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The Merchant picked a worn dart from the pile, and considered the dartboard before him.
His target was little more than a simple painted circle, ringed with red and white. Holes of near identical size littered its faded face, with the greatest cluster of them being at the center bullseye. Two darts stood there now, in fact, proud and straight in their ten point zone.
He’d have to repaint it soon. Almost couldn’t read the ‘10’ any longer.
He threw his dart. It sailed neatly through the air and landed on a ‘6’ ring instead.
Annoying. He let out a snort, and looked impatiently towards the empty hallway leading to his shop. He hoped to see a familiar shadow coming towards him, or even a flash of blonde in the hall beyond, but no such luck: only a suit of plaga’d armor stood there, frozen by The Merchant’s lamp of blue flame.
Merchant sighed, and contemplated the painted rings again. The reason he was wearing out the poor dart board was because Leon was taking longer than usual to battle through the various enemies that lurked in this godforsaken castle. The Merchant tried not to dwell on this, but he could only rearrange his stock, polish his weapons, and count his coins so many times. Resorting to darts, sadly, marked a new low for his Stranger’s progress. He hoped Leon was alright out there.
The Merchant shook his hooded head, pushing back a pang of worry that felt like cold fingers prodding at his heart. Nah. The Stranger could handle himself. He had no reason to fret.
He picked up another dart, took careful aim at the board, and was mid way through his throw when-
“Leon!”
The dart flew, hitting the 9 ring, but The Merchant barely noticed. That was a girl’s scream - the president’s daughter, Ashley.
If the echoes of gunfire and screeches were any indication, the Americans were in trouble.
The Merchant struggled for a moment with the impulse to pull out his own weapons and help. He did care about the strangers, both of them, but he had his own…ah…internal limitations that made leaving the light of his lantern a bad idea. Anyway, Leon could manage himself perfectly well, and The Merchant would be no good to him if he got himself killed, or worse, in the way.
Still, with the added complication of the girl to defend, it probably made the situation more difficult.
The noises of distant battle grew louder, the distant hallway lighting with flashbangs. He found himself eyeing his favorite shotgun, resting in its usual place just below his display table. Maybe just this once…
No, no. Best to leave it all to Leon. The Merchant leaned on a display case, forcing himself to remain in place, and stared down the hallway, hoping for a further glimpse of the battle beyond.
Half a dozen sets of shuffling steps. The swing of bladed weapons. Rapid gunfire, panicked, desperate. Blood sprayed on the far wall, and then something shrieked and ripped free of a falling body, charging Leon just as he entered the field of view provided by the open door at the end of the hallway.
“LEON!” Ashley screamed again, true terror in her voice. The plaga beast had somehow dodged Leon’s bullets and now clawed its way up his leg, hip, back. It struck at him once, twice, with a bony stinger. Leon had his knife out and was trying to cut it free, but could not make the angle work. Ashley kept screaming. Finally, out of desperation, Leon shouted, “Ashley, get back!” and pulled out a grenade.
“Oh no - DON’T YOU BLOODY IDIOT!” The Merchant tried to shout down the hallway, but it was too late. Leon dropped the grenade and shielded his face with his arms. The whole room flared with light and sound.
The Merchant had his shotgun in his hands before he could help himself. He hauled himself out from behind the table and bolted down the hallway, his heavy boots and rattling