TheWeepingAngelOfCas

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?”

Luis’ boss walks over to him with a calm that immediately sets him on edge.

“Mr. Serra.” The man’s rough timber meets his ears, and he’s quick to stiffen up, back straightening as he turns to look at the man.

Luis tilts his head casually. “Yes?”

The man blinks a few times, lips set into a tight line. Unreadable. Then, he motions towards the door. “You and your toxicologist are wanted for a meeting. Immediately.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Luis can see you jerk a little, eyes snapping towards him. The alarm on your face is evident. He’s quick to put his hand behind his back, motioning for you to try and be calm. It doesn’t seem to work.

Instead, you stand, jaw clenching painfully as you ask. “A meeting with who?”

Luis shuts his eyes for a moment, grimacing. The higher ups didn’t like people who asked too many questions. That is made even more obvious by the way his boss curls his fingers into a fist, chest puffing out at the defiance. 

“With Osmund Saddler.” 

Oh, shit. The room falls strangely quiet. Luis doesn't remember standing. One moment he's seated with a notebook beneath his hand, the next he's slipping it closed, sliding it beneath another stack of reports before anyone can glance too closely. Across the room, you remove your gloves with practiced calm. If he didn't know you, he'd think nothing was wrong. He knows better. Your fingers are shaking.

The lab supervisor watches the both of you with folded hands. "...Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

Luis forces a crooked smile onto his face, gesturing for you to stand beside him. "Of course. Come along, genia."

He reaches for his lab coat, shrugs it over his shoulders, and falls into step beside you. The doors hiss open. Cold air gives way to even colder stone.

.

.

.

The corridors of the island always felt different outside the laboratory.

The labs were bright, clinical enough that they almost let him forget where he really was. The halls never fail to remind him just where he's come in life. Candles burn inside iron sconces despite the electrical lights overhead. Hooded villagers pass with their heads bowed, murmuring prayers beneath their breath. Every few yards stands another guard with a rifle slung across their chest. The worst part is that no one seems particularly surprised to see him. 

Luis is careful to keep his pace even and calm, despite his heart pounding angrily beneath his ribcage. His head is repeating phrases upon phrases. Reassurances to keep himself from grabbing your wrist and sprinting off. An action which would surely get you both shot. 

Don’t rush. Don’t slow down. Don’t look guilty. Just keep fucking walking, and maybe you both will get out of this alive.

When he glances at you, he can see that you’re biting the inside of your cheek. An anxious habit, he supposes. He doesn’t blame you for it. He himself is doing everything in his power not to panic.  He glances forward again, trying to keep casual, but his fingers move to just barely brush against yours. 

It’s small enough of a movement that it can be seen as accidental. Two coworkers, maybe barely close enough to be friends, just walking a little too closely together in a cramped hallway. It doesn't betray the way he'd held you until sunrise. It doesn't reveal the promises whispered between kisses, or how every plan he made now included you.  It doesn’t tell how inseparable you two have really become.

He mutters under his breath, barely audible. “It’s going to be alright, mi vida.”

“... You don’t seriously believe that, do you?” Your gaze is still set forward, lips barely moving as you speak. Another guard passes by you both, one of his hands resting on his rifle. Luis doesn’t miss the way you tremble a little at the sight of it.

“You’re right, I don’t.” Another brush of his knuckles against yours. “But, hey, one can hope, right?”

Silence settles again. He can hear boots against stone. Distant chanting somewhere deeper in the facility. The slow drip of water echoing through old corridors. Luis swallows. His mind refuses to stop working.

Did someone see the notebooks? Did one of the researchers notice pages missing? Did they discover your experiments? Did someone search his room?

The binder flashes through his thoughts. The one that is currently storing the majority of the research he’s been taking. It’s hidden beneath loose floorboards, underneath his bed. Not perfect. Nothing was perfect. He had hoped it would be safe there. That no one besides himself would look for it.

