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Arriving at Madrid's American embassy with three bloodied passengers on a jet ski was not how Leon would have predicted his escape from hell. The sun was beginning to cower behind the mountains of Valdelobos, now just a silhouette as the sky was painted in a gradient of reds and oranges, marking the end of the day.
Leon found himself inside a dimly lit hotel room, wrapped up in a soft green blanket with a mug of coffee between his two bloodied hands, using the heat as a means of comfort and as an anchor to reality. The rank stench of rotting flesh and gunpowder was burned into his nostrils, the ringing in his ears now noticeable in domestic silence. He gazed out the window, his eyes watching the sunset- but his focus was buried within the clutter of his mind. It's only been a few hours since they left that damn place.
Hunnigan informed him that a plane would pick them up in about eight hours or less. That meant this mission was not over yet and would last another eight hours (or less, hah). At least Leon didn't have to worry so much about threats such as murderous parasitic cultists. Yet despite this, his pistol remained on his hip, within immediate reach, safety off for good measure. Who could blame him? Visions of blood were drowning him in his mind whole. It dripped from his knife, soaking in her cough, blackening through their veins, pooling past smokey lips and leather. Despite having succeeded this far (something Leon so desperately wanted when he was first assigned to this mission), he felt no redemption. Fuck, how many more times does he almost need to die for him to finally feel better about what happened in Raccoon City?
Leon's grip on his mug tightens. It doesn't feel as comforting as before. Maybe... Maybe he needed to see this mission through to its actual end. Maybe then, he'll feel better about it. Unfinished business, right?
At least Ashley was taking advantage of their downtime. The repetitive pattern of a showerhead was muffled in Leon's ears; she's been there for about twenty minutes now, but he didn't mind her taking all the time she needed to get acclimated again, even if it meant using up all the hot water. A cold shower was a fair price to pay for her safety... If he could even be convinced to take one.
When they had first arrived at the embassy, Ashley had begun to shake uncontrollably, her teeth chattering to the point Leon was worried she'd bite off her tongue. He'd never seen her that frigid before; her skin had lost its rosy pigment, her stare piercing his soul with glazed eyes, similar to a haunted war veteran falling into shock.
The paramedics wrapped her in a trauma blanket and immediately husked her away the moment they saw her. Thankfully, her shock was temporary, and she was eager to talk about stuff completely irrelevant to her rescue with a smile, all while holding his hand as she received stitches or when they drew her blood. She took it all like a total champ. Leon envied her ability to smile brightly after everything that's happened.
The agent huffs, finally taking a sip from his coffee to wash out the taste of bacteria in his mouth. There's still blood and ash under his fingernails. The sun's glow is fading, and the remains of his mission still paint his body with each bruise, cut, ache, and stain. Before Leon could pick at his nails with a knife, a peck at the hotel room's door in a shave-and-a-hair-cut rhythm stops him. He takes the knife to his side and inches toward the door, peeking through the peephole before grunting and ultimately unhooking the lock.
It may be time to address the fact Luis survived.
According to the nurses, Luis' stab wound from Krauser was about half a centimeter from piercing his spine. Had he gotten to their care a minute too late- he could have died from severe blood loss. The bastard stayed awake for the entire recovery process, ballsy enough to walk around once after stitches. Leon even heard he started flirting with the nurses who patched him up, which felt inappropriate yet in character for the guy.
Though, come to think of it, Luis only ever passed out when he strained himself to protect Leon. Something about leaving Luis to die alone rattled Leon to nauseating anxiety, so once, after taking a precautionary pulse check, he hauled Luis' unconscious body over his shoulder and carried him to safety. Leon's pretty sure his blood is stained all over his shirt. It fuckin' reeks.
"¿Qué tal, Caballero?" Luis greets him, and for the first time, Leon doesn't feel overwhelming suspicion or dread upon seeing him. Instead, he's warm, the corners of his mouth poking into what could have been a smile. He's glad Luis is safe. The Spaniard leans slightly against the door frame. Life glitters in his eyes, his beard properly tamed, his hair fluffy, curly, and clean. He looks healthy, for once.
"The lady's showering," Leon says bluntly, shoving his knife back into the holster on his shoulder. Luis raises his hand in understanding, instead offering two plastic shopping bags, both equally stuffed to the brim.
