under a blue moon i saw you / so soon you'll take me /
up in your arms too late to beg you / or cancel it though i know it must be
FALL
The world is blurry except for the edge of the tapestry. There's something about it that feels hauntingly familiar in light of the blur of horrible hues he'd seen in the last seventy-two hours. It's edged with gold, glinting in the artificial glow, a burst of stardust against the void of space. The air is too crisp in the enclosed room — filtered, free of disturbance.
It only seemed to put him further on edge.
The tick, tick, ticking of the clock was all but quantifying the seconds that no action was being taken, his own existence at a horrid stand still. Every bone seems to vibrate within his skin with nervous, kinetic energy. His fingers itch absently for the familiar caress of a trigger, the condemning click of the safety. Yet, he was still, feet planted to the floor, fingers digging too hard into the chair handle. And really, that was probably not a good thing, if he looked at it.
It's cruel to deny something its nature.
"Leon?" All at once, the world magnifies, the room fills with incredulous stares, breathing bathed in judgment.
"I heard you," Leon responds, and he had, "my request isn't changing."
"You can't actually be serious about taking this on," continues President Graham, his face only growing more concerned by the minute.
"Sir, I understand your worry," In fact, Leon shared the damn worry. This didn't seem normal to the president? What about him? Because it certainly was not fucking normal. Yet, he couldn't ignore it, the knowledge of what had occurred and his play in the chain of events. Judgment did not turn its face away from those who try to shut their eyes to it. He knew that now, "it's my duty to tie up loose ends. It benefits us all if I do it."
President Graham brings his hand to his face, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Leon had seen this look many times — in meetings, reflected in mirrors, even at a distance: the exasperation was tangible. He didn't care. At this point, there was no budging, and if Leon had to go it alone — then fuck it. He'd done worse alone, and would again.
A car whirs by outside, the chilled air of fall making branches tap against the window, and yet the world stands still. Then, a pulse of electric blue mets Leon's gaze, wide with clarity and understanding.
"You saved my daughter," he begins, the words ringing with the somber bell of gratitude, "and for your information, Ashley asked me the same favor nearly word for word. I can't ignore this conspiring to push me into a decision. This becomes a personal matter to me, in this case, as I'm sure you understand."
"Sir, I swear, I didn't ask her to vouch for me," Leon responds with genuine surprise, biting back the urge to swear. An undetected variable in this conversation was not what he wanted. This would only work out if Leon held all the cards, and now, he wondered if he was playing a losing game, "and respectfully, we both saved your daughter."
That makes the room go unmistakably quiet, the drop of a pin threatening to become an earthquake. An impasse. Fuck, Leon thinks, eloquently.
"If I'm going to allow this to happen, at your request and my daughter's," President Graham says evenly, "I need to know: who is this man to you? From the government standpoint, which you're familiar with by now, he is a criminal and worked on things that could contribute to mass genocide. So, please, tell me how exactly you know this Luis Serra won't kill us all?"
It'd been a full sixteen hours since he'd last heard Luis' name, not that he was counting, but it felt like it stuck into him — deep. He feels the sting of it now, the ache over his heart where the plagas was burned out of him, reborn into life anew. Leon swallows, attempting to gather his thoughts although they seem to overgrow: swelling sentiments fight amongst one another to be said in his brain, exhaustion making his eyes burn.
But he couldn't rest yet, and if the shoe were on the other foot, would Luis damn him? Send him to whatever lowlife was trying to rip apart the planet, and let them stick him with needles? Maybe inject him with a virus when Leon wasn't looking, and then never see Luis again, except in fevered madness? The choice was far too easy, and yet the repercussions would be heavier than steel.
Leon could bear the weight, though. For Luis, he would try.
"When I was out there, facing those people — those monsters, he could have just turned his back on us," Leon takes time to keep his tone measured, and guarded, closed off from what the living the experience was like, "but he didn't. Luis showed up, for Ashley and I both, when the easier option was to just let us die. I understand the way his past looks, but.."
I don't want anyone else to get hurt.
"He helped me carry your daughter to— get this freak thing out of us. Without him, we would be dead, just like the rest of the residents. We owe him our lives. I can't just do nothing," His lungs seem to be shrinking with each syllable, his vision going dangerously dark at their edges. Leon forces himself to breathe, feeling the stitches on his chest burn with protest. His body winces, but he suppresses it, digging his fingers into his own palm to ground himself.
Tick, tick, tick.
President Graham sighs.
"I assume you'll want to take leave to handle this caretaking," It's said like an evil word, as if Leon is being difficult. Leon works his jaw in a desperate attempt to bite back his immediate responses, "you've done enough to warrant that. That said, I'm not as convinced regarding your — friend. I have a lot of respect for you, Leon."
Bullshit, Leon thinks viciously.
"Based upon that, I'll allow it," He relents, voice grave and low. Leon feels nearly euphoric with his relief, "on one condition: when he's stable, you hand him over to us."
Well, that was short lived. This was less of a condition, and more of an ultimatum. Not like it'd be the first time they'd done this, though, was it? Pressing his tongue against his teeth in irritation, Leon breathes deeply through his nose.
It was a bridge he'd have to cross when he came to it, and here was hoping that Luis could open the door to a new possibility yet again.
"I accept your terms," because it was the best he was going to fucking get, "thank you, sir."
Really, he'd be willing to accept anything that would sate the pulsating energy that seemed to waft off of him. With the conversation now leaning in his favor, his body seems to catch up, sizzling to life with the energy that had been absent for the last few minutes. Leon stands, presumptuously, but he can't bring himself to care.
The silence in the room after is telling, but Leon pays it no mind on his way to the door, his fingers wrapping around the handle as if his freedom were a tangible thing.
"I'm trusting you with this," President Graham says, all but stopping Leon in his tracks, "don't make me regret it."
Leon doesn't dignify that sentiment with a response, letting the door click behind him, cutting the conversation entirely. It didn't matter if they didn't agree with him, anyway. Despite every obstacle that seemed to try to wedge itself in his way, he was still making steady progress. There was a chance everything would fall in his favor. It had to, else.. he wasn't sure what he'd do. This existence was all but unbearable, and every second wasted seemed to cinch around him tighter — a metaphorical noose.
Entirely on autopilot, he finds himself in front of the elevator, finger pressing the button. Velvet softens his impatient foot tapping, his dress shoes refracting light from the lamps like stars, and Leon stares at them in detached bemusement. Was this who he was? Well cleaned shoes and laundered button ups, standing amongst men who had no idea what it was like to trudge through grime, or worse? They clink their glasses of champagne, laugh amongst themselves, and the whole world burns?
Is that what he was meant to be protecting?
Finally, the elevator dings its arrival, doors whirring open.
Hunnigan stands in the elevator, lips pursed, but seemingly unsurprised to see him.
"Hey Leon," she greets, inquisitive stare dragging over his face, "just the person I was looking for. Good timing."
"I try," Leon responds, stepping to the side to let her onto the floor, "what's up?"
"I got the list of supplies you asked me for," she reaches into the folder pressed under her arm, retrieving a sizable packet, "it has the instructions too, just as you asked. I have to say though, this is a pretty extensive list. Are you—"
"I appreciate you getting this for me," Leon interjects, putting the paper under his arm, then using his free arm to stop the elevator door from closing. It dings its protest.
"Leon, what happened on the island? You still haven't signed off on the official report. Can you at least explain why—"
"It's a long story, and I'm running for a limited time. You can call me to vet the details later," Leon pulls his eyes away from her, stepping into the confines of the elevator, silence replaced with its comforting whir. Hunnigan looks at him, crossing her arms, lips pulling down as she gives him a look.
"You know what my favorite thing about you is?" Hunnigan asks, pointedly rhetoric.
"Everything," Leon quips, on reflex.
"That you let me finish my sentences," She says, and if tones could kill, Leon would be strung up by his intestines about now, "I'll call you."
The doors close damningly, and then Leon is alone. He lets the breath out of his lungs in a long burst, listening to the elevator as it digs its way down toward the lobby.
"Burning a lot of bridges today," Leon murmurs to himself, staring at his misshapen reflection in the steel doors. This would be something that would concern him later, undoubtedly, but for now he only felt achy and so damn tired. But that didn't matter right now — the priority was Luis' safety. That took precedence over everything else, and until it was dealt with, his own rest was included on that list. He wouldn't protect those who laugh as others suffer. It had to be different.
People can change, right?
Leon was finding that they could, even if they weren't trying to.
—
His condo was very spacious, not that it was being utilized well. When Leon had bought it, two years ago after his training with Krauser, he'd gotten it for convenience. It was just under an hour drive from the president's personal property, and a little over to get to work. Despite living there for a few years, Leon had never found it much of a home. Just a transitory point, until his next calling would find him, then he'd suit up and go save who he could.
The two rooms had been an unnecessary purchase, but the realtor had pushed the idea upon him. That he could maybe have a study, or a roommate, or hey, when you get a beautiful girlfriend for your caliber — it can be a nursery. It was almost humorous to look years later, to see a wooden desk that gathers dust, papers stacked upon it from various cases over the years.
Leon now thinks vividly about chopping it apart with an axe. The early 1900s style had been nicely vintage at first, beautiful with its cherry wood boldness. Its weight was not so welcome now that Leon braced his arms against it, shoving it into the corner. Sweat makes his neck itch uncomfortably, his hair sticking to his forehead, his stitches screaming where he flexes to exert force.
You'll need to take it easy, the nurse had said when they'd dressed the wound and stitched it closed, her eyes sharp with worry.
You try resting after what I've been through, Leon had wanted to say, but bit it back, people still need me.
Hesitating only leads to people getting hurt, dying, or falling victim to one of the thousand fates that were worse than death. He'd seen a few hundred of them now, it felt, and Leon was not apt to witness any more. So he acts, continuously, helpless to his own momentum. With an offending scrape, the desk finally presses flush to the wall, and Leon pants a little hoarsely.
After everything, this shit is kicking my ass? You've gotta be kidding, Leon ruminates, listening to how his panting echoes, waiting for something though he couldn't be sure what. There wasn't anything to accompany him, yet the revelation brought him no comfort. He wasn't positive on what any of that meant, just that it was strange that he'd never noticed how alone he was in the room until now. Maybe it was expected since he rarely spent time in his own space anyway, but there was the strangest feeling that something should be there, but wasn't.
Fighting his urge to agonize, Leon walks back into his living room, white boxes stacked in various places. He still wasn't entirely finished, either, the last things were being delivered shortly. He grabs one in his hands, grunting in effort when it proves to be heavier than Leon anticipated. The contents clank noisily as Leon moves them into the room, setting them on the desk. He repeats the same process, slowly migrating the boxes, watching as his living room empties anew.
His black, tattered leather couch sits lonely against the blank white wall, and although it should be rid of — he'd had it since he was twenty. History weighted it in its rightful place beside an old, musty lap, which haloed his sad, wilted plant that Hunnigan had given him upon moving into the place. He thinks of watering it, before devoting himself back to his task at hand, prioritizing what mattered most.