He keeps trying to reassure himself that this might just be a regular meeting, but it’s not working. Osmund Saddler didn’t schedule normal meetings. If someone met with him, it was serious. Usually in a bad way. The last researcher that met with Saddler was found dead, being chewed on by one of the experiments near the village. The memory settles over him like a lead blanket. He'd identified what remained of Dr. Diaz  himself. Or rather, the mutilated corpse the plaga had left behind. Luis remembers kneeling in damp earth, gloved fingers turning over ruined flesh while cultists stood behind him reciting scripture. The smell had lingered on his clothes for days. He hadn't slept that week.

"...Luis." Your voice pulls him back. He’s barely able to hear you over the pounding of his own heart.

His head turns a little, bowing towards you. The cult may have their gods they worship, but he only worships you. "Hm?"

"You've gone pale." Your eyes are big and watery, filled with concern. Even while terrified, you still worry about him. Something about that lulls him a little, if only for a moment.

“Ah.” This time, his shoulder bumps against yours. The warmth that connects with his shoulder grounds him just enough to keep breathing. “Impossible. I’ve always had a rugged tan.”

The corner of your mouth almost twitches, but it fades away once you look back in front of you. There’s a pair of large, heavy doors. Sturdy and solid, wood accented with touches of iron and gold. A pair of guards is already waiting, hands on the handles, ready to open them. Neither guard speaks, nor do they look at you. They simply wait for you two to get close enough before pushing the wood open.

Luis feels sweat gathering beneath the collar of his shirt. His palms are clammy. Wonderful. If Saddler wasn't about to kill him, his own heart might beat him to it. 

The door opens fully. The room beyond is one he rarely visits. It’s grand. Royal. It’s decorated less like a laboratory and more like a cathedral. Religious paintings line the walls, saints staring down from cracked canvases. Only... they aren't saints anymore. Their faces have been painted over, their halos replaced. Every image bears the same familiar symbol. The one he’s been eyeing for months now, emblazoned on as many surfaces as possible.

Los Iluminados.

His stomach knots. All of a sudden, he remembers being a young boy again. Twelve years old, kneeling in a church with his grandfather beside him. Praying to saints and martyrs and the like, his hands clasped in front of him as he repented for his sins. His God is merciful. This god, the one worshiped by the cult, is not.

Incense drifts into the hallway. Not the comforting sort burned in village churches when he was a child. Instead, it’s sweeter and heavier.  Like sage and mulberries, dancing into the air on billows of wispy smoke. It’s almost enough to cover the antiseptic smell clinging to both of your lab coats. 

A deep voice calls from inside the room. It’s one he’s only heard a few times before, but it sends shivers down his spine each time. Luis doesn't move, not immediately. Instead, he risks one final glance toward you. You're staring straight ahead, face settled into that careful neutrality you've worn since arriving on the island. The expression that says nothing. The expression that survives.

He knows it isn't real. He also knows he's grateful for it.

Without thinking, his hand brushes yours one last time. You curl your little finger around his for barely a heartbeat. So quickly that anyone watching would miss it. Then you're gone, stepping through the doorway first.

Luis follows you, just like always.

He can feel the parasite now. It’s somewhere in his chest, limbs scratching over his ribs and establishing itself over his heart. It itches and burns within him. The kind of pain that he’s only ever imagined, never been able to feel. There’s a tightness in his lungs that won’t go away. It makes breathing hard. Painful, actually. When he looks down, he can see the veins on his arms turning a sickly dark green. He can only imagine what the rest of him looks like right now. Is his face covered in the same markings? His eyes? His organs?

A weak groan pierces his train of thoughts. It’s you, whimpering into his shoulder. When he angles his head to the side, he can just barely see your face. Your eyes are squeezed shut, worry lines carved into your forehead. 

“Rabies?” He tests, turning his head forward again. When he squints and angles the flashlight just right, he can see a door up ahead. With his luck, it won’t lead to anywhere good, but anything has to be better than this.

Another hiss of pain as you respond. “‘M here.”