"No problem with me; I just came here to drop off the goods," Luis smirks, gesturing with his chin, "just some clothes and supplies. Figured you'd both need it. You especially; you look like shit."
Leon huffs a small chuckle and takes the bags in one hand, moving aside to let the Spaniard in, "thanks."
"It's no problem. You're gonna love what I bought you," Luis muses, fishing out a fresh box of Marlboros from his jacket pocket; a different jacket, dark oaky brown with dangly clasps, smelling of worn leather, and whatever Luis uses as cologne. He pulls out a cigarette and places it between his lips, and it lazily dangles there as he pats his pockets in search of a lighter, settling himself at the table Leon was sitting at moments before.
Echos of a past conversation gnaw and scrape at the back of Leon's mind. Luis was slumped against a hunk of metal, blood pooling down from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to strike the lighter in his hands, desperate for a final smoke. Leon could feel the warmth in his body dissipate, a fading thrum of a heartbeat against his fingers. Luis' expression spelled disgruntled acceptance; he wasn't ready to go, yet he was prepared to let it happen, anyway. A man who expected to die but was disappointed it had come for him this soon.
"You know, I lead a pretty shitty life," Luis forced past the choking cough rumbling in the back of his throat, uttering each word as if it pained him, "but now, hey, what do you think, Leon?"
He pauses to heave a shallow breath, his head shaking with exertion just to keep himself upright- to look Leon in the eyes.
"People can change, right?"
Leon didn't have an answer- he still doesn't- but it's not that he needed to grace Luis with one, the man losing consciousness soon after the words escaped him. Leon wanted to believe it was true.
"Oye, you ok?" Luis suddenly asks, flicking out his lighter cap and twirling it between his fingers before sparking it to the cigarette between his lips, much to the dismay of the NO SMOKING sign behind him. "You're looking at me like you're constipated."
Leon doesn't realize his tightened grimace until he's called out on it. Feeling this vulnerable around him, it hurts to be constantly reminded of what had happened between them. Luis shouldn't have gotten hurt.
"Are you coming with us to the US?" Leon asks, a little more abruptly than he wanted, multitasking by placing what he assumes is Ashley's goodie bag on the bathroom door handle, knocking, and letting her know it was there for her. Luis takes the question in stride, processing it slowly and thoughtfully. He puffs in the opposite direction of a smoke detector.
"Dunno, haven't decided," Luis purses his lips; Leon watches before deciding not to watch once he realizes that he was watching, "I still have, what, six hours? Five hours? I got a lot of time to make that choice."
"It's all your call. You still got unfinished business here?" Leon asks. Luis nods.
"Valdelobos was the village where I grew up," Luis utters, almost sounding solemn, "I want to help those who are still infected with Plaga, but I can't do much in the current state that place is in. Especially not on my own, never doing that crazy shit again."
"You could come with us. Maybe we can figure something out, help keep the parasite from spreading," Leon almost sounded like he was making bargains. It's been a while since Leon had someone he could talk to normally. He didn't have friends; being a top secret agent does that to a person.
"Wow, almost sounds like you just want to keep me around," Luis purrs, dark eyes squinting playfully, tapping the end of his cigarette to let the ashes fall into the carpet, "joder, I probably will if you just ask nicely."
"Then I'm asking," Leon says, far more determined, "come with us to the States."
"That wasn't a question, more of a demand," Luis breathes, smirking as if he knew the punchline to a joke Leon wasn't aware of, "we'll see."
Unsatisfied with the answer, Leon decides to preoccupy himself and takes the time to put his shopping bag upon the rickety hotel bed he claimed, where his bigger weapons and combat gear lay strewn about. He scrounges within it, curious to see what Luis had gotten him, not expecting to find anything good.
He pulls out a black tank top with the words TE AMO MADRID printed in bold white letters on the front, a silhouette of a bull beneath it pigmented in the colors of a Spanish flag, one letter smaller than his actual size, with a pair of sweatpants to match. Leon wanted to be annoyed, but he was purely amused.
The rest of the bag contained standard hygiene essentials; a toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, shampoo, conditioner, a box of bandaids, Neosporin, snacks, and a tacky souvenir keychain.