Dutifully, Leon unloads the boxes, breaking down the white cardboard once he was finished. First came basic things — gloves, gauze, bandages. Then, more hefty items: needles, syringes, iodine, and a bedpan Leon prayed he never had to use in practice. He gets to the blood pressure machine and assembles it, putting it on the desk among scattered papers as he continues unpacking.
He opens the last box in a whirlwind, entirely too excited to have the damn thing over with, and pauses when he's greeted with the clouded plastic of an IV bag, and its cords curled like guts. They looked even more so when filled with blood, twisting and turning and transporting life. Leon swallows, watching his own hand reach to grab the items, though he wasn't actively thinking about it. His fingers are clammy when he grabs the plastic, wet with perspiration.
The last time he'd touched this — it had been —
His breath stutters out of his lungs, and he feels suddenly enclosed in a vacuum, his body screaming from lack of oxygen. Leon feels his brow furrow, his spine pulling ramrod straight in reaction. Oh god, he needed to fucking breathe. What the fuck was wrong with him? He hadn't been like this after Raccoon City, but he hadn't had much down time after anyway. Closing his eyes, he thinks of — Martin, his steady hand pressing his blade into Leon's own, as if it were blessed by God to ward off the Hell exploding around them. Then, Claire, with her surefire grin and gung ho attitude. Finally, Sherry, with her bright eyed stare, and innocent smile. The pulse of their hands ghost between his fingers like a phantom pain.
The air finally thins, and Leon breathes in, his lungs expanding suddenly. He closes the box and kicks it under the desk, deciding that would be a problem for his future self to deal with. Now idle, his hands tremble in the wake of his ignited nervous system, awaiting a threat that wasn't coming. What could come, after all? A shrouded monk with blackened nails and yellowed irises? A parasite, scurrying from under the floorboards, crawling up his body to claim its new host? He knew these things to be absent, yet his heart thudded, an uneven drum.
A chime sounds from his living room, and Leon jolts, blood roaring in his ears.
"Shit," he breathes, moving toward the source of the noise.
His phone shines like a beacon on his small dining table in the kitchen, the lonely chairs facing him sadly as he reaches to grab the device, flipping it open to press it to his ear.
"Hello?" Leon answers, entirely too curt.
"Is this Leon Kennedy?" The woman on the other line asks, tinnily nervous.
"Yes, it is," the tone of response is softened, guilty for this panicked brashness, "how can I help you?"
"We're calling about the delivery from District of Columbia Pharmacy."
"Yeah," Leon confirms, waiting for her to continue.
"I see that you're having a fully built drop off, and you've gotten the best available equipment. Will you need any help transporting it?" Something in her tone was putting him off, and Leon sucks his teeth impatiently as she types quietly in the background, oblivious. It had been the same tone when Leon had called the first time to request the equipment. The steady horror of what he'd ordered dawning upon them, unwelcome curiosity focused upon him for what he may be doing.
To which his response is, none of your goddamn business, lady.
"No."
"You're sure? This equipment is very—"
"—Expensive. Yes, I know. I can handle it myself," Why was that so goddamn hard to get people to understand? For fuck's sake.
"Okay, well… Thank you, sir. Your delivery is slated for about fifteen minutes from now. Please meet the driver at the curb," she says, artificially joyful.
"Thanks," Leon says, flipping the phone closed, not bothering to wait for her response. He could probably use some fresh air. Stepping out of the second room, he walks back to his bedroom, pushing open the door with his shoulder, mind already occupied with how he'd move everything upstairs. Then, the idea of interacting with the world comes to mind, and he glances down at himself. He was still in his workout shorts that cut off just above his knee, thick with cotton to absorb his sweat. His shirt was a dark navy, on the lighter side, but starting to stick to his chest since he was doing so much labor.
It'd been two days since he'd left his job, which meant it was a Wednesday. Leon had been heavily preoccupied since then, running around town to find supplies, pulling it together with the knowledge Hunnigan had armed him with. Typically, he'd be much better dressed and far more productive, but the weight of reality had been crushing. Leon was straining with the effort, physically and god help him, emotionally.
He'd never felt so hollowed out, so cavernous and empty. Something had to fucking give, because at this rate, Leon couldn't maintain such an existence much longer. He felt like a man possessed, a part of him brutalized and resurrected only to come back wrong. He was grappling with it, the murky uncertainty that turned his stomach to lead. Everyone had to be able to see how he was losing his grip. It felt obvious to him, the entire world turns its cruel eye to him, magnifying his own gorey feelings.
He needed to be invisible for just a little longer, until everything was in working order, a plan so crystal clear he could see the future. The first step would be to look presentable. He grips at the collar of his shirt, stripping the damp cotton from his body, hissing when it catches the gauze and bandage on his chest. Ignoring the pain that seemed to ignite like a forest fire, he drops the shirt in the basket wedged in the bottom of his closet. He grabs a polo shirt, crisp in his closet from sitting there awhile. He yanks it over his head, pulling it into place haphazardly.
Impatiently thinking of the delivery, Leon yanks his shorts down his hips, his bare feet hitting the cool wood floor. He pulls a pair of washed out jeans from his closet, intent on complimenting the warm beige of his button up. By the time he reaches the door, he looks like more of a person: well dressed, hair combed, but Leon knew he didn't look exactly — well. Sane could be the only word for it. Was this what a psychotic break felt like? Was one aware they were going through one?
At the door, he pulls his boots off his shoe rack, stuffing them on with more force than necessary. If the steel enforced boot scrapes his ankle a little painfully, then Leon just ignores it, tying them on the edge of too tight. Although it felt like he was overheating, Leon chooses to grab a jacket anyway, all too aware of the bitter chill of eastern cold. The proximity to the ocean could freeze a man dead in winter months, and Leon didn't want to feel uncomfortable.
After an entirely too long pause, Leon finally opens his door and steps into the hallway.
All quiet, tranquil safety is lost in an instant as a horn blares closeby, echoing unpleasantly up the stairwell. Leon shakes his head, wry smile cutting his face.
"Some things never change," he says to himself, locking his door soundly.
Behind him, a creak sounds from across the hall, and Leon spins to face the source entirely too fast. On reflex, his hand flies to his hip for a gun that wasn't there, his heart jackrabbiting.
"Oh, Leon," Says a frail voice, and Leon realizes with sudden clarity that it's his neighbor. The best part of his building was that the top floor had only two units across from one another, sharing a living room wall, while the lower floors had three condos.
"Hi Gertrude," Was her name, a small retired woman that lived alone with her schnauzer, Max. He now yaps behind her joyously at the sound of a new party, desperate to get undivided attention. They'd met a handful of times, when Leon insisted on carrying her groceries into the elevator and then her kitchen. He remembers being fascinated by the stained glass window that faced the street above her sink. It might give him the creeps now. Leon gives her a small smile, his lip curving up at its edge.
"I saw you've been moving a lot of boxes in," she says, her voice tinkling like bells, "are you moving in a girlfriend, maybe?"
Leon feels his ears burn at the interpretation of his manic energy lately. Talk about yikes.
"Ah, no," he says, nipping the idea in the bud, "just a — friend. He's been through a lot and needs some help."
"Then what a good friend you are," she says, showing her silver stamped grin as she looks at him, "you should hold onto that. Everyone needs a person like that."
"I'll keep that in mind," Leon says, feeling his tiredness momentarily escape him, "it sounds like Max is all for it."
"Oh, that's because to him, you're his best friend. He knows you always give him scratches," she says good naturedly. Max barks his approval in tandem.
"Well, let him know I'll pay him a visit," Leon says meaningfully, and her crooked grin is worth it.
"Please do. I'm sure he'd love to meet your friend, too!"
Maybe, Leon thinks opting for the stairs in hopes the exertion will make him less jittery. His boots thud heavily on each stair, loud in the enclosed space, announcing his descent. Leon wonders in a sick way if this was some kind metaphor for insanity.
He reaches the street and walks out into the world, the sunlight soft through the clouds, and on his face, warm in a way he hadn't felt in awhile. Leon blinks in the aftermath, eyes sweeping the street, looking for who he was supposed to meet. He watches as the wind gently shakes the leaves on the trees lining the street, warm hues staining them as they gently fall toward the earth. It was nearly the evening now, amber gold burning across the cool blue sky. It stole the breath from his lungs with its serenity, the scene burning itself onto his tired eyelids.
It was beautiful, and Leon felt strangely melancholic to be looking at it alone.
As if the universe heard him, a loud, rumbling truck turns down the street, squeezing in between cars tightly. Leon wanders to the edge of the street, waiting in a place that he was easily sighted. After driving up to where he stands, the truck stalls, pushing into park and rumbling softly. A slam erupts from the otherside as the driver's side opens, heaving themselves out and moving to the back. Leon naturally follows suit, meeting the driver at the back of the scuffed truck.
It's a man, bulky with a crooked nose. His cheeks are sunburnt and peeling, bleach blonde hair tucked under his cap. He whistles a little, then laughs to himself, playing with his keys instead of unlocking the back even though Leon was standing there, very obviously waiting for him. Really, could nothing about this endeavor be easy?
"You the guy?" The man finally asks, his strong jaw working as he looks over Leon dubiously. His tag says Cole, and Leon has the inkling that his name should be more like prick.
"Yeah, I'm the guy," Leon retorts, tone unforgiving.
"Cool," Is the very intelligent response, grubby hands reaching for paperwork that is secured to a clipboard. With interest, the man whistles loudly, eyes scanning the delivery slip, "damn. Not everyday you spend fifty grand on medical supplies in one swoop.. you got a grandma you're moving in?"
I'm about to have a body to move, if you don't leave me alone, Leon thinks darkly, but wisely says nothing.
"No," He says, blunt as a sledgehammer.
"Oh," Idiot continues, nodding to himself as he slowly opens the back of the truck. Leon steps forward and begins unloading it ahead of him, spurred forward by the simmering annoyance that seemed to be steadily building since his conversation with the president. The drop-off seems to pay no mind to his frantic, unbridled energy, continuing with a smack of his lips, "you got a sick girlfriend, then? She must be banging if you're doing all this for her."
Leon pauses what he's doing, casting a look over his shoulder that he hoped was so withering, it'd turn the kid to stone. Their eyes catch, and it seems to do the trick, as it's blissfully silent outside distant traffic, humming in the infinite distance. What the fuck was up with people asking him about this shit today? Leon works to unload the equipment, first the bubble wrapped monitor with its wheels, then the large, rectangular plastic of the respirator. He pulls a few trays out as well, gently placing them upon asphalt.
Then, walks to the back of the van, hearing his own breathing echoing off the metal wetly. There sits a medical bed, barely illuminated by the lingering light outside, feeling like a beacon. It reminded him eerily of the way the chair had lit up in the lab, when the three of them stumbled inside, broken, and bruised, and conjoined like one being.
Leon reaches for the brake on the bed, mindful of the plastic wrapped around the rails on the sides. He unlocks it, the wheels clicking into movement, and Leon pushes it toward the openness of the street, closer to its rightful place in his condo. Once the bed reaches the edge of the vehicle he stops, walking to jump back outside and pulling the bed out, using its heavy weight to levy it toward the ground.
