber, raw enough to make every hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Luis whips around so violently his vision blurs. For one impossible second, all he sees is the syringe.

Empty. Buried in the side of your neck.

He watches the plunger fully depressed. The clear barrel. The tiny ribbon of blood collecting where the needle disappears beneath your skin. He sees the skin along your neck ripple. Like something alive is burrowing deeper. His own research. His own creation. The plaga.

“No!” He fights in their hold. “¡Ustedes bastardos!”

Your scream falters,  breaking apart into ragged gasps. Your body trembles violently for a few seconds, almost like seizing. Then every muscle gives out at once.

The cultist catches your weight before you can hit the floor. Your head lolls forward. Your eyes flutter shut. If it wasn’t for the parasite beneath your skin, it would almost look peaceful.

"No…" The word barely leaves his lips. It isn't loud enough for anyone else to hear. It isn't meant for them. It's meant for you. He was supposed to get you out. He promised.

Saddler smiles. "You wished to save her." Another syringe appears in one of the cultist's hands. "Now you shall walk the same path together."

There’s the sensation of something pricking a vein in his throat, and the edges of the room dissolve into darkness. Saddler's voice becomes distant. The cultists disappear.

The only thing left is you. Limp in another man's arms.

Then even that is gone.

.

.

.

His head is killing him.

A deep, pounding ache blooms behind his eyes, every heartbeat driving another spike of pain through his skull. For several long seconds, he can't remember where he is. The ceiling above him swims in and out of focus, rough stone giving way to blurred candlelight.

His mouth tastes metallic. He swallows, immediately regretting it. His throat burns.

"...Mi...?" His own voice sounds wrong.

Luis squeezes his eyes shut before opening them again, slower this time. The room finally begins to settle into something recognizable. A laboratory. Not the main one, no. This one is smaller and quieter. One of the medical observation rooms tucked beneath the island, no doubt.

When he sits up, dizziness floods his vision, the room spinning and tilting before him. Nausea wells up in his throat, and it takes everything within himself to tamp it down.

Memory crashes back all at once. The meeting. Saddler. Your scream. The syringe. His breathing turns ragged, head jerking sideways so quickly another wave of nausea rolls through him.

You. You're there. On the floor beside him, your head turned away from him and limbs splayed out around you. Your chest rises and falls with each breath. Alive. Oh, thank god. Relief hits him so violently that it almost hurts. 

“... Mi vida?”

No answer. Luis forces himself onto his knees, the tile hard against him. Vertigo spikes through him, but he keeps moving, crawling over to where you lay. "Shit..."

Everything feels wrong. Sedatives don't usually leave his equilibrium this compromised. Not after this long. His pulse feels strangely slow, yet every beat echoes through his skull like a hammer. He chooses not to think about the reason why. He crawls the remaining distance to you, one hand braced against the floor. "...Cariño."

His fingers find your shoulder first, then your neck. You’re warm, your pulse thundering under his fingers. He doesn’t miss the telltale infection markings just starting to bloom on the column of your throat. He’s sure if he looked in the mirror, he’d have the same ones. 

Something shifts inside his own throat, tiny and ticklish, so small it’s barely there. Like the brush of an insect’s legs. 

Don’t think about it. He tells himself. Don’t think about the parasite right now.

His hands find the sides of your face, leaning over you so that his hair falls forward to brush your nose. You look almost peaceful. Like you’re at home, sleeping in bed, dreaming. 

“Carino?”

Your eyelids twitch, nose crinkling. The relief of it makes him dip his head down onto your sternum for a second, before bringing it back up. A few strands of hair get brushed from your face, his deft fingers tucking it behind your ear. “Come back to me, mi amor.”

Your eyes open slowly, pupils taking a moment to find him above you. His shoulders sag, eyes closing to steady himself again before speaking.

“I’m here.”

For a second, confusion streaks across your face. Your fingers tap against the floor beneath you, trying to figure out why you’re not in bed at home. It seems to hit you all at once, however. Tears well in your eyes within moments.

“Luis?”

His own eyes begin to water at the sight. He nods, trying to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Your hand slowly, gingerly goes up to your throat, feeling the pinprick there. The raised markings.

Your face crumples, and you push yourself into him, hiding from the world. His arms go around you tightly, feeling your warmth, your body, your soul. He isn’t sure when, but at some point, he starts crying too.

“What are we going to do?” Your voice is muffled into his shirt.