"So what about you, Sancho? You holding up alright?" Luis peeps up again, noticing Leon had found the souvenirs he'd gotten him, "I mean, you refused medical care when offered, so I'm gonna assume you're doing better than the rest of us."
His voice was laced with subtle sarcasm, urging Leon to correct him.
"I'll be fine," Leon reassures, "once this mission is over, I'll be fine."
"You're still bleeding," Luis notes, using his chin to gesture. Leon looks down at himself, acknowledging each wound.
"I don't have time to worry about myself," he states dismissively, busying himself with his guns.
"Sure you do; that plane of yours is not going to be here in several hours," Luis counters easily, "are you seriously going to be stressing yourself out until you make it home? Your mission is over, as far as I can tell. At least take a damn shower, asqueroso. It looks like you haven't even left the damn place."
Leon rolls his eyes, "There are still threats that we could face. I don't want my guard to be down and have some maniac bust through the door."
Luis scratched at his beard thoughtfully, "Not to offend, but this is probably the ritziest and most heavily armed hotel I've ever been in. I am sure no maniac will take the time to go through all those soldiers and walk up eight flights of stairs just to kill us." He planted his boots on the carpet floor, sitting upright, "Shit, it was difficult just to get through here myself, and they watched me leave!"
"You would be surprised," Leon murmured, "anybody determined enough to try could get past all that and more."
"Ay qué cabezón," Luis grumbled, tapping away ash and taking a stressful drag, "I guess someone like you would be terrified of someone equally as determined as you."
"Sorry," Leon sighs, taking a seat on the bed, "I can't afford to risk it, is all I'm saying."
Luis looks him over with an expression Leon couldn't quite decipher. Was it judgment? He couldn't blame him; he was a walking trainwreck. A glaring reminder on every inch of torn skin, every stain of dried blood. He probably still had chunks of brain matter in his hair.
"Y'know, I am the least spiritual person you will ever meet- a man of pure science if you will -but I can tell you that it's not good to be carrying all that garbage on you after the fact," Luis comments, grumbling to himself, mostly, "hell, maybe that's the raised Catholic part of me that still feels some value in the idea of a baptism, but I dunno."
"I don't need to trust an unreliable god," Leon says dismissively, "I can handle myself."
"You know, I am here too," Luis says, far gentler than Leon anticipated, "I can watch over la Señorita. You trust me, no?"
Leon sat in silence with that one. It was a scary thought. He didn't want to be bothered to express it aloud, but he trusted Luis. Probably more than he should; there are still a lot of unanswered questions between them, stuff he isn't even sure he wants answers to anymore- just to keep that illusion of trust he has now.
"I don't think it matters if I do or not," Leon decides to say, and Luis' expression wavers a little, "I was specifically trained for this. You're a scientist who doesn't even know how to hold a gun properly."
"Yeouch, you have to wound my ego, too?" Luis laughs, putting out the cigarette against the table and standing up, "Okay then, Cowboy, teach me!"
"What?"
"Show me what I need to do," Luis crosses his arms, smiling far too wide and eager. Leon raises a brow, standing up with him to pull out his side piece. He uncocks the pistol and pulls out the magazine, emptying out the chamber and putting the safety on. He was not taking any chances with this guy; even if Leon trusted him, there was no way he would get his foot shot off for this.
"Alright," Leon hands him the empty pistol. Luis takes it too confidently, "Aim for me, then."
Luis puts himself into position, aiming for the painting directly in front of him, his back leaning far and his arms outstretched. At least his leg position was right. Everything else? That stance would have gotten Leon killed. How did Luis survive as long as he did on his own?
"Ay, a gun is a gun. I don't think stance matters in an actual life-or-death scenario," Luis says, almost deflated. Oh damn, did Leon say that out loud? "It saved your ass..."
"It does matter," Leon argues, "it helps your aim, keeps you sturdy. Nobody wants an uncontrolled bullet, right?"
"You are such a stickler," Luis grumbles, aiming a little more theatrically, closing an eye, "this is how I see it in the movies. It worked well enough, no?"