"You good, dude?" Cole asks from the sidelines.
"Yep," Leon says, putting his leg up on the bumper for better leverage to tilt the bed further down. The wheels get stuck, and Cole coughs a little, clearly to cover a laugh. Leon fights the urge to curse, refusing to show his frustration or lose his composure, pulling with insistence. His chest burns horribly, but he ignores the tightness that pricked at his skin painfully. The frame creaks a little worryingly before rattling as the wheels roll off, finally getting down to the asphalt.
See? He could handle everything easily.
Then the entire bed comes down, faster than Leon can account for, slamming him hard in the thighs when he steps in front of the damn thing to keep it from hitting another car on the street. Cole makes a surprised noise from beside him, and when Leon straightens, he feels the aching pool of blood beneath his skin. That would definitely leave a goddamn mark.
"Jesus! Be careful, bro," Cole admonishes, and Leon no longer has the patience to reign in his urges.
"How about you be quiet, bro," Leon finally snaps, pulling the stray equipment over the curb. Reaching to snatch the clipboard from Cole's hands, he signs blindly at the bottom, handing it back without even a glance.
"Have a nice day," is called after him, clearly offended by Leon's lack of acknowledgement.
"You too," Leon says icily, pulling the respirator up to the curb, "asshole."
It felt a little childish to stack everything atop the medical bed, a clear test of fate. Attempting to take it all in one load would prove to be disastrous, but Leon had a habit of towing the line a little too closely. There was a chance it would work, and those odds were worth fighting for. When everything was in a hazardous pile, Leon pushes it back toward his building, through the door. When he'd passed earlier, the bellhop had been at lunch. He sits behind his desk with an air of rabid confusion while Leon pushes the gurney to the elevator, clearly wondering if he'd missed something in his absence.
He'd missed nothing new in his absence, if this week was anything to go by. Leon throws him a look that he hopes communicates, don't ask me.
The less these people knew about what he was doing, the better, because frankly he wasn't sure he could explain it to anyone else. If it was destined to only make sense to him, then let it. After all, when he was in Spain, one massive fuck it was the only thing that carried any of them, so why not now? Why not always?
When the ding sounds to let Leon know the elevator has arrived, he nearly clamors over himself to get the bed into the enclosed space. Whether or not it would fit had been a source of anxiety, and it rears up now, making Leon's palms unreasonably sweaty while he encourages the wheels in, inch by inch. finding that it barely fit against the railing. Leon had to nearly contort unnaturally to find space, but he couldn't send it up unattended, now could he?
I swear to god, Leon thinks, feeling maroon leather in his palm, enclosed in his fist, you better not say nobody does shit for you, or I'll kill you myself.
Silently, Leon listens to the dings as the elevator slowly rises, hoping that nobody decides to leave their condo right this moment. It seems his luck hadn't completely run out for the night, because he makes it to the top floor without an issue. Whatever Gertrude had been out doing seems to be completed, as she's absent when he awkwardly moves out of the elevator. Free of prying gazes, Leon yanks the supplies to his door, fingers nabbing his keys to let himself in.
Outside the building, this had been surprisingly easy to deal with. From within his landing, Leon realized what kind of commitment he'd be making when he finds the angle into the living room difficult to maneuver. His small landing lead to the kitchen on the immediate left of the door, the living room down a barely six-foot hallway straight ahead, but in order to cross to the spare room, it would take a left turn. Such an angle felt impossible with the rail now between his grasp, but Leon determinedly pushed the bed toward the living room despite that.
He'd take the whole goddamn thing apart and reassemble it if he had to, extra money he'd spent be damned.
After halfway, the gurney gets stuck, groaning in protest even when Leon attempts to push it further. Sighing in agitation, he yanks some of the objects off the bed itself, setting them down where there was space in the kitchen. After mostly everything had been pulled off, Leon jumps atop the gurney, thankful when it doesn't choose that moment to wedge free. He walks along the top, pleased that his boots don't touch the bed because of the layer of plastic. At least he wasn't dirtying anything in his admittedly futile attempt to get the final puzzle pieces into his apartment.
Too stubborn to give up, Leon emerges in his living room through the gap of the hallway, hopping from the bed to attempt bringing it in from another access point. Grabbing the front of the bed, he spreads his feet for better balance, using the entirety of his weight to pull, including whatever force his arms could muster. His forearms strain, muscles burning with lactic acid, his body shaking feebly. On the first pull, the groan sounds again, without any change.
"Come on," Leon murmurs to himself, the edge of his anger pressing into his voice like the blade of a knife.
He jostles it, perhaps a bit too roughly, and the hospital bed finally pulls through, yanking backward. Leon stumbles to catch himself, his legs aching with the movement, particularly heinous where the bed had slammed into him earlier.
Fuck you, Leon insults the inanimate object inside his mind, if you're not gonna help me, stop getting in my way.
He brashly pulls the thing in front of his sofa that seems to watch as he pathetically continues to heave, and he'd never been more thankful to be alone at the moment: otherwise, his grunts of effort would have witness, and suddenly a rural town on fire full of angry hiveminds seemed less terrifying.
Once wedged into the spare bedroom doorway, Leon was in complete blind, mulish dedication. It was a horrible kind of tunnel vision, the kind that had him leaning his full weight on the end of the hospital bed, legs burning, arms shaking with the effort.
"Should have just asked for help," he complains breathlessly, "but fuck them. I got this."
With body aching, burning, a candle at its wicks end — Leon finally gets the rails to slide through the door, the wheels spinning on the wood floor sounding like pure victory. Maneuvering the bed toward the opposite end of the desk, he lies directly below the windowsill, so that the bed faces the blinds. Some part of Leon assumed that Luis would like to look at the clouds if he was going to be bedridden — for however long that would be.
With the bed in place, Leon pauses, taking a deep breath of satisfaction. His victories felt few in comparison to the last six years, but admittedly he was on a bit of a streak right now. Getting out of Spain as one unit had been the first notch in his belt, the first tide to turn in his favor. After all the horror that seemed to paint the lingering hills and long fields, he'd crawled his way out and saved his friends while doing so. The world, too, although that seemed less important to him somehow. Of course, he'd fight for the world — to fight to exist beside people on it was different.
Still, the evils lurking in the shadows never slept, and he had to do what he could to protect what mattered.
Deciding his break was over, Leon mentally thinks of bringing the rest of the items, to get finished with setup so he'd have to worry less later. Crimson catches his gaze, and suddenly it's entirely dark surrounding him, a shrill scream of his name earworming into his mind, and fuck, what did he just do to get blood on him? His hand is shaking when he raises it toward his chest, a distant part of him wondering if he was having a meltdown. His dress shirt is wet to the touch, worryingly warm, and his fingers are stained when he pulls them back.
Oh.
He'd ripped his chest stitches open, he realizes with sudden clarity. That probably should have been anticipated, though, since he'd gone directly against medical advice, hadn't he? Well, jot that down to the thousand things that he'd not listened to the advisory of. Leon didn't give a shit if his body was breaking down, what did it matter? What difference did it make what was going on with him? Luis was completely alone, and could very well be worse off for all he knew, and Leon was supposed to just sit? Wait?
No chance.
Leon yanks the top off, now feeling the weight of the situation when his chest screams in agony, even when he uses his right hand instead of his left — damn. It seemed he was getting his just desserts for his attitude during the last week. He walks out of the spare room, noticing how the blood is trickling in little rivers down his chest, staining in his skin. For a moment, he debates washing the garment.
Leon heads toward the kitchen and throws it away instead.
On his way back, he grabs one of the trays in the kitchen, pulling it behind him noisily like a child with their favorite toy. He pulls it to the spare room, over to his desk, where he'd left a lot of the supplies organized by type. His fingers find the familiarity of a needle, small but mighty, and suture thread. Then he grabs a bandage, gauze, and the amber blackness of the iodine bottle. Scissors and tweezers get their place, too. Organizing it all on the tray, Leon gingerly carries it to the bathroom, with minimal hissing.
Standing in front of the mirror, bloody and wide eyed, Leon takes a shaky breath. He'd stitched his own wounds shut before, obviously, he was very accustomed to looking disgusting things in their eyes. That was kind of his job, so it was safe to say he was a little desensitized. However, given the last time he'd stitched a wound closed, it wasn't his, so the nerves are getting to him a little bit. The needle trembles in his hand, catching the light.
Leon uses the opposite hand to gently pull at the bandage on his chest, gritting his teeth when the adhesive sticks a little too well at his festering wound. Finally it gives, opening to reveal the zigzagged stitches, pulling his still raw flesh together to encourage it to heal uniform. Or, as uniform as it could get. On the bottom set, however, there's a tear in the skin like paper, an uneven gory edge. Blood pools from the cut, the stitch it stemmed from pulling up and curling awkwardly.
It made him a little queasy to look at so closely, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he'd be doing a lot more than this soon. He'd have to get over this feeling, and quickly, and what better way than a trial by fire? He grabs the tweezers and scissors, pulling on the curled thread, gripping it between his pincers. As gently as he could muster, he began attempting to work the thread out of his skin, waiting with the scissors to cut the misshapen thing out of him.
Pain digs its cruel talons into him, twisting harshly, so sudden that his fingers twitch in protest. Dammit. He couldn't have just not pushed it, could he? Air pulling harshly through his nose, Leon cuts the broken stitch with scissors, pulling it through his flesh in a fluid, stinging movement. A gush of ichor follows the knot, and Leon grabs gauze and presses it over the wound, pushing as much as his body lets him stand.
"Goddamn this sucks," Leon gripes, watching as his face turns downward in the mirror.
But it could be worse, eh?
A shiver runs down his spine. What the fuck? Leon listens, as if the sound had been tangible, and he was occupying the space it was missing. As if it was called before leaving the apartment, the close of the door cut it off, but it was still there in a way. Maybe if he called out now, there might be a response.
"I'm really fucking losing it," Leon breathes, grabbing the threaded needle, pushing it through his agitated wound with a crudeness. He hated the sting, the jaw clenching pull, but it was better than succumbing to whatever the hell was going on with him lately. Surely, getting everything settled would make these thoughts disappear. It had to, because what was the alternative?
He follows the instructions from the packet Hunnigan gave him, looping the stitch at the end, crossing it gently and twisting, making it simpler for future removal. His execution was sloppy at best, and nowhere near as neat as the well done stitches, but it didn't matter how it looked on his body. After he's done, he snips the thread, pouring a fresh swab of iodine. It chemically stings Leon's nose unpleasantly, making him grimace, but he dutifully applies it before covering the space with a bandage. Just like that, he went back to looking pristine.
Idly, he cleans himself off with some alcohol wipes, swiping his browning plasma off his stomach. At the end, Leon admires his handiwork, pleased with being able to fix his own problems. There was nobody else to trust but himself, after all. That, and…
He feels a steady grip on his forearm, bruising but insistent, even though it had been hopeless. That unwillingness to let go, stamped upon his skin, and even though the bruise had yellowed over time — he felt it. Under his skin, seared into his very being. It had been that moment that Leon had given it up, and realized that he trusted someone else. Fully. Even if things weren't all on the table, he understood someone.