Your answer does nothing to reassure him. If anything, it just raises his blood pressure further. You don’t sound good. Your words are tilted and wrong, like you’re barely even there anymore. Even as he keeps walking, cold water wading up to his knees, his brain is focusing on how you’re practically slack over his shoulders. He might as well be carrying around a corpse. Shit, maybe he will be carrying around a corpse, pretty soon. You might be the medic, a former nurse, but he doesn’t need to understand medicine to see how far gone you are. 

He wonders how Ashley is. How far her parasite has progressed. Does she have that same feeling in her chest right now? The same broiling, burning, stinging pain? God, what are those cultists doing to her? The poor thing is alone right now, probably terrified out of her mind. 

“... Keep- Keep them out…”

You’re mumbling, he realizes. Not to him, no. Mumbling to no one. Mumbling to whatever fever dream your heat addled brain is showing you.

You keep saying things, even as he gets to the door and opens it. Cold air hits him as he peers inside. It looks like some old kind of lab, all metal and rust and clinical tables. It doesn’t look safe, but it’s probably safer than the cave. 

Your head sways alongside his movements. “.... Don’t let them into peds… Lock the doors…”

Water drips off of him as he steps inside, echoing wetly against the floor. He shivers as another cold chill hits his body, only amplified by the water. 

“Room twelve… There’s still someone in room twelve.”

Peds. Room twelve. Keep them out.

Something clicks in his brain and it makes his heart ache, for more reasons than just the parasite.

Nobody does this line of work by choice. 

The word ‘outbreak’ nearly hits him over the head. He can only imagine it. You, years ago, clad in pastel scrubs covered in blood and bile. Some kind of monster chasing you down as you tried to help some faceless kid. Is that how it had gone? What outbreak had you even been part of? There’s been quite a few that he can think of. But then his brain interjects the words you said earlier, while comforting Ashley on that floral patterned couch. Back when you were still coherent.

“It must’ve been… 6 years ago- ish.”

6 years ago. He does the math.

1998.

Realization hits him so hard that he nearly drops you. Only one major outbreak happened in that year. He should know. He was there.

Raccoon City.

For a moment, he’s dizzy. The world tilts and spins around him, threatening to throw him to the ground. His brain is flashing back to that damn night. The screaming and gunfire. Faces contorted in pain. Bodies destroyed by the virus. Corpses walking towards him, teeth bared and ready to bite. 

You’re still muttering something over his shoulders, fingers twitching against his arm.

“Close that door… They’re getting in!”

His own hand finds yours. For a moment, he can’t tell if it’s you that’s shaking, or him. He’s not sure he’ll like the answer either way. His mind is still somewhere back in that damn city. The city that you must’ve been in too. His worst day and yours are intertwined. How far away from him had you been? The hospital wasn’t far from the police station. Had you been there while he was? Been fighting for your life at the same time as him?

“... He’s only six… Please, carry him… He can’t run fast enough…”

His grip on your hand tightens. What had you seen back then? Who did you try to protect? Just how horribly, horribly wrong had it gone?

He feels a drop of wetness land on his bicep. When he glances over, there’s fever sweat dripping down your forehead. Your body feels too hot against his. Part of him debates doubling back to the cave. Dipping you in the cold water to try and get you to cool down. But, he knows that would probably only make it worse.

Your lips move again, and he stops in his tracks.

“... Officer… Please…”

His breathing halts. His body freezes.  You keep going anyway. 

“Please save him… That thing bit him… Don’t-! Don’t shoot!”

Your words are going frantic, body jerking and arms twitching. Leon has to force himself to move again. Carefully, he lowers himself, letting you slide off of him. His arms stop you from hitting the floor, instead lowering you down carefully, setting your upper body against a low pair of cabinets. At the motion, your eyes fly open, but your pupils don’t land on him. They flit about the room, taking in everything but nothing all at once. He positions himself in front of you, so that his face is the only thing you can see.

“Rabies?”

Your head shakes a little, limbs weak beside you. When he lifts a hand to your forehead, he nearly has to pull it back. You feel burning hot against the rough skin of his palm. Slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you, he moves his hands to your arms, grabbing you. His touch seems to jolt you a little, pupils finally finding him and staying there.