"Luis, this isn't a game. Relax," Leon pulls him by the arm, manhandling them into the right position with no complaint, then he moves his thumbs to hold the gun, "Keep 'em locked properly. It makes it harder to get it knocked out of your hand."
He moves his hand on the small of Luis' back, carefully moving his posture forward and aligned with the rest of his body. There we go. He looks a lot more sturdy now, ignoring the dramatic face of discomfort on Luis'. Leon rolls his eyes again, finding that to be his new habit the longer he is around the Spaniard. Luis is unapologetically himself, and it's infuriating, but not in a bad way. He hopes he never changes.
"Not bad, Don Quiyote. Good job."
"Wow, your pronunciation was atrocious. It's Don Quixote." Luis moves to place a hand on his hip, the pistol at his side, bowing slightly, "And thank you."
"Yeah," Leon returns to work, taking the pistol from Luis with no complaint. He puts the mag back inside and slides it back against his hip. Safety on.
"You do it with such ease," Luis notes, "Good with your hands. You would think you were made for this stuff."
"I don't like to think I was made for killing monsters," Leon retorts, somewhat annoyed at the comment but rightfully understanding why it was said, "but yeah, I was trained rigorously. They don't allow room for error."
"Well then, no wonder you're such a stickler," Luis teases, nudging the agent by his shoulder. Leon shoves in retaliation, letting out a playful sound in the back of his throat.
"I guess so," Leon mumbles, now getting antsy again, his fingers waggling in the need to keep himself preoccupied with something. It felt wrong not to be anxious. He distantly notices the showerhead stopping, a shower curtain being moved aside. Good, she was almost done.
"Something wrong, Sancho?" Luis asks again. Leon hates how he sounds when he says it. It's got no malice and no teasing bite to it. It was a genuine concern. He will never grow accustomed to it, not from Ashley or him.
"I was there, you know? In Raccoon City, when the disaster happened," Leon suddenly says. Luis' playful smile fades almost instantly, his posture guarded. He probably didn't mean it, but Leon noticed everything. Leon doesn't know why he suddenly decided this was therapy hour, but this could give Luis some perspective into why Leon is so protective.
"I went through pure hell. I saw things no man should ever see. I killed. I lost." Leon recites the night like poetry, remembering it as vividly as the blood on his hands and the bullet scar on his shoulder, "I can’t lose anymore."
Luis looks pale. He struggles to find words.
"Leon..."
"That's why this means so much to me," Leon urges. He searches for Luis' eyes, but he can't manage to look back at him. That's okay; it was still a fairly uncomfortable topic- even between him and Claire. An unspoken secret between the two, trauma bonded for life, still dealing with the repercussions of six years ago. Leon supposed he could be trauma bonded to Ashley and Luis, too. That may be why it felt safe to admit to all this now. Luis opens his mouth, words crumbling just as they form- but thankfully, Ashley opens the door to the bathroom just in time, steam spewing behind her. She's dressed in what Luis had bought her; a massive t-shirt that covered over her knees that directly matched Leon's own TE AMO MADRID shirt, pajama shorts, and long black socks (with, of course, MADRID printed on the sides) underneath, hair wrapped up in a towel.
"Oh, hey, Luis," she says, her voice sounding exhausted. Leon backs away to watch her undo the towel in her hair, ruffling up her blonde locks to dry properly. She's okay. Good.
"Uh, I think you took Leon's bag," Luis comments nervously, breaking the tension Leon had built up. Well, that explains a lot. Kinda.
"You bought Leon shorts? And knee socks?" Ashley asks, an amused lilt to her tone; now both gazes on the agent as if he had answers for Luis' shopping spree.
"You're kidding," Leon gawks. Luis shrugs.
"I thought you'd appreciate it," Luis counters effortlessly- even innocently. Leon glares with newfound hostility. This man had several surprises left in him, and it was all about to be Leon's problem. Leon almost wanted to throttle him. Instead, begrudgingly, he removes the harness around his back and keeps his knife at his side. He unhooked the holsters at his hips, ensuring the pistol was ready in case things went awry before handing it off to Luis. Luis is now the one gawking.
"You do trust me?" Luis gaped, placing each strap around himself, with little adjustments due to how skinny he was compared to Leon. "I feel honored."