No matter how far he had to take it, Leon would fight for that, because it was worth fighting for.
—
It's 2 AM on a Tuesday morning, and Leon can't sleep.
After the fall of Raccoon City, his immediate thrust into military regimen had left its mark on Leon for many years. He'd had a strict schedule in order to keep himself well maintained, like an oiled machine. He'd awake at five, go on a jog, come home and eat breakfast with a protein shake. Go to work, do his duties, maybe have lunch with Hunnigan. Come home and stare at the dark for a while, maybe drink a beer or three, then pass out. Wake up and do it over again.
Krauser had some similar habits in the past when Leon had spent time with him outside training. He'd misunderstood such strict functionality at first, but after his experiences, the mundane and repetitive functionality was the safest place to be. It was hard for the shadows to jump out at you when you'd been faced with the same ones a thousand times over.
Which made this whole ordeal rather concerning. Typically, Leon can shut his eyes and will out the world, go back to his childhood days in foster homes where they'd let him do as he pleased for a while. Before adulthood, and horror, and fucking Umbrella. Sometimes, he dreamt of the earliest memories of his parents and their smiling faces, all of them ignorant to the building storm they attempted to close the door on.
Now Leon stares at the ceiling and feels heavy as a stone, sinking to the bottom of a great lake, nothing but darkness for miles. Even the busy nature of the city brings him no comfort, a single person in a sea of people — he felt so isolated. He can't remember having this problem so deeply before, he'd always viewed his loneliness as a useful tool. Closeness with anyone was a detriment, so as long as Leon kept his distance emotionally, he was better off. Nobody gets in, nobody can take parts of him out.
Yet, it was so hard to resist it, when the opportunity presented itself. When it came to Ashley, Leon had known he'd have to bond with her: they needed to trust each other. Be a team, as she put it, and Leon knew how to make someone feel comfortable. Maybe he wasn't always perfect at knowing what to say, but he knew he could make people feel safe. Leon would make it safe for Ashley, no matter how hard he had to try.
Ashley had done her part in trusting him, helping him, and even saving him herself. She did what he did for her, and that had felt so cherished to him, to be needed so closely. It was also a success: she'd been freed from being kidnapped, her parasite removed, and her spirit stronger for it.
Luis, however, was an entirely different story. An ex-Umbrella scientist who had happened to run into townsfolk that he apparently knew, who were infected with plagas that Luis had been studying. An ugly way to look your mistakes in the eye. Leon had helped him escape, although not entirely intentionally, and had saved him, yes. Naturally, having served his use, he assumed that Luis would be rid of him.
Later, amigo.
Yeah, right, Leon had thought, only to be proven wrong when crossing the long bridge toward the Master's cabin, where Luis helped him fight off dozens of infected. All for redemption. He gave so much to them in order to atone, how could Leon not give back? How much did Luis have to lose, alone and tormented? His thoughts seem to circle themselves, and an unrestful Leon gets up, getting ready in a half asleep state. He finally gets into jeans and a jacket, slipping downstairs silently.
Traffic was always present in the city, but now it was quieter. Less a hum, more a whisper, like the distant call of crickets. He slips inside his car, rationalizing that a drive out of his space would help him. Everything had been set up in the spare room for days now, all but gathering dust in their perfect stillness, and it was making him fucking itch.
He had nothing to do, and he was slowly going crazy, pacing his floor at all hours like some maniac coming down from an upper. Tonight, he couldn't take it anymore, no pacing would quate the urge. He needed to get out, go somewhere. Leon drives off of his street and toward the main highway, passing quiet cars and loose stragglers wandering the street. Each streetlight burns his eyes like a camera flash, his lack of sleep schedule wearing his body down slowly.
Leon tells himself that he has no idea where he's going, but his hand on the wheel and foot on the gas say that he does. The skyline is stark black, swallowing everything except the twinkling lights of the city, glittering and fading like dying stars. Leon watches them in a detached sort of way, the way they blur their constellations against his windows as he drives over a bridge, the late night ferries still chugging along below.
He gets off the freeway shortly after, following the turnpike under a tunnel and up out on the other side. Leon thinks he should be paying attention to something, maybe listening to the radio, but instead it's off and entirely silent, only cut by the keys jangling in the ignition. All of these little noises seemed to annoy him, even though he used to pay no mind. What changed?
He has a sneaking suspicion he knows the answer when he finally gets out of his car, glancing up at the illuminated floors of the state hospital. Leon taps his foot on the asphalt of the parking lot, wondering why he even bothered to show up. Was it really better being here? Being in front of the building made Leon nervous for some unknown reason, even though nothing would change whether he was here or not. Feeling entirely too silly, and self conscious for standing in the parking lot so long, he walks to the entrance of the hospital.
One of the most comforting things about being in a medical facility was the commitment to experiences feeling like one seamless blur. Due to this, it felt like some liminal space late at night, limited staff and visitors that looked more like ghosts than people. Now Leon was one of them, wasn't he? When had he become so haunted? Spain, or was it earlier, with Raccoon City? Or maybe it was always a part of him, when his idea of safety depended on how well Leon could take care of himself, how well he could function.
The elevator would take too long to get to the lobby, so Leon decides to take the stairs, even though the floor was unreasonably high to take said stairs. He'd definitely done more than thirteen flights in his lifetime, and would do more, he was sure. Focusing on his breathing, Leon begins to take the stairs at a steady pace, thinking of what exactly he plans to do once he's on the intensive care unit floor.
It wasn't like he could really see Luis considering the circumstances, and medical laws. They barely even had a connection to each other, so sidestepping that policy would prove impossible. He would say that he knew this from proxy and having some kind of foot in the medical system, but really it was because he'd already tried to ensure the three of them had stayed together and failed. Every stimulus then had been on the edge of pain — his exhaustion, anxiety, and fight or flight raging war on him. They'd explained it so calmly, with their soft smiles and sad eyes, entirely unaware that Leon was in catastrophic amounts of distress.
He's in good hands, they'd said, we'll take good care of him.
Umbrella probably told Luis the exact same thing, so Leon couldn't just let it go. Luis alone, unattended, unprotected in a room surrounded by beeping machines and strange voices was enough to keep him up at night, literally. So maybe it was better to be alone together in proximity than to be alone in his own empty apartment, like a rat in a cage.
By the time he reaches the thirteenth floor, he's sweating in his jacket, dampness clinging
to his forehead. The door handle feels jarringly cold against his palm, but he swings it open anyway, coming out on the left side of the desk of nurses that were chatting, moving in their own set patterns. Leon immediately ducks to the side to miss their gaze, not wanting to interrupt whatever they were doing. He knew where he was going anyway, had mapped it in his mind over two weeks ago.
Walking toward the larger waiting room to the right, he rounds the corner, seeing mostly empty chairs except for a few stragglers. A man leans against the far wall, snoring soundly, an elderly woman across from him knitting with needlepoint precision. It seemed he was joining some lively company. His gaze turns to the chairs against the wall, and is struck by deja vu so intense that it nearly knocks him off his feet.
Ashley Graham jumps out of her chair upon seeing him, her hazel eyes glittering bright, as if she hadn't expected him. Leon hadn't expected himself either. That's all the hesitation there's time for, however, as she jumps up and throws her arms around him in a crushing hug, her bracelets tinkling happily in Leon's ear.
"Hey," he says, the word feeling awkward in his mouth, "you uh — you too, huh?"
"Yeah," Ashley says, equally sheepish, her teeth greeting him in a small smile as she pulls back, "I was actually here last night, too. I'm surprised I didn't see you sooner."
"Well," Leon mumbles, pressing his tongue to his teeth, "I've been busy."
"So I've heard," Ashley acknowledges, looking up at him through her eyelashes, examining Leon's expression for something as she steps closer. What, exactly, he couldn't be sure, "I'm glad my dad let you go."
"He didn't seem too happy about it," He hadn't meant to say it, but it slipped out anyway, and Ashley's expression falls a little as she looks at the floor morosely. Leon thinks that seeing her like this is the most awful thing in the universe, probably. He mentally kicks himself for not watching his mouth.
"I don't care if he's mad," It sounded like she did, but was choosing to not be as upset, "he wasn't there."
That sentiment is enough to make Leon nod in sympathy, remembering the chilling rain and mud and Ashley's screams of torment. How they only had each other, pressed against the dark together, a beacon. It had been a little over two weeks since he saw her last, and there were still things he couldn't protect her from. As if she heard his thought, Ashley looks at Leon, her eyes welling up in earnest, and he swallows uncomfortably as tears pool over and run down her face.
"I'm sorry, it's just … Luis — he's going to be okay, right?" And wasn't that the crux of everything right now, the thought that seemed to horribly accent everything?
"He will," Leon says, sounding much surer than he feels.
"I can't stop thinking about him," Ashley whispers, hiding her leaking eyes in her hands, wiping furiously at her tears, "I know that we barely even know each other, but I can't just go home knowing he's here alone. Knowing the things my father is going to say—" She cuts off into more labored breathing, and Leon reaches to press his palm between her shoulder blades, centering.
"Me too," Leon responds, realizing grimly that it's true. He couldn't seem to stop thinking of Luis either, and knowing Ashley was having similar thoughts to him was surprisingly comforting. All of this occurring in Luis' name, and the poor bastard had no fucking idea. What a luxury that must be.
"We're helping him, right?" She asks, tucking herself against Leon for safety, an unconscious habit, "you and me, we're doing for him what he did for us, aren't we?"
In Leon's case, he was arguably doing more.
"We are," Leon agrees, not letting her stew, pulling her away from him so he can meet her eye dead on, "listen to me, Ashley. You don't have to worry yourself, okay? Nothing is gonna happen to him, I'll make sure."
This seems to comfort her finally, her face emerging from her hands, the tears starting to dry upon her skin. Still, she gives him a stubborn look, all full of childlike fire, burning bright. Even though she was significantly younger than him, when Ashley set her mind to something, she could be scary. Now was one of those times, as her eyes seem to harden with steel resolve.
"You promise?" She asks. Oh, so it would be like that, would it?
"I promise," Leon confirms, without skipping a beat. Standing in the aftermath, she nods before settling in her chair, pleased with his response, gently swinging her legs. Leon sits next to her, crossing his legs over, leaning back to get comfortable. Ashley begins to fill him in on all she knows: that obviously, only family was allowed in the care unit, and neither of them were related so they'd best forget it. Although, Luis apparently had a very friendly nurse named Frida, who was also from Spain, and had a big smile. Leon thinks that it's better for her that Luis can't talk, because she'd never hear the end of him.
Every few hours, Frida was nicely giving Ashley updates, even though there wasn't much changing on the day to day. That was welcomed, in Leon's opinion — things going from good to bad and back again was too much for him: a steady whiplash that slowly developed into vertigo, unable to tell up or down. It was better that nothing happened than anything.
After the list of updates, they chat amongst themselves quietly, where Leon learns that Ashley hasn't gotten back into school yet. She doesn't seem to have plans either, and although that seemed like a subject that Leon should be making a comment about, he can't even work his regular nine-to-five so it would be a bit hypocritical. He notices her speech get a little slower when the skyline starts growing more gold, the sun threatening to rise.
"You should sleep," Leon suggests when he catches her yawning from the corner of his eye.
"I'm fine," Ashley insists, her cheeks growing ruddy at being seen, fingernails nervously picking.
"Hey," he replies, gentler, leaning closer to her, "we're a team, right? So I'll watch your back. Sleep if you're tired, I'll wake you if anything happens."
Finally, she nods quietly, accepting his offer of rest. At first, she contorts a little to get on the chair comfortably, but can't seem to get there. As a last resort, she leans her head against Leon's shoulder, relaxing her body weight against him over the chair handle. Leon braces his hand along the back of her chair as a protective measure, feeling her slowly sag into him as she begins to finally slip under. It makes his skin a little numb from the pressure, but Leon allows it. Besides, it was a little better fulfilling a purpose for someone who needed him, instead of being stuck cooked up inside his condo.
Leon takes to watching the nurses rush by, and other people too, walking mindlessly around the halls. Ashley's breathing is even and quiet just below his ear, and all things considered, he feels less insane for counting them to ensure she's still there. It felt like any of it could slip between his fingers at any moment, even though they were arguably in the best place for help. Leon thinks about maybe drinking some coffee from the cafeteria once Ashley awakes for a moment, because the sitting was also threatening to make him doze off. He imagines waking her and asking her to let him get up, but the thought comes and goes.
Blonde hair tickles his jaw a little when Leon tiredly places his head atop Ashley's, his bottled exhaustion now taking its toll. It was unlike him to sleep in a public place, but it'd be a while, and he was just so tired. Leon lets his eyes slide shut into the familiar dark, feeling surprisingly warm.
He's awoken by a shift in the air, almost subconsciously, and his eyes fly open to immediately go about protecting Ashley who was still asleep on his arm. Leon doesn't have his gun right now, so his best bet would be to throw himself in front of her. A hand is raised in apology, a small smile accompanying — a woman in red scrubs leans over him, her hair up in a messy bun, eyes all too tired. Leon had a feeling he probably looked about the same behind his gaze.
"Hi there," she whispers, "I came out here to give her an update, but it seems that she's got company."
"Sorry," Leon whispers back, his voice muddy with sleep.
"Estas bien. Nothing to worry about. I'm assuming you're the friend that she's been talking up?"
Oh no, Leon's mind reels, horrified.
"Maybe?" Leon asks, "what has she told you?"
"Oh, nothing too incriminating. Just that you helped save her and our friend back there," she juts her jaw toward the automatic doors at the end of the waiting room.
"That's me, then," Leon acknowledges, willing himself not to stare at the doors.
"Oh good. Because I also hear that you'll be taking him after all this," Her eyebrow raises, inquisitive, and Leon listens to Ashley's even breathing to ensure that she's still well protected in the blanket of sleep. Leon debates answering her, leg furthest from Ashley jittering nervously, "we'll be un equipo in that case, no need for such a face. I intend to keep an eye on him, whether he's with you or not."
Tension draws tight in Leon's spine at the suggestion, but he chooses to say nothing. It seems that it was good timing anyway, as the doors in the care unit open, and Frida turns to wave a doctor over. Said doctor sees them mid-step, then turns her direction to walk over, standing beside Frida as they tower over Leon who sits like a child being scolded. Or fawned over. He wasn't sure which was more embarrassing.
"Well, since I already know that to be Ashley, you must be Leon," she says, her badge stamped DR. LINDSEY HANSEN, a hand digging into her coat pocket, "I'm Doctor Hansen. I'm the surgeon that did the operation, and I've also been the one monitoring since. It's nice to finally meet you."
"Okay," Leon says, dumbly.
"I received a call a couple weeks ago that you'd be transferring the patient to a Home Intensive Care Unit. Is that right?"
"That's right," Leon confirms, and watches as she reaches to grab a pen from her pocket, placing it to her clipboard to jot notes. That reaction alone made him unspeakably nervous, wondering if this was a confessional and not a doctor's diagnosis.
"And you have everything for that? A ventilator? Para monitor?"
"Nebulizer, suction machine, alpha bed, and IV stands included," Leon responds, mentally checking off the list in his head. Dr. Hansen raises her eyebrow, jotting down more notes, a smile starting to spread her features.
"The receptionist I spoke to told me that you'd be like this," she says, professionalism undercut with amusement. Leon turns his nose up a little, "so I guess you're more curious about what's going on with the patient than me, huh?"
Receptionist? Leon can envision Hunnigan's glasses glimmering now, tell me why I'm not surprised.
Flipping her clipboard to read steadily at notes, her dark eyes darting along the pages, Doctor Hansen falls momentarily quiet. The hand that held her pen goes to brush her hair behind her ear, silvered at the ends, "after his drop in vitals when we first checked him in, I'll admit I wasn't optimistic. Before surgery, he was very hard to stabilize."
Leon has to think very consciously about breathing, or he fears he may stop. Doctor Hansen pays him no mind, eyes continuing to flit over notes.
"We got him there long enough to do the surgery, but post-surgery he was back to being too low, so we put him in a medically induced coma to heal some of that damage. I'm sure you recall all of this the night you were also in the hospital," she lets go of the papers and they crinkle noisily, "we've been hesitant to let him go anywhere until he was consistently stable. Last week was pretty touch and go, this week he's looking pretty strong so far."
It's the first lungful of air that feels easy since two weeks ago.
"Good," Leon says, because it is.
"I'd say if he's doing this well by the end of the week, we discharge him Friday, since you're so well prepared," she winks at him with a smile, and Leon wishes desperately for this conversation to be done with. Ashley's weight is removed as she stirs, and Leon is thankful for the distraction.
"Hi doctor," she says with a yawn, rubbing her eyes, "catching him up?"
"Sure was. How about you two? Have things been well since we last saw you?" She inquires, and Ashley nods dazedly. Leon thinks of standing in front of his mirror with blood staining his fingers, and shrugs in response.
"Fine," he said, though it was a bit of a white lie.
"Good to hear," Frida chimes in, "I've got a patient I have to check in on now, so I'll be going. Let me know if either of you needs anything, okay? Ciao!"
Doctor Hansen nods as well, following suit, walking in step with Frida until they were out of sight. Leon glances at Ashley while she fixes her hair, pulling her sweater back up around her shoulders where it'd slipped off.
"You need a ride home?" Leon finds himself asking.
"If you don't mind," Ashley says, straightening her skirt.
He didn't.
—
The next time Leon sees Frida, it's when she's stepping out of the back of an ambulance. The lights are off, and the vehicle is entirely white, not drawing any direct attention to the fact that it's a medical car. She gives him a smile as bright as the fourth of July when she sees him.
"Hi again, Mr. Kennedy," she's taken to calling him that, which is slightly unnerving, but Leon decides to let her since she's technically helping him out (even if it's her job).
"Hi," Leon says, watching as she opens the back door.
"I'm glad to see you haven't changed your mind on taking him in," Frida says, glancing inside the van and crawling inside, her voice echoing as she continues, "as wonderful as my bedside manner is, a friend will be more welcome. He's got the kind of face that tells you so, no?"
Leon didn't really, since he wasn't very familiar with the concept of friends, but he supposed that he agreed since he'd gone through all the trouble. He waits for Frida to re-emerge, too nervous to look inside the space. Realistically, he knows Luis is there, but the idea of glimpsing him made Leon feel like he might throw his heart up, bloody and pulpy in the middle of the street.
Frida unlocks the brake, Leon recognizes the sound, listening to the clicking of wheels move. He takes a deep breath, afraid to look and afraid not to. When the end of the bed appears, he naturally moves to help her pull it to the street, helped by a built-in ramp. Would have been nice the first time. Frida breathes a thank you, and Leon focuses intensely on her face, her slender nose and dark eyes, and does not look in the bed.
"Gracias, Mr. Kennedy," she says brightly, and Leon maneuvers to close the van doors.
"My pleasure," he says, his voice catching in his throat.
Leon turns back to his apartment, blindly going toward the glass doorway, the doors whirring open. Frida is following, because he hears it, the wheels steadily echoing his footsteps. They get to the elevator and he pauses, lip curling downward.
"It's a tight fit," he warns, without looking back, "we might have to squeeze."
"I'm fine with it if you are," Frida says, too cheery, "we'll have to get more comfortable anyway! I'll be seeing you a lot."
"Fair enough," it doesn't help the anxiety quivering in his stomach though, the way his guts seemed to itch. The minute that he waits for the elevator seems to last forever, and Leon is unreasonably aware of the bellhop, breathing near him. Leon thinks he'd like him to stop, if he said anything. He steps back, purposefully, obscuring Luis from view.
The respirator whirrs with another surge of Luis' lungs, mechanically. Leon steels himself not to look.
When the doors sing their arrival, Leon lets her go first, wheeling the medical bed in. He follows closely behind, squeezing into the space, and the angle forces him to come face to face with Luis. It's the first time he's seen him since everything, and for a moment, it seems he's just asleep. His lashes are still so long, pressed against the cut of his cheekbones. His hair is tousled, a little messy, but it frames his face in a familiar way. He looks unreasonably handsome for just exiting a hospital, far better than Leon looked his first night. The only abnormality is the respirator, tucked safely in his mouth, helping him breathe. With a heart thudding heavily, Leon knows that he won't be present, even if anything were said. It feels sad in a way, someone like Luis always seemed to be talking, and now he was punished to total silence.
It's an effort to not stare, but the weight Frida's gaze upon him keeps Leon in check. Once they were at his floor, he awkwardly shows her through, watching as she rolls Luis inside with a singsong. Leon wonders how she can be so happy, seeing people forever unconscious, tied to a thousand machines. Even this one person made Leon feel like peeling his skin off his body, but his debt was long overdue, it was time to pay it back.
He walks into his condo, feeling a little jealous that Frida has such an easy time with the smaller gurney, completely unaware of his earlier purgatory. There's no hold up at the turn, a clear sign of her comfortability with steering. Leon sniffs dismissively, willing himself that bitterness is a sour emotion. She hums disapprovingly as she goes through the living room, eying his couch and small bookshelf.
"You live alone?" She asks, steering Luis toward the main hallway.
"Yes ma'am," Leon says, feeling under a microscope.
"Mierda," she says under her breath, and if Luis hadn't muttered the word a few times, Leon wouldn't have caught it. Frida continues, louder, "are you home much?"
"My job requires me to travel," The answer is purposefully vague, "it's actually how I met Luis."
"I see," she says, and there's something there, like she's telling a punchline to a joke that he doesn't know, "good friend of yours?"
"Uh, you could say that," Leon mumbles, hesitant of what to say in response. How does one explain all this? Yeah, I went through hell and back with this guy and he kinda saved my life, so now I gotta do the same to him since I owe him one? Maybe in her opinion, doing the same was letting them take care of him, but from where Leon stood, there was nobody else more suited.
"Well. From here, I'd say you're the good friend," That's the second time he'd heard the sentiment, and it made him no more joyful than the last. Frida pauses at the hallway, clearly confused which direction to go.