Weakly, shakily, your head raises a little.

“... Leon…?” You sound unsure, like you don’t know if it’s him or someone else.

He nods. For a second, he wonders if you’re seeing him, or another person. A different officer from the same city that doesn’t exist anymore. How close had you two been back then? Within a mile of each other? Less?

There’s a sweaty clump of hair stuck to the side of your face, and he pushes it behind your ear cautiously. He lets your eyes track his hand. Lets you try and remember where you are and what’s going on. 

“Rabies, you need to listen to me.”

A small noise in acknowledgement. It makes his chest ache.

“I’m going to get you and Ashley out of here, alright?”

You nod, but he’s not quite sure if you understand what he’s saying. Your head perks up just a little when he says Ashley’s name, but you’re quick to settle it back against the metal cabinets again. 

Leon grits his teeth, whipping his head around to take in his surroundings again. There’s an elevator, but it looks to be powered off. With any luck, the power control is a little deeper into the facility. But, is it safe? Is it too dangerous to drag you in there with him? Or would it be worse for him to leave you here while he restores the power? You’re closing your eyes again, face going slack with exhaustion. It sends adrenaline racing through his veins.

The shotgun is still strapped to your back. Carefully, gingerly, he leans you forward, taking it off of you and depositing it into your hands. 

“I’m going to be back, okay? I’m not leaving you here.” He pats the shotgun, pushing it further into your hands. When he checks, there’s still a handful of rounds left. “Use this if anything comes through that door.”

Your fingers curl weakly around the barrel of the shotgun, other hand going to the grip of it. Your eyes still don’t open. 

“... Okay.”

He nods, letting out a low breath. When he stands, he spares one last glance to you. Still on the floor, body propped up halfway while your hands hold the gun that almost looks too strong for you. Hours ago, he knows that you could have handled that weapon just fine. Now? He’s not sure how you’re even still conscious. 

He takes a step, and freezes. Somewhere, deeper into the facility, he can hear something. A scraping noise. Loud. Harsh. Metal on metal, it sounds like. The noise rings through his body, reverberating in his head. The sound isn’t coming from machinery or lab equipment, no. It’s coming from something alive.

One last glance back. Your head has gone slack, resting all of your weight on the cabinets. Then, he starts moving. 

.

.

.

The further into the lab he goes, the worse it feels. 

The noises aren’t stopping. They move around him slowly, like they’re following him through the walls. Sometimes, when he stops moving and tilts his head to hear it better, the noise seems to stop with him. Whatever it is, it’s tracking him. As he moves, the scraping noise goes from above him, to his side, and then somewhere impossibly far to the left.

He’s unnerved, yes, but part of him is almost relieved. If it’s tracking him, then it’s leaving you alone. At least this way, he knows where it is. He knows it can’t hurt you if it’s on him. 

When he finally reaches the power switch, it feels painfully easy to flip it back on. Across the lab, back where he left you, he can hear the elevator power on. He turns, ready to get back to you, ready to get the hell out of here-

The metal grate next to his head explodes, shards of metal and debris flying out towards him. He barely manages to dodge it in time, shards of steel coming within inches of his body. Something flies through the wall. Huge. Dark as night. He’s turning on his heels within an instant, trying to catch sight of whatever nightmare he’s about to face.

The creature in front of him is massive. It has a semi human face, though contorted and mixed with something insectoid. Its body is covered in some kind of chitin, stretched limbs covered in the armor. It’s staring right at him, a strange, high pitched chittering noise coming from the mandibles in front of its jaw. It stares at him, unblinking, limbs folding and unfolding like a praying mantis. 

Leon doesn’t think. He readies his pistol, turns, and runs.

It chases after him with reckless abandon, limbs creaking and snapping as it runs. He doesn’t look back. He has to get back to you. To grab you, throw you into that elevator, and get the hell out of here. With any luck, he can somehow slow it down enough so that it won’t follow. When he comes across a turn, he nearly skids off balance, somehow managing to stay on his feet and keep going. The monster slams into the wall as it tries to follow, a few bricks shaking loose. It stops for a moment, its body chittering and jerking, before sprinting at him again.