"Don't worry, Ashley gets a piece, too," he gestures Ashley to the rifle on the bed since he had already somewhat trained her on how to use it not too long ago. Ashley cringes at the responsibility.
"Thanks, Leon," she says, in that all too sweet voice of hers, despite being far less enthusiastic than Luis, "you're actually going to take a shower now?"
"Yeah," Leon kinda kicks himself for making this such a big deal, "gotta look presentable for the President tomorrow. Or, uh, your dad."
"Quit stalling then, dork," Ashley is teasing him now, poking at his abdomen for good measure; it takes everything not to crumble since Leon is indeed ticklish, "go already; you smell awful."
"Going, going, gone," he grabs his bag and walks to the bathroom. He does a little spin and everything.
He tries not to glance back and change his mind this time, shutting the door and pretending it is locked behind him. It really wasn't a big deal to be taking some time off. He probably seemed a total paranoid freak to the other two by delaying such a basic necessity. Being able to shed his survival instincts even for a little while took a lot of work, maybe even more energy than it did fighting for his life. He wonders when in his life that flip-flopped around. He doesn't think he even slept once in the 48 hours he was out there. He looks in the foggy mirror to observe himself properly now that he has the chance; examining how fucked up his face might be, he pushes back his sweat-damp hair. A massive yellow bruise bloomed across his stubbled jaw (he'll shave in the morning), dark red scrapes and slashes littered his face and the rest of his body. He was still bleeding from a particularly deep gash in his shoulder; he'd convinced himself he didn't need stitches for it earlier, but now he was kicking himself for being so stupid.
The shower was fine, though. Ashley didn't take up all of the hot water by some miracle. He felt the warmth absorb through his skin, dripping down his body and every wound he earned. Blood, bile, dirt, and other miscellaneous matter pooled at his feet as it washed down the drain, away with every trace indicating his survival from that village.
By the time he finished, he felt... Rejuvenated. More alive. Not exactly a baptism, not that he ever cared to label it as much, but it made him feel lighter than before. He dried up and put on the clothes Luis had gotten, relieved that he was only joking about the shorts; his sweatpants fit him perfectly. On the other hand, the tank top was pressed up right against him, tight but not uncomfortable. He was amused by how goofy it was; he needed a piece of levity. He did his best to use what he had, putting colorful bandages and wraps on any exposed wound. By the end, he looked like he used to when he was a kid at the orphanage. Scrappy, covered in bandages, and probably headed in the wrong direction in life. Ah, well. What can you do?
Exiting the bathroom with a fist clenched on his knife in one hand and a bag of supplies in the other, he examines the setup Luis and Ashley had put together while he showered. The TV was left on, playing an infomercial for some kind of pillow that could turn into a pet. His weapons were moved off onto the kitchen table where they were better organized, his bed now covered in snack wrappers instead.
Ashley was tucked under the covers and snuggled in warmly on the opposite, much cleaner bed. She was completely knocked out, her mouth agape and her arms positioned unnaturally, slightly snoring. It was sweet; some abandoned paternal side of Leon tugged at his heartstrings, reminding him of who he used to be. She was seven years younger than him, a newly made twenty-year-old, not even old enough to drink in the States. She had a charm Leon could appreciate. Probably best they never saw each other again (knowing her wishes to become an agent), but if they ever did meet after this, he hoped it would be under better circumstances.
On the other hand, Luis was leaning against an open window, enjoying another cigarette while watching the moon above the mountains, pistol abandoned on the table. Noting the burned-out table and several cigarette buds, he must've been at it for a while. Leon whistles to grab his attention, and Luis whistles right back.
"Feel better?" Luis asks. Leon tosses his bag toward the edge of his bed, leaving his knife there with it.
"Yeah," Leon admits, finding his place beside the Spaniard, admiring the view he failed to appreciate during sunset, "y'know, if you died, I considered picking smoking back up. In your name."
"Oh yeah? You smoked before?"
"Back when I was still trying to navigate my life after Raccoon City," Leon places his arms on the window sill, "I chew gum now. Good thing you didn't die; I wasn't willing to return to those old vices."
"Hah, you hinged your relapse on my own survival? I suppose I shouldn't be smoking, then," Luis mused, tossing off a fully burned cigarette bud, "These things'll kill you, y'know?"