"The first door on the left," Leon says, and she nods, heading through the door. He hears more than sees her laugh, then the whistle she emits.
"Dios mio! You weren't kidding when you said you had everything," Frida acknowledges, mouth agape in wonder, "it seems he really is in good hands, who knew?"
Leon feels his neck burning, and turns away from her as she wheels Luis over to the alpha bed. Unable to help the urge, he follows her over, hovering anxiously while she begins to unplug Luis from their makeshift setup beneath the gurney, slowly transitioning over to the equipment already setup in the room. The paramonitor roars to life with Luis' steady heartbeat, the gentle sound reminding Leon that he was still alive in his body, no matter how it looked. The last thing she plugs in is the ventilator, the respirator roaring to life, filling his lungs with manufactured air once again.
Then, she places her arms beneath Luis' steady weight, and something in Leon winds unbearably tight.
"I can do that," Leon insists, although thinking of his chest, he probably shouldn't. Frida pauses her movement, looking up at him with prying eyes. She removes her hands, raising her eyebrow as Leon steps around to her side of the gurney.
"Are you sure? I'm the medical professional, if you remember," she says, though he can tell it's teasing, because the tone cuts similar to how Luis' would. He chooses not to say anything, sticking his arms underneath Luis, feeling the heaviness of his resting body. Still, even now, he's warm to the touch. His hospital gown doesn't entirely cover his back, so Leon accidentally brushes his fingertips against the warm skin of his spine, soft and slightly coarse with hair.
Leon lifts him up, glad for his training that allowed him to grab Luis so easily. This was not the use that he'd suffered through it for, but it was certainly proving to be a perk. It was no heavier than catching Ashley's fall, and that was under the mercy of gravity. He pulls Luis from the gurney and places him upon the medical bed with a heaved breath, Frida moving the sheets down to accommodate. It had taken two weeks with countless hours of work, and more blood and sweat than Leon would like to admit, but he'd done it. Luis finally laid in the bed, chest rising and falling steadily.
Safe, and within Leon's sight, which was where he belonged for now.
Frida begins to pull supplies off of his desk, which he'd since cleaned, making it more manageable. She takes a box off of the bottom of the gurney from the hospital, showing it off before placing it in the desk chair. Without skipping a beat, she lifts the lid, and there are labeled IV bags, filled with fluid.
"These bags are filled with the drugs that keep him Goodnight Moon, okay? Each day is labeled, I did the convenience of doing that for you," she seems very smug about this fact, holding up the one that said today's date, a small confetti drawing next to it, "each bag has a lesser dosage, so we're going to try to wean him off, comprende? Hopefully, he'll wake up on his own and won't need any help."
"What if he needs help?" he asks, morbidly curious.
"Just hope he doesn't," she dismisses, pushing the IV bag in his face, "every day. Like clockwork, yes? Skipping a treatment is not acceptable. I'll do the needle for you, since I'm already being so generous with giving you all this instruction."
"Got it," Leon confirms, watching as she grabs the supplies from the desk, heading back to Luis. Leon means to watch her at first, but gets distracted when the lowering sunlight bleeds through the blinds, catching Luis' hair and turning it umber. His gaze follows the curl behind Luis' ear, where it falls in line with his cheekbone.
Before he realizes how much time has passed, Frida turns to him, showing where she taped the needle so Leon can adjust the bag. He knew how to adjust this already, but the stickiness keeping it in place would be nice for when he had to change it. After she finishes, Frida leans in to say goodbye to Luis, murmuring gently in Spanish. Then, she gathers everything leftover, wheeling it out of the room. Leon follows her, though he isn't sure exactly why, figuring it's rude to not see her off.
At the door, she opens it as if she owned the place, pausing only once she was on the other side.
"I'll come see you every day at eight-thirty, and I mean eight-thirty sharp, señor! I'd say take good care of him, but I already know you will," Frida waves behind her, and it makes Leon feel stuck in the moment and in the past, all at once. He shuts his door, hearing the absent beep of Luis' monitor, reminding him that he was still there.
Leon turns back toward his living room, pausing at his bookshelf for something to read before continuing to the spare room. He moves the box that Frida placed atop the desk chair, wheeling it to his bedside. Leon pulls up the book, a black covered thing, title foiled and shiny on the front – HARVARD CLASSICS OMNIBUS: A TALE OF TWO CITIES, OLIVER TWIST, AND DON QUIXOTE, PART ONE.
Leon cracks it open, flipping the pages toward the back, leaning in the chair to get comfortable. Beep, beep, beep.
He didn't even take the time to notice that it was the first time noise hasn't bothered him in weeks.
—
Frida and Luis slot into his routine like a well fitting glove.
The addition had calmed a lot of Leon's nerves, knowing that there was a matter of a few steps between rooms, that in an instant he could be at Luis' side. It made it easier to do other things, which Leon had been pointedly ignoring since he'd gotten home around a month ago. His new routine goes like this: wake up, check on Luis, go running, food, greet Frida, then use the rest of his day to kill whatever time he had left to do it all over. Sometimes, it was house projects – painting the peeling paint he'd been ignoring, dusting, finally getting his plant back to healing. Usually though, he spends it looking out the window next to Luis' bed, reading whatever book he pulled from his bookshelf for the night, trying very hard to think of nothing at all.
Today, Leon is eating breakfast, albeit a bit rushed because he got back late from his run. The digital clock on the stove mocks him, 8:28 AM. Leon stuffs a forkful of egg in his mouth, scraping the plate clean, moving across the kitchen to put it in the sink. When the plate clinks in the sink, a knock is at the door, right on time.
Forcefully swallowing around a bite that's too big, Leon winces a little on his way to the door, swinging it open. Frida is wearing purple scrubs today, freshly washed, her nurse bag looped over her shoulder.
"Hola Mr. Kennedy," she says, stepping in when Leon moves to the side.
"Good morning, Frida," Leon greets, goodnaturedly, finding her overwhelming positivity familiar now that they were a couple weeks in. She immediately passes him, beelining for Luis. Even at her brisk pace, she still takes the time to crinkle her nose, throwing him a look.
"Oye – aren't you ever tired of eggs and bacon? Two weeks now, same thing everyday. Is there something I should know about you? You have diet restrictions?" Her words ring in the living room, and Leon rolls his eyes on his way to the sink.
"No," his tone is a little coy, and he calls the word so she can hear it. She says something impatiently in Spanish, muffled through the wall. If he's fighting a smile, Leon doesn't acknowledge it. He tells himself he won't go back in the room immediately and monitor her working, he knows from experience that being watched could prickle anxiety. His feet move on their own accord though, and he finds himself watching her reach into the IV box. She perks up suddenly, and Leon immediately moves closer in response.
"Something wrong?"
"Not at all, actually," Frida says, the light from the window bathing her in soft light, "this bag is one of the first that has no drug cocktail. I'd say we're in the home stretch."
"Home stretch?" Leon's tongue feels sticky in his mouth.
"Of him waking up, of course," she says as she adjusts the new bag on the IV stand, taking the tube and plugging it into Luis' arm, leaning closer to him, "you hear me, cabrón? You're keeping Mr. Kennedy waiting after everything he's done for you. It's impolite, Luis."
Frida tsks in a familiar way, as if Luis is doing this all on purpose. She checks his para monitor and his vitals before leaving, writing it down on her lengthy list of notes. After the usual routine, she tucks Luis in comfortably, murmurs in Spanish so lowly Leon can't hear, and then begins to head out. This time, however, she pauses to look at Leon, reaching into her nurse's bag.
"I saw a poor, tattered book lying around a week ago. I had to move it to get vitals, and it was practically falling apart. It broke my heart, Mr. Kennedy," she puts her hand to her chest, as if he's personally wounded her, "my mama always taught me that reading was a source of knowledge. So I'll pay it forward."
Out of her bag, she pulls a book with a painted cover, well made. THE LEGEND OF DON QUIXOTE, MAN LA MANCHA is stamped across the top, and Leon feels a strange sense of dizziness, realizing that she'd caught him reading it. She couldn't know the implications of that, though, right? Leon gulps, entirely speechless.
"Consider it a parting gift, for being so nice to me," she says, eyes bright, "besides, sometimes we need a story or two, to get us through, eh?"
Gently touching his shoulder, Frida squeezes before leaving Leon standing in the room, the book still clutched in his hand. He thinks for a moment she leaves, before she calls from the landing, voice carrying. "And try talking to him, yes? If you two were friends, I'll bet he'd like to hear your voice! You never know, he might be waiting on you. Ciao, Mr. Kennedy!"
The door clicks behind her, and Leon is left only accompanied by the beeping of machines. Leon sighs, settling into the chair now, glancing at Luis with misplaced self consciousness. He's not even sure what he would say, anyway. If there was one thing that Raccoon City taught Leon, it's that what he thought, felt, or did mattered very little. The idea of asking him to wake up felt ridiculous, and juvenile. As if Leon could will responsiveness out of him.
No, sometimes you are fighting a losing battle, but Leon would fight nonetheless. And since he didn't know what to say, he looked at the book in his hands, wondering if the universe placed it there. Then he thinks that signs and all of that shit might be fucking stupid. Still, he opens the book, feeling the spine crackle with its first opening. The title page stares up at him, all dark letters against stark pages.
A breath pulls in his lungs, anticipatory, but then Leon lets it all leak out. His hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose. I am such an idiot, he thinks, what the hell am I doing?
"The Legend of Don Quixote," Leon begins, his voice lower in his own petrified state, "Man La Mancha."
Taking Frida's advice, Leon decides to speak out a portion of the book under the light of the sun. It's not the lightest read, but it's better than some books he's read. Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky for example, though a good book, had felt like more of a slog, though its themes certainly resonated. Despite the fact that it wasn't the most pleasant read at first, he starts to get more in tune with it, perhaps a bit curious as to what Luis finds so interesting about Don Quixote. His first impression is that he is an idiot, and that Sancho definitely has some points with calling him out. On some pages, Leon found himself thinking, he's not actually going to do that, right? Only to find the expected scenario playing out.
He found it silly at first, but hours in, Leon found that his attempt at trying became a little endearing. Was it so bad to hope for the best, even when things seemed to be set to turn out for the worst? He is on a new paragraph, attempting to read something Sancho was saying to Don Quixote, righteous and defeated all at once. He's mid scene, or at least, he thinks he is, in a paragraph about horses, and how one has a smooth gold coat, and the other red with hints of darkened brown. His finger flips the page, mouth at the ready.
"Leon," Luis says, and Leon sits up straight, book clattering to the floor.
Desperately, and entirely sure he heard it, Leon stands up and hovers over the bed, images of knights and princesses and battles entirely forgotten. The respirator whirs again, and Leon waits torturously, checking for a change in demeanor. None comes. Luis' eyes are still closed. Sunlight that illuminated pages is now pitch dark, and the room is too still.