He kisses the top of your head, ignoring the way the creeping tickling feeling is edging towards his chest. 

“We’ll find a way to remove it, mi amor.” He closes his eyes, squeezing you closer. “We’ll still get out of here. This is just a pit stop. I promise.”

The thing is tiny, all black fluff and big yellow eyes. It’s sitting high and mighty in your lap, purring away. Leon can feel his brow twitch.

“You brought home a kitten?” He lowers himself to the floor, level with your lap. The little thing is soft when he touches it, warm beneath the pads of his fingers. When he pulls his hand away, it yawns, showing its little white teeth. Painfully cute, he thinks.

You nod. “I found her while at the store. She was just there in the parking lot! Poor little darling. I just had to take her home.”

Leon exhales slowly. Of course you did. Of course you found a tiny, helpless creature in a parking lot and immediately decided it was your responsibility. It’s one of the things he loves about you. Also one of the things that stresses him out.

“You just... picked up a random kitten?”

You give him a look. “She was alone! She needed me!”

The answer comes so easily that he knows there’s no point arguing. Because that’s you. You see something hurt, something scared, something abandoned, and your first instinct is never to walk away. It’s the same reason you patched him up after missions even when he insisted he was fine. The same reason you stayed awake beside him after nightmares you didn’t ask about. The same reason you look at the world like there’s still something worth saving in it. Even when he struggles to see it.

The kitten shifts in your lap, tiny paws kneading against your sweater. Leon watches it for a moment, assessing it. It’s definitely young, maybe four weeks old at most. The thing definitely still needs formula, if not some kind of specialized care. 

“I’m not going to be the one to wake up at three in the morning to feed it.” He says absentmindedly, reaching out to scratch its little chin.The little thing immediately leans into his hand. Leon freezes.

He’s seen a lot of things in his life. Monsters wearing human faces. Creatures that should never have existed. People he trusted turning into enemies. But somehow, this tiny black cat deciding that his hand is the best place to put her head feels like the most dangerous thing he’s encountered in a while. It’s soft and innocent and pure, and it feels wrong for it to trust him so easily. The kitten lets out a tiny chirp.

You grin. “She likes you!”

He rolls his eyes. “No, she doesn’t. She likes food and attention.”

“She likes you.” You insist. As if on cue, the animal wakes up, stretching in your lap with a dramatic sigh. It weighs almost nothing as it jumps down from your thighs, immediately landing right next to Leon’s leg, and climbing right up.

Both of you go silent. Leon looks down. The kitten looks up. A battle of wills begins. You already know who’s going to win, and it makes you let out a little giggle at he glares at something that weighs less than a bag of chips. You laugh, and the sound makes something in his chest loosen.

It’s been a long time since he’s had something so normal. Something so stupidly domestic. Something that doesn’t involve blood, missions, or wondering if he’ll make it home. Just you, a kitten, and a quiet apartment. For once, he doesn’t feel like he’s waiting for something terrible to happen.

The kitten curls up against him, and he stares down at her. Then, he sighs. Like he’s lost some kind of horrible, impossible battle. “Fine.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Fine?”

“She can stay.” He does his best to ignore the way his heartstrings tug when he feels a tiny purr against his leg. “But you’re still the one that feeds it.”

His palm presses gently against your good shoulder. He has to ignore the infection markings criss crossing over his arm. His mind is focused on you, trembling and quivering, speaking to a person that isn’t there, and hasn’t been for some time. 

The tightness in his chest is getting worse. He can feel the parasite’s limbs twitching over the different chambers of his heart, pinching the muscle in ways that makes his skin itch. For a second, he has to close his eyes and catch his breath. When his eyes open, the marks on his skin are worse. Darker. Angrier. They twitch and writhe, a horrible tingling sensation in his limbs. It makes him want to rip his skin off. To grab his knife, filet the lines off of his body, and tear the parasite out himself. Before his body isn’t his own anymore.

The elevator dings hollowly, and his head shoots up, looking out into the room before him. He nearly wants to scream in relief.

Luis is standing against a wooden post, a satchel slung across his body and a metal tin of something in his hand. He has a crooked smile on his face. If this was any other situation, Leon would want to punch that grin off of him. Now, however, it’s so normal that it feels like a blessing.

The man is about to say something, when his eyes go down from Leon to you. His face falls. “Qué pasó?!” Luis straightens, hands falling to his sides and brows raising in alarm. “How did it get this bad?!”

Leon picks you up, one arm under your knees and the other under your back. He hates the way you’re near limp, head falling backwards and exposing your throat. He can smell the metallic blood from your wound, the sickly sweet scent of rot. Nausea bubbles up in his throat, and he has to look away for a moment to tamp it down. “Long story. Just tell me you have that damn medicine.”

The brunette man nods, gesturing to a few old wooden boxes to the right of him. “Lay her down, Sancho.”

When he does so, it’s gentle, doing his best to keep your body from hitting the boxes too hard. You don’t resist when he closes his fingers around your wrists, moving them from where they dangle to the side back to your midsection. Your eyes open briefly, pupils untrained and staring off at the ceiling, before closing again.

Leon feels a tap on his arm, and he looks over. Luis is holding out a small metal vial, pointing it towards the markings on his skin. “Here,” the man’s accented voice mutters, “Use this. It’s temporary, but it will help suppress the nature of your… problem.”

He doesn’t even think twice about it. He takes the syringe, shoving one end of it against his arm while pressing down on the other. For a second, there’s a sting of pain, of a needle being shoved deep into his veins, and then he feels a blissful numbness. A cool, empty kind of burn as the lines on his arms start to fade away. The clenching around his heart even stills, the unbearable pinching becoming something much more manageable. He can’t help but sigh in relief, fingers clenching and unclenching, like he can’t believe they’re obeying him. 

“Better?” Luis has kneeled down to your level, his hand moving over to your wrist and pressing his fingers into your pulse point. There’s a small curse in Spanish, before he’s reaching into the satchel at his side. He empties it with practiced efficiency, lining several syringes across the crate. Some are filled with clear liquid, others amber, one almost unnaturally blue. It makes Leon’s brows raise in alarm.

“What are all those?” Leon’s footsteps feel easier now, less weighed down. It doesn’t steal his breath away when he moves. 

A glance over in his direction, before Luis is uncapping the syringes and laying them out in front of him. “A few things to keep her going. It’s not a cure, but it will help her to stay awake until we all can get out of this damn place.”

Your eyes open a little, head turning to look at the needles. There’s some kind of recognition behind your eyes, a brief flicker. “What… What medicines…?”

The Spaniard finally smiles. It’s crooked and mischievous, but genuine. “Ah, there you are. Don’t worry about these, si? They’ll just hurt for a moment.”

Your head shakes, and Leon is quick to put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “No, no. Tell her.”

Truthfully, he’s curious himself. He may trust the man enough to give him a suppressant, but he doesn’t trust him fully. Each needle feels more like a threat than a fix. 

“Ah, alright. This first one here,” he gestures to the largest syringe, filled with something clear. “Is an antibiotic. Pretty strong one.”

You nod, your hand moving to your arm, tapping over a vein. Luis follows, injecting it right where you show him. It makes you hiss as the medicine is pushed into your arm, but other than that, you remain still. The next syringe comes up dutifully. “A painkiller. Strong one. You might feel a bit dizzy, doncella guerrera. But it will make the next part easier.”

“The next part?” Leon’s eyes squint in suspicion, even as he watches Luis give another injection. This one seems to do something this time, as your eyes fly open, lungs inhaling greedily. The painkillers must be strong, as your pupils have dilated into saucers. You sigh in relief, even as another bead of sweat rolls down your temple. When his palm finds your forehead, it still feels blisteringly hot. 

He nods. “Si, caballero. This next one is… less than legal, so to say.”

“Is it safe?”

Luis gestures to your shoulder. “Nothing is safe with this injury, but yes.”

Your head turns to the side, facing the two men. Your eyes still won’t focus, but you murmur. “... Stimulant?”

Another askew smile from Luis. “You’re an observant one, aren’t you? Yes, it’s a stimulant. Very strong. It may make you feel like you’re all better and can do anything…” He trails off, grabbing the last syringe. The liquid inside is cobalt colored, the glass of the vial covered in a thin line of dust. “But the feeling is temporary. A few hours, at most. Once it wears off…”

He doesn’t need to finish. You’re tapping your arm again, impatient, and he preps the needle, turning it over in his fingers. His hands hesitate before he lowers it down to your arm. Leon doesn’t miss the way he hovers with the needle, like he’s regretting even having to use it. It makes dread sit low in his stomach.

The moment the liquid pushes into your vein, the change is immediate. 