The two settled in silence for a bit, Luis uncharacteristically quiet. Madrid was bustling beneath them, the mountains looming as massive shadows beyond them, the moon bright and full yet small compared to the world surrounding it. Leon looked at his hands. Bruised and scraped, but healing. He was starting to feel that feeling of redemption he yearned for before, truly feeling the mission coming to an end. It would only be a few more hours until it was time to leave; he'll contact Hunnigan before bed. He was looking forward to it.
"I'm sorry, Leon," Luis suddenly cuts through the silence, his arms crossed and hugging himself as he leans against the pane, "I cannot come with you to the States."
"I was almost convinced you would join us. How come?"
"I didn't want you to hate me, which is absurd to say out loud, but true," Luis shudders out a breath, "but you will, and you would deserve to. You have every right to, mierda..."
"I already know you worked for Los Illuminados, for Umbrella, and you're trying to make up for it," Leon says, patting Luis on the back, "We can make things right. I've dealt with bad betrayals before, but I still believe that people can change. You still believe that, too, right?"
He reminds himself of Ada. He knows she must have done the right thing after everything. He... He misses her. Yet she just keeps leaving him. Everyone keeps leaving him. He doesn't want Luis to leave him, too.
Luis deflates, "I do."
"Then cut it out with all that pity talk. We survived that place. We can make things right," Leon urges, "you said you needed a team. I can help make that happen. You don't have to be haunted by all your mistakes. You know how to fix them, after all. Not everyone can say the same."
"Well, I can't raise the dead."
"Neither can I."
Luis takes Leon by the front of his tank top, and without hesitation, he presses his lips to his.
He tastes of smoke, chocolate, and faint traces of minty toothpaste. He finally could pin down what he smelled like, too. Spanish hot chocolate and churros. Leon didn't think he'd enjoy it all that much, but he couldn't help the whimper that came out of him as Luis pulled him by his waist, holding him closer than he had the right to. It's insanely romantic, not much of a surprise for a European, and it melts Leon like the wax of a candle or chocolate in a mouth. Leon has had his share of first kisses, but never has he been pulled to such weakness before. Not even Ada pulled that off; her lips meant a new beginning, the spark Leon needed to follow the route of justice. So why did this feel like a goodbye?
"Perdóname, León, por favor te lo pido," Luis begs once they pull apart, his forehead pressed on Leon's chest, his hands clinging to the straps of his top, "Even if it's after I die, even if it takes a million years."
"Wh... What did you do, Luis?" He's breathless.
"I am the one who helped create the parasite that destroyed Raccoon City," Luis speaks, vulnerable, "I..."
Leon only stared, dazed. With the dying stumble of a bleeding bull, he stared down at the brown eyes that begged for his mercy, the man speaking words only a god who loved could forgive. Only a god who had shared the same burden of genocide, Leon thinks.
Luis left not too long after. Leon didn't even ask him to leave but to be honest, he didn't know what to say anyway. He had no stomach to sleep anymore, preparing himself for the morning, strapping himself up with all his gear and supplies, calling Hunnigan, and letting her know he was ready when they were. It doesn't reach sunrise when he's informed of the plane's arrival. He's gentle in waking Ashley up, brushing her hair from her face and nudging her to consciousness. She rises groggily, rubbing at her eyes. He kneels beside her like some kind of knight.
"Mmph, Leon? It's still dark out," Ashley croaks, "is it really time already?"
"Yeah. Time to go home now, Sleeping Beauty. Mission's almost over."
"Pfft, hardly beauty. Mom told me I snore in my sleep," she muses, then looks around the room after a good stretch, "where's Luis?"
"He's not joining us."
"Awe, darn," Ashley frowns, "I was hoping he would. You talked to him, right?"
"Yeah."
"And he still said no?"
"He left. I don't know what to tell you," Leon almost gets too aggravated to answer, but his voice is too hoarse to mean it truly. Ashley blinks at him a few times, reaching out for his face to touch the eyebags forming underneath his puffy eyes.
"Wish he could have said goodbye... Did you even sleep last night?"
"I'll be fine," Leon reassures, pulling away and standing up to hold himself properly.
"Let's get going."