I must have fallen asleep, Leon finally realizes, feeling his stomach hollow. Gentle beeps occupy the background space, but the room still feels lonely. He sits on the side of the bed, mindful of Luis' arm, leaning his weight on it finally. It seems to all hit him then, the last month – like a freight train and all at once. He feels tired, and as he's coming to grips with it, sad. His heart hurts for everything they've all lost, and everything that's happened. Wondering aimlessly if it was all deserved, if this was some cosmic plan to begin with, or if he'd just been unlucky.
Talk to him, yes? Frida's voice seems to echo.
"Hey," Leon finally says, almost afraid of the words, of what might be pouring out of him. The intensity of all this frightens him, he doesn't know what to do with it, how Luis has muddled with the person Leon previously thought he was, "I don't know if you can – actually hear me, alright? So.. don't fucking make fun of me."
Luis says nothing, the respirator continuing its steady work.
"What Frida said today was true," it feels like he's admitting something, but he's not entirely sure what, half terrified, "I'm waiting for you, alright? And I'm a pretty impatient guy, so if you could speed it up, that would be nice."
It's a joke, but there's no following laughter, just mechanical beeping and the quiet stretch of night.
"People can change, Luis," Leon settles, his eyes squeezing closed, "I'm giving you the chance, like you gave me. Come back soon, okay?"
Leon reaches to adjust the sheet the way Frida would before leaving the room, getting up and walking to the doorway. He pauses there, looking back, watching for a moment too long. Dejected, he wanders to his room and falls into his bed, shutting out the world.
He thinks of gold, and echoing laughter, and knights riding atop hills.
—
He's sitting in his living room on the tattered couch, staring at the ceiling. His eye is carving out designs in the covered plaster, blinking in a relaxed state that he can't remember why he was in. Lucidly, he moves, his leg jutting out and bumping into – someone. His brow furrows as Leon looks next to him, seeing Luis lounging like he belonged there.
Well, that couldn't be right.
Luis should be in his hospital bed and hooked into a monitor, not relaxing with Leon on the couch. Didn't he know how dangerous that was? He had an IV and a catheter in, and who was going to have to make sense of that mess? Leon was. He even begins to tell Luis so, his mouth opening, attempting to find the words.
It seems like Luis notices his presence, his eyes zapping to Leon's, dressed in his stupid fucking leather jacket. Stubble stamps his jaw, and his lively expression is so unbelievably distracting. A smile cuts his face, and oh, wasn't that a sight to see? It felt like everything Leon had done so far was coming to fruition.
"You being lazy, Sancho?" His voice, Leon had almost forgotten what it sounded like.
"I earned it," Leon counters, thinking that he definitely did.
"Ah, so I was right to begin with," his friend murmurs, leaning more of his weight against Leon, "you're not healthy to be around."
"Fuck off," Leon says, without thinking, and immediately feels his face fall. This makes Luis laugh, the sound filling the air and making Leon laugh, too. When it begins to die down, Leon can't remember he felt this content. He was so used to being alone, and now that Luis took up this space beside him, he didn't know what to do without it. That should be a terrifying thought, and yet it wasn't. It was.. comforting, against all odds.
Then Luis' hand settles on the inside of his thigh, entirely too comfortable. Leon's entire body stiffens, the heat singing straight into him, to the very core of his being. What the fuck?
"You say that to all the ladies, too?" Luis murmurs low in his ear. And why was it that Leon suddenly couldn't speak, that his tongue was tied in his mouth? Because he should be saying something, maybe what the hell do you think you're doing, or stop fucking touching me, or knock that shit off, it's not like that. Leon could feel the persistence of Luis' burning gaze on his face, while the lingering heat drags up his thigh, framing his hip before drawing over the buckle of his belt.
"Don't," Leon warns.
In lieu of response, Luis glances at him, eyes bathed in liquid smoke. He looks entirely unbothered, like this was just a part of them, easy as breathing. With a cockiness that only he could pull off, Luis raises his eyebrow, challenging the response. Leon swallows so thickly, he's sure the whole damn block can hear it. Mercifully, Luis leans into him, pressing his mouth where his leg meets his hip. Even through the thickness of denim, it feels impossibly hot. Something low in Leon's belly clenches.
"If you're so sure, then stop me,Yanqui," Luis breathes hotly, slipping the belt through the buckle. His fingers glimmer as his rings catch the light, and all Leon can do is watch distractedly as his jeans are undone, the zipper vibrating up his spine.
Oh god, Leon thinks, finding his free hand framing the curve of Luis' shoulder, nails digging in. He feels Luis shift his weight atop him, the warm humidity of his breath ghosting over where the jeans part. Unable to help it, a hiss escapes, low in Leon's throat. A hum is given in response, almost soothing, and the heated scrape of Luis' stubble on skin steals all breath left in his lungs.
A hand dips into Leon's briefs, pulling them out of the way, sultry breath wetting flesh. Desperately, Leon digs his hand into inky strands, pulling tight.
"Luis," Leon pleads, unsure if it's a plea to stop or continue.
"It's okay," Luis whispers, soft and reverent, before sucking Leon into his mouth. Awareness narrows to nothing except the burning, wet heat. Leon's mind goes torturously blank, the pleasure pouring into his mind like a light leak, burning away his hesitancy. His breath releases in one long, choking gasp.
Then Luis moves, swallowing around him, lapping greedily. Every nerve is alight, a match to kerosine, his stomach contracting around the sharp surge of delicious excitement. He was overwhelmed with the mix of emotions that swelled over him: confusion, firstly, because this certainly wasn't how he felt about Luis, and secondly, it was majorly fucked up. Leon had been his caretaker for the last month for fuck's sake — it was inappropriate at best, immoral at worst.
Leon looks at Luis, attempting to formulate some kind of argument to halt this, but their eyes catch and Leon sees. Black iris nearly swallows the entirety of Luis' eye, his hair messy. Then his mouth, dark red, wrapped around —
His hips twitch forward, the fire burning hotter, and Leon lets out his breath in a harsh hah. Luis makes a noise, the vibrations crawling up his spine. He feels unspeakably guilty for the way a wet noise makes him burn, makes his body move without his accord, chasing the high of intimacy.
Fuck, Leon thinks desperately, his hips with a mind of their own, the inferno crescendoing in his belly. This was going to be over embarrassingly fast, and Luis' muffled encouragement wasn't doing him any favors. Shit, when was the last time someone touched him like this, that he felt so good? Leon was so afraid of letting people be like this with him that he'd sooner throw himself in bullet hail before taking home a one night stand.
Though it felt right that it would be Luis taking him apart this way, to see the cruel insides of himself — his selfish desires. It was impossible to hide them anyway, the way that it seemed he was possessed to speak when Luis was near. Because Luis would keep them safe, Leon is certain with the way he touches him.
"Luis," he pants, openly desperate, his composure cracking. It's all designed to drive him to madness: Luis' scorching mouth, his unwavering gaze, his hair is so soft between Leon's fingers, like silk, sinfully addictive. His thigh muscles jump, starting to contract, pleasure surging so high that Leon's chest heaves. God, he's so close — so, so close—
Leon awakes panting, his chest falling shallowly as he stares at his ceiling. Sweat pools uncomfortably on his stomach, making him sticky.
"Shit," he swears, the post-dream clarity hitting him like a lead hammer.
I can't believe I dreamt of him like that, he sits up, the thoughts coming faster than he can stop them, jesus fucking christ. When he's in the next room on machines. What the hell is wrong with me?
Everything, it seemed like lately.
The beeping in Luis' room pulses in his veins, an accompanying guilty, guilty, guilty, following shortly after. Leon barely makes it into the bathroom, and tries not to look at himself, the flush of skin skin and the redness of his mouth where he obviously was wearing with his teeth. He turns on the shower full blast, freezing, stripping himself down.
His cock slaps against his belly wetly, and Leon glares at his own anatomy, entirely too pissed off for first thing in the morning. This was a horrible development, what was he going to do now? All he was going to think of when looking at Luis in his goddamn spare room was whatever that was. He shivers under the spray, teeth chattering, willing to freeze the blood in his body solid. His feet and hands are entirely numb when he steps out, and Leon wishes they were more, as punishment.
When he gets back to his bedroom, he glances at the clock, noticing that it was just after five in the morning. He thinks of how Frida will arrive soon, and decides that this is probably a sign to turn back to routine. Feeling frantic to get out of the house, he pulls on running shorts and a shirt, not caring that it was cold outside. Fuck it.
Leon runs until his entire body burns, and then runs more, thinking he deserves the pain as an absolution.
—
Ghosts of the past never stayed dead, to Leon's dismay.
Krauser's appearance was stamped in bloodshed, against the curve of Luis' spine. His cunning smile in Leon's direction nearly mad with enjoying himself, happy at the way it seemed to make Leon squirm. He gripped his weapon tighter, comforted by its presence. He tries to think of their time together in the army, to keep himself centered, to will himself not to make any hasty decisions in regards to this being a person.
Instead, all Leon can think about is Luis, and how undeserved this was, in an effort to punish his sins.
Revenge had tasted so metallic and acrid on his tongue. It had been a long time since he'd felt a desire to shed blood for blood, but Leon was shaking with it. So much so that his poor reaction time had him pinned, heart in his mouth. Emotional, Krauser from the past says into his ear, weak. You play the hero so much that you let your emotions get the best of you.
The bullet fired from Luis' gun may as well have been the big bang to start the universe.
Leon's heart is beating so fast that he's sure he'll go into cardiac arrest. The world has become so horribly small with the buzz of adrenaline, and his breath sounds distant to his own ears. His feet feel clumsy while he runs over to attempt to break Luis' fall, his hands shaking with panicked tremors.
"Not looking good, eh, my friend?" Leon wants to hate him for his tone, for his joking nature, for the lack of response when red leaks from the side of Luis' mouth.
"Don't talk," Leon almost pleads, afraid of what else he'll say, what else he might leave engraved in his soul. Everything inside his mind is rupturing, even when Luis presses the key into his hand, a heartfelt goodbye. No, Leon thinks, remembering when Martin pressed the blade into his hand, and asked him not to hesitate.
He couldn't not act, but what could he do?
His mind reels uncomfortably, each thought passing faster than the last, and he can't catch them. His entire body is in a cold sweat, his knees painful on steel, and he looks around at the surrounding crates with urgency. Then, something clicks into place.
"What's your blood type?" He asks, leaning close to chase the light in Luis' eyes. His counterpart looks at him dazedly, and confused. Leon swears, reaching and slapping Luis hard against the face, with enough force that his whole palm stings through his glove.
"Oye!" Luis says in agony.
"What. Is. Your. Blood. Type?" Leon demands, his voice growing louder with each word.
"A," Luis says, the sound barely leaving him.
Type A, Leon thinks, the same type as him, the world all but stopping and restarting again. Heating, cooling, and he's back to movement, running over to a crate and using the edge of his knife to bust it open, cracking the wood.
"What are you doing?" Luis calls, so weakly that Leon has to strain to hear it. Considering his previous request, he finds his next thought humorous, but Leon needed Luis to keep talking.
"Saving your ass," Leon responds, digging through the contents, "and you're gonna owe me one."
Luis chokes out painful sounding laughter, his voice wet. "Mierda, do you ever give up?"