Just as he comes across another turn, he spins, pistol up and firing. Bullets hit the thing square in its forehead, flesh exploding and blood spitting out. But the thing keeps coming, even as chunks of its face are slipping off its body to the floor. When he shoots lower, trying to take out the creatures makeshift knees, the bullets just ricochet uselessly off of the chitin. 

He’s about to keep running, to keep trying to slow it down, when a noise interrupts him. 

Across the facility, he can hear a groan of pain. Breathy and feminine. Yours.

The creature stops in its tracks, turning its head inquisitively. A few more odd chirps spill from the creature’s mutated jaws.

Then, it turns away from him, towards a vent in the wall, and barrels through it. Out of sight in a flash. He can hear the scraping noise from before, this time farther away from him. Towards…

“Shit!” Leon moves so fast that it amplifies the pain in his heart, the burning in his lungs. He ignores the way it tries to steal his breath away. “Rabies!”

He’s taking off before he can think. His muscles ache, his lungs feel like they’re going to burst. The parasite in his chest feels like it’s clenching around his heart, constricting him. Stopping him. But he keeps moving. Even as pained spots bleed into his vision, white stars forming in front of his eyes.

The pain doesn’t matter. He has to get to you before that thing does. 

When he finally skids back to the room he left you in, body aching and head dizzy, he wants to scream in relief that the monster isn’t there. You’re still against the cabinet, head limp but body tense, hands clutching the shotgun. But, then he glances over to the elevator.

It isn’t there yet.

The dials above the doors show that the elevator itself is only about halfway to you both. The dial is moving lazily, the mechanisms slow. Fuck. It’s going to take at least a few more minutes for it to arrive. 

His heart drops, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. The wall beside him explodes into shards of brick. In a flash of shiny black, the creature is barreling past him, going straight towards you.

He’s about to scream, to run, to shoot, anything. Anything to keep it away from you. He doesn’t get the chance.

A blast rings out.

You’re still sitting there, looking feverish and exhausted, Your face is still flushed, shoulder still bleeding. But, your arms are up, shotgun aimed perfectly at the thing's face. Your eyes are slits, your pupils struggle to focus, but the barrel stays trained squarely on its face. 

It stops for a moment, more red cascading down its features, head snapped at an unnatural angle. Then, it roars. A high pitched, awful noise. One that grates on his ears and makes his head hurt. Leon doesn’t waste the opportunity. He’s surging forward, past beast, past the blood and the spent shotgun shells. His hand grabs your good arm, forcing you upright even as your body fails. His arm moves to loop around your waist, tugging you deeper into the lab. If he can move fast enough, then maybe, just maybe, he can avoid the thing until the elevator arrives. 

“What’s- What’s happening?” Your head is tucked down, and though he isn’t looking, he can imagine your eyes are closed again. Your body is almost completely limp, legs not supporting any of your weight. It’s slowing him down, but he’s going to have to manage. 

His head shakes, hand gripping along your side. “Don’t worry about it. Just stay conscious.” 

Your boots scrape uselessly against the floor, as though you're still trying to walk under your own power. Behind him, he can hear the noise again. Metal on metal. Creaking limbs. The horrible scraping noise as the monster keeps hauling towards you both. The noise only spurs him on, his feet hitting the floor harder, legs moving to keep going faster. Still, it’s not fast enough. He can hear it rushing him, getting closer every second. The ground beneath him shakes as it gets closer. He can tell it’s within a few feet of him now, so close that he can feel air move as claws swipe in his direction.

He does the only thing he can to get you out of harms way. He drops you.

You fall to the floor, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. But, it works. Instead of you, the creature hits him full force. It sends his body flying sideways, hitting the wall with a sickening crunch. Pain blooms in his back. Sharp. Intense. Heavy. For a second, his vision whites out, the world disappearing away. Even his hearing dissolves into a high pitched ringing as fire shoots down his spine. He feels like he’s going to vomit. 