Your eyes fly open, pupils turning to pinpricks and shakily staring holes into the ceiling. Fingers twitch against the wooden boxes below you, picking at the individual grains. Even your feet twitch, jerking where they lay. Leon is quick to move, positioning himself near your head and putting a hand on your good shoulder. Underneath your skin, he can feel your pulse thundering madly, hammering back at him. Tiny muscles in your jaw are spasming, breathing going wild. For a second, he feels like he’s looking at a wild animal. Something rabid and injured, giving one final fight before they finally stop breathing altogether.

By the time the syringe is empty, Leon feels like he’s watching your final moments on this Earth. For a second, you go still. Your limbs fall flat against the wood, head laying back. His breath catches in his throat at the sight. "...Luis?"

The Spaniard doesn't answer. Two fingers remain pressed against your wrist, his eyes fixed on the second hand of his own watch. His expression is unreadable, mouth set into a thin line as he silently counts.

Leon feels his stomach sink. "Luis."

Still nothing. The room feels impossibly quiet. Then, like what feels like a miracle, your lungs seize. A sharp gasp tears into the silence, your entire body arching off the wooden crates. Air rushes into your chest in one violent inhale after another, your fingers digging so hard into the splintered wood that tiny flakes catch beneath your nails. Your eyes dart wildly around the room. Left. Right. Ceiling. Floor. Anywhere but the people kneeling beside you.

Your pulse hammers beneath Leon's hand like a frightened bird.

"Easy." Luis's voice is calm now, almost gentle. "Easy, doncella guerrera. Breathe."

Another harsh breath, and your hand, the one on your bad side, raises to feel around yourself. Your head is whipping around, landing on Luis. Your gaze lingers on him for another second before drifting toward Leon. Unlike before, this time your eyes actually focus. Recognition spreads slowly across your face.

"...Leon."

He doesn't realize he'd been holding his breath until he exhales. "Yeah."

Your lips part slightly, sucking in more air. "You... look awful."

For one stunned second, Leon just stares. Then a short, disbelieving laugh escapes him. It’s filled with relief, his head dipping down as he responds. "You're one to talk."

The corner of your mouth twitches. Luis lets out a slow breath through his nose, shoulders easing for the first time since Leon stepped off the elevator. His hand leaves your wrist only long enough to move his finger in front of your eyes, slowly sweeping it side to side.

"Follow it."

Your gaze tracks the movement. Your pupils move jaggedly, staying still for one moment and jerking to follow him the next. The look of it settles wrong in Leon’s head. 

“... Feeling better?” He’s not quite sure what answer he’s hoping for. 

You nod, swinging your legs over to plant your feet on the floor. “I feel… pretty great, actually. Where’s Ashley? We need to go find her.” Your voice is clearer now, but there's something wrong with it. It’s too fast. Each sentence comes before the last has fully finished, as though your thoughts are outrunning your mouth. "I can walk."

You’re standing before either man can stop you, your boots hitting the floor with a harsh thump. For a moment, Leon expects you to fall. To double over and collapse to the dirt floor. But, somehow, you stay standing, though your upper body sways a little as you find your footing.

Your eyes look down to the floor, and then back up at him. A large grin breaks out on your face. It feels wrong considering the circumstances. Part of him wonders how much your fever is still affecting you. How the stimulant is making you see the world. 

Your grin is manic as you turn on your heel, grabbing your shotgun from where it’s holstered on Leon’s back. The sight of your teeth, your pale gums, your flushed face; it doesn’t reassure him. If anything, it frightens him.

Your steps are shaky and jagged, but you keep going anyway.

“Let’s get going and find Ashley.”

No answer. He frowns. Normally, you'd answer immediately. Even if you were asleep, he'd usually hear some sleepy ‘I'm in here’ drifting down the hallway. For a second, the lack of response makes his heart drop. Makes his palms go clammy as he starts to move faster, expecting a scream, a shout, a cry-

A single piano note cuts through the silence. Another follows. Then another.

His first thought is that you'd left the radio on. Except… No. That’s not right. There's hesitation between the notes. Tiny pauses. The subtle sound of fingers lifting from ivory keys before settling back down again. Whoever is playing is alive, sitting only a few rooms away. His brow furrows.

"...What the…?"

He could have sworn the old upright piano tucked away in the spare room hadn't been touched in years. Hell, he'd almost forgotten it existed. It had come with the apartment, according to the landlord. You'd insisted on keeping it because it was "pretty," even if neither of you supposedly knew how to play. Apparently, that wasn't true.

Another phrase drifts through the apartment. It's soft. Melancholy. Fuck, it’s beautiful. He doesn't know the first thing about music. Couldn't tell you the key. Couldn't explain the technique. He'd fail every music theory class ever invented. But he knows how it makes him feel. Somewhere between the first few measures, he realizes his shoulders have dropped. His jaw has unclenched.  For the first time since the mission started, he isn't thinking about it anymore. All he can focus on is the beautiful chords echoing from the other room. Almost without realizing it, he follows the music. Each step down the hallway is slow, careful against the hardwood floor. Somehow, it feels wrong to make noise. He reaches the half-open door, and stops.

The sight in front of him makes his jaw almost drop.

Sunlight from the late afternoon spills across the room, turning dust motes into drifting gold. You're sitting at one of your old kitchen chairs with your back to him, completely unaware of his presence. Your shoulders rise and fall with every breath. One foot rests lightly against the pedals, pressing them with practiced ease. Your fingers move across the keys like they belong there. Every movement is smooth, wrists relaxed as the melody rises and falls beneath your hands like breathing.  You play like you've known this instrument your entire life.

His eyes drift to the side. Beside the piano rests a neat stack of music books, their spines cracked with age. Several loose sheets are covered in neat pencil markings, little notes scribbled into the margins. Practice notes. Corrections. Years of them, at least.

"... Wow."

The word slips out before he can stop it.

Your hands freeze. The final chord hangs in the air for a long moment before slowly fading into silence. Your entire body goes rigid, head snapping in his direction. Your eyes are wide and alarmed, like a deer caught by a hunter. 

“... Leon?”

Distantly, he realizes that you sound almost horrified. "Sorry." His own voice comes out quieter than he'd intended. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Your body finally turns fully towards him, but it’s slow.  Whatever expression had been on your face while you were playing vanishes so quickly that he almost wonders if he imagined it.

"...You're home early."

He smiles tiredly. "Mission wrapped up."

"...Oh." Your hands draw to your chest, clasping them together in front of your heart. You won't meet his eyes. Instead, your gaze fixes somewhere near the floor.

He speaks again, slower this time. Like anything too sudden will scare you away. "...That was you."

It isn't really a question. You nod once. "...Yeah."

"I..." He laughs softly, shaking his head. "Honey, I didn't even know you could play."

Your head shakes a little, and this time, your legs draw up to your chest, feet resting on the very edge of the seat of the chair. “... It’s not good, really. I don’t play well.”

“Don’t play well?” He scoffs, and dares to take a step closer. “That was beautiful. If I tried to do that, I’d sound like a dying cat.”

Your eyes squeeze shut. Instead of making you smile, the compliment seems to hurt. It makes something in his eyes soften, hand reaching out in your direction. “... You don’t have to stop.”

For a moment, it looks like you’re considering it. Your eyes dart to the piano keys, to your hands. To the sheet music, marked over and over with colored ink and pencil lead. But, in a way that makes his heart break a little, your head shakes.

“... Can we just pretend that you didn’t see this?”

His brows furrow in confusion. “Why in the hell would I do that?”

“I…” Your head dips down a little. “People didn’t really… support me with this, growing up. They didn’t really care. People always had something else they'd rather listen to. ”

He finally closes the distance between you two, his hand coming up to rest on your cheek. Instinctively, your head tilts into it, eyes closing. 

"Honey..." His thumb brushes beneath your eye. "Do you know what that sounded like to me?" 

Your head shakes. He can’t help but lean down, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“It sounded like peace.” He lowers himself down to the floor, kneeling. “I came home today expecting to spend the next three days trying to forget all the shit I’ve seen. But for the first time in weeks,” He smiles, almost to himself. “I wasn’t thinking about any of it anymore. Just that music.”

A tear has fallen from one of your eyes, and he’s quick to kiss it away. Your head is shaking, but he stops it with his hands, both resting on your cheeks and keeping you still.

“Next time I come home from a mission, here’s what I want you to do, okay?” 

You nod tearfully, and he continues.

“I don’t want you to meet me at the door. I want you to come into this room, sit on this chair, and play for me. Please?”

Finally, a smile. A bit disbelieving, but it’s a start. 

Another kiss, this time directly on your lips. It feels like home. 

“Now, Honey, could you keep playing for me? Please?”