"No," Leon moves to the next crate, finding nothing useful and throwing it amongst the space uselessly, wandering a little farther from Luis, which made Leon's fingers shake harder, "you've come this far, you have to fight for something."
"I lead a pretty shitty life, dying should be repentance. It's cruel to deny something its nature," is the breathy response, and Leon digs faster, hands frantic. He grips the softness of thin plastic, intending to pull up, but it rips in his hand. Panicked, Leon says every cuss word he thinks he knows, before he glances inside. Clear tubes catch the dim light, and he grabs it, pulling it up. Attached at the end was a small packet with a sterilized needle. An IV.
"Bingo," Leon says, grabbing a few other supplies from the box before rushing back and jostling Luis when he notices his eyes have started to droop. Luis makes a noise, so quiet and fragile, still holding on, "just another minute, you owe me, remember?"
He goes to stick his arm and then stops at the sight of blackness, remembering that his body was still hosting the plaga. It wasn't ideal to give it to him again, but what choice did he have? True to his nature, he acts, pulling a stray piece of fabric off his shirt to tie it above his elbow, flexing his hand. Luis seems to finally see him clearly, with the last grips of consciousness.
"En absoluto," he breathes.
"Shut up," Leon snaps, focusing on pricking himself with the needle, the sting so achingly familiar like the blade of a knife. He watches as the tube begins to fill, and moves to mirror his actions on Luis' arm. Gingerly as he's able, he sticks Luis with the needle, watching as the blood pools through the tube. Contented with how that's going, he nabs a white object, square with a trigger: a medical stapler. Leon reaches to pull Luis forward, to get exposure to his wound, ignoring the prolonged grunt of pain.
"Ah, shit," Luis says, swearing in English for once, completely miserable, "are you always this gentle, Yanqui?"
"I'll be worse if you don't be quiet."
"Yet, you are attempting to prolong my life. Que?"
"Yeah, because then I get to choose when you die," Leon says, finally getting to the wound after he rucks up Luis' jacket, pulling it down his arms a little, "and I say you can't die yet."
The wound is so bloody and deep it's almost black, but it was a sliver. Leon staples the skin closed, feeling Luis' hand fly up to grip at his arm painfully, fingernails drawing blood. Despite the attempt to halt his movement, Leon diligently does every inch of the wound, closing it as tightly as the angle would allow. Once he was satisfied, which was barely, Leon helped Luis stand.
Their arms are still conjoined by the tube, red pooling, and Leon felt a little dizzy. They couldn't stay here, though, and Luis groans lowly in his ear, reminding Leon that he's still blissfully alive. Things had to stay that way.
Helping each other keep balance, Leon's fingers feel a little numb on the hand attached to the IV, his breath a little labored. The stairs are a hard endeavor having to support both their weight, but Leon does it anyway, no matter how painstakingly he had to go, Luis' breath hot against the column of his throat.
"Leon," Luis whispers, and Leon grunts in response, halfway down the stairs, "go. I'm slowing you down."
"I don't care," Leon snips, and finds that he doesn't.
"You're in danger," Luis insists, his hand gripping tightly, "don't die for me."
"I'm not," Leon snarls, pushing his face into Luis', nose to nose how they were when they first met, "I'm not dying for you, and you're not dying for me. Now, I think I said that I decide when you die. And you're not fucking dying. Get it, amigo?"
Luis chokes out another laugh. "Is that so, eh? So what? You'll march into the afterlife and yank me back?"
"Damn straight, if I have to," Leon says – the judge, jury, and executioner all at once.
"As you wish, Sancho," Luis murmurs in his ear. It had to be enough, at least until they got Ashley, so Leon let the words hang while they hobbled into darkness together.
—
Within the pitch of a late October night, Leon awakes a cold sweat, his ears already apt and listening, hair all but standing up.
It feels like something has just happened, though he can't determine what. He glances among the room, eyes darting quickly to assess any open threats. It is completely dark, the city quietly humming outside, and everything is exactly as he left it. He breathes in unevenly, heart a thunderous rhythm. Taking a moment to close his eyes, he listens intently, the beeps from the next room materializing.
Then, a foreign noise, something clattering to the floor. Leon throws himself out of bed, his hand reaching for his bedside table, yanking the drawer open to get his hand on his Matilda. Once it was in his grasp, he headed for the door, at a breakneck pace. Opening it, his hand extends, the gun his only protection from the unknown dark. There's nobody in the hallway, and Leon creeps down, looking into the lounge. Nothing.
Rounding the corner to the kitchen gave him the most anxiety, but it too was empty, only illuminated by the soft light of the moon. He circles back, pausing at the spare room door, figuring it was the last place to check. His wrist rotates as he gently clicks the handle, letting the soft push of his body take him inside.
Movement happens over the alpha bed, and Leon's fingers are on the lightswitch immediately, clicking it on and flooding the space with blinding brightness. Luis is sitting up in bed, and for a moment, it's so unexpected that Leon had the strange urge to laugh. Somehow it was humorous that this was the last thing he expected to be what had woken him. Apparently when he moved, the tray over his bed had been knocked, and one of Frida's many tools had fallen to the floor.
Leon can't see his face, but realizes that he's still moving, fingers at the crook of his arm. Suddenly, it all catches up.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Those hadn't been the first words he'd meant to say, but they slipped out unattended. Luis jumps in response to his tone, his head turning to look with desperate eyes, shiny with dread. Leon crosses to him, reaching out to grab Luis' offending hand, yanking it away from the tape that secured the IV needle.
"Don't take that out," he snaps, tightening his grasp when Luis fights it, "stop it, Luis, you're going to hurt yourself." Luis' other hand not ensnared comes up, nails desperately scratching at the plastic of the respirator over his face, eyes still alight with trepidation. Nodding soothingly, Leon lets him go gently, as if he was trying to calm a spooked horse.
"I know, you want to talk," he's glad it doesn't sound like an insult, "just – hang on. I can't take it out like that, it's going to be uncomfortable."
Hunnigan's instructions had strictly mentioned that there would be pain after a respirator, as it was plastic placed within the esophagus. Yanking it out would only bruise Luis worse than he already was. Leon scans the entirety of the desk, finding nothing useful, until his gaze lands on the IV box. Looking inside, he finds a collection of small syringes, labeled MORPHINE. Ah ha. Frida had dropped them off weeks ago, in case of any episodes post waking up, whatever that meant.
This felt like it counted, right? Leon grabs one and heads back to Luis, uncapping the needle.
"I'm gonna give you a dose of morphine," Leon says quietly, above Luis' ear, so he knows he hears. Pushing the needle into the tab on the IV plug, he pushes it in and clicks it down, eyes immediately returning to Luis' face, "this is probably going to make you a little dizzy."
As if on cue, Luis' eyelashes flutter a little, his iris growing large.
"Sorry," Leon whispers, now reaching to the back of the respirator velcro at the base of Luis' neck, it jostles Luis a little when he pulls it, and his dark brows push together in response. Fuck. Nothing about this was easy, so Leon supposed he'd make it quick. He pulls the strap back, his hand gently flitting over the respirator, ensuring he has a solid grip. Once he's sure, he pulls the plastic back, feeling it catch on Luis' teeth a little before coming free.
Leon takes it over the respirator, setting the piece down, pulling up the tubes that settled more comfortably in the nose. Frida had set them up in preparation for this exact scenario, and her thoroughness is appreciated. He turns to look at Luis again, only to find his eyes already on Leon, glazed with the drugs steadily pumping through him. It's unnerving to be watched so intensely suddenly, he was used to being entirely invisible, at least the last few weeks.
"Here," he's not sure why he's speaking so delicately, as if the smallest noise might shatter the moment like glass. Looping Luis' head through the gap in the tube, Leon ensures that it sits properly on his face, stubble scratching the edge of his hands while he does so.
Luis' throat clicks, a soft noise following.
"Agua," Luis gasps, and Leon almost shivers hearing him speak. There wasn't even time to give him a response, Leon moved without another thought. He heads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass, his entire hand shaking while the water fills up the glass. His body jitters wildly, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, attempting to fight the feeling that was undeniably fight or flight. Leon expects it to be silent again, only the gentle whir on the respirator, even though it was ridiculous.
Luis' eyes seem to be searching for him the moment he returns. From the desk, Leon grabs a packaged large pored sponge, opening it without a care for the plastic, throwing it behind him thoughtlessly. He pushes an end of it into the water, allowing it to soak.
"You can't just drink this water by itself. Too much and you'll get sick. We have to go slow," with the words, he raises the sponge to Luis' mouth, putting pressure so the water drips inside. Luis swallows around it, his chest rising and falling with breaths that he pulled himself, not by a machine. Removing the sponge, Leon brings it back to the water, pressing it deeper into the glass. He can feel more than see Luis' stare running all over the room.
"Donde?" Luis' voice is a shadow of its old self, cracking and hoarse.
"My… uh, my condo," It's as if it's the first time he's realizing how ridiculous this might seem, "You're safe."
Leon brings up the sponge again, allowing Luis to drink more. He anticipates that Luis might be more interested in his environment, having been cursed with barely contained energy. Leon understood that sentiment, and was waiting for the fidgeting that might make this more difficult. It never comes, and when he glimpses, Luis' mahogany eyes are still upon him, the light of the moon making them shine ethereally. Leon finds himself openly staring, and feels himself get nervous when Luis stares back, refusing to break the contact.
On the last press of the sponge, Luis' hand raises, molding against the side of Leon's face. It's so startling that he almost drops the glass and lets it shatter. The movement is muggy, and weighted, still obviously tired. No words accompanying the gesture makes Leon's skin prickle, but he doesn't stop it either. Luis was vulnerable, and anything that he does now could have a horrible ripple effect, so it was best to let it happen.
Whatever Luis needed to cope, Leon would do.
"It's the middle of the night," His tone is more regretful than he thinks he means to be, "you should go back to bed. You have a guest arriving in the morning – your nurse has been dying to meet you."
Luis' eyes crinkle in a way and tells Leon that he wants to smile, but his eyelids are starting to get heavy, his face smoothing out in suit. His tiredness is tangible, but there's something else in his expression that Leon can't quite read: it's open and raw, smolderingly intense. He's entirely trapped in it, sticky like honey, and warm. Unconsciously, his hand raises to touch the inside of Luis' wrist, pressed near to his neck.
"Morphine is doing its job, it looks like," Leon observes, seeing the way Luis is fighting, keeping his eyes open. His hand slides to paw at Leon's shoulder, fingers attempting to clench but can't under the steadily building unconsciousness, "don't worry, you won't get rid of me that easily."
When Luis' eyes slide shut, Leon settles in the chair, sliding it over to the bed so he can lean his weight against it. Feeling entirely too paranoid in the aftermath, he counts Luis' breaths, the way they counter the beeping. His peaceful face makes Leon's chest feel lighter than it has in weeks – and he finds himself resting his head on his arms atop the medical bed. He breathes a sigh of relief that he'd been holding since his feet hit American soil.
Without meaning to, Leon falls asleep in the low light of dawn, more restful than he'd ever been.
–
Spanish help:
un equipo - a team.
En absoluto - absolutely not.