“Leon!” Your voice breaks him out of his trance. You’re on the floor, eyes trying to track him as the creature steps closer to his frame. “Move!”

Your hand is reaching up, towards a button that he hadn’t seen before. It’s glowing a dull green in the dimmed lights, so faint that he can barely see it himself. Before he can process what you’re doing, he’s up, throwing himself to the side. He has no idea what you’re reaching for, but he does it anyway. At the same time, your hand slaps the button, and you roll over best you can, shielding your face from whatever seems to be coming.

Freezing white mist billows up from the floor in an instant. 

Even from feet away, the cold chill sends a shiver down his spine. Leon watches in awe as the creature bellows in what seems to be agony, white enveloping its hulking form. It flails, claws reaching for him, but the movements are slowed and sloppy. Each motion makes its limbs creak hollowly, struggling to move as the freezing cold takes hold of its body.

By the time the white stops, the creature is frozen in place, limbs still reaching out emptily towards his body. His eyes flick from the frozen creature to you. You're still on the floor, breathing hard. The shotgun has slipped from your grasp, laying beside you on the floor.

“Holy shit.” The words leave him as a breath of overheated air. His pupils track how close the thing’s claws had gotten to his body. Its outstretched fingers are within inches of his chest. Up close, the claws are even sharper. Almost like daggers.

You’re shaking again, he realizes. It hits him like cold water.

You look up at him as he stands, head weakly moving to follow his steps.

“... Are you- You okay?”

Fuck. You still sound awful. He has to shake away his worry. With any luck, Luis and his medicines are close. He said he had something to help you. To help Ashley. Hell, to help him. He has to keep moving, and he has to do it now.

He does his best to put on a reassuring smile.

“I’m fine, Rabies. Let’s get to that elevator.”

“We fucking hated each other, didn’t we?” Your voice chimes in beside him, your own hand joining his. The wedding ring on your finger catches his eye, and he smiles when he sees it. It’s still the best damn decision he’s ever made. 

He flips the page. “We did, yeah.”

Another photo. This one, he’s in the DSO office, typing up a report. You’re behind him, about to smack his arm for some kind of prank he had played on you. Sherry had been the one to take that photo. He had been 37 at the time, he thinks. Funnily enough, you and him had gone out on a date only a week after.

“You were kind of a jerk, I hope you know.” Your finger gestures to the image on the bottom left corner. You were in a hospital after a mission, your arm getting bandaged up after a bad scuffle. Leon is beside you, sneaking a swig of his flask.

“I was an alcoholic, not a jerk. Big difference.”

You shrug. “Two things can be true, you know.” Your finger taps the flash in the image, “And how the hell did you even get that into a hospital?”

He crosses over his heart dramatically. “I’ll never tell.”

The page gets turned again. This time, it's one of his favorite photos. The wedding day. You’re in a stunning dress, him in a tux that he was only a little reluctant to wear. There’s a tiny bit of your lipstick on his collar, which he had only realized was there after the day was over and the pictures were taken. At the time, he had been embarrassed. Now, it makes him smile.

“You looked so beautiful.” He whispers, and your hand lightly smacks his arm.

You roll your eyes. “That dress was so tight, I couldn’t breathe properly.”

“And you looked beautiful, even if you couldn’t breathe.”

In a flash, your lips go to his cheek, and it leaves him reeling. “How did I ever convince you to date me?”

A giggle. It’s so light and happy that he feels a little dizzy. “You offered me a nice dinner, and promised to stop stealing my lunch from the office fridge. That was a good enough deal for me.”

“In my defence,” He laughs, “Your lunches tasted better than mine.”

“Because your lunches were nothing, Leon.” 

His hands raise above his head, eyes rolling. “They weren’t nothing!”

“A can of diet coke and a protein bar aren’t lunch. It’s a depression meal.”

His body leans closer to yours. You’re warm against him, smelling like your sweet perfume. It swirls around his head, relaxing his soul. “Mm. And now, I have your lunches forever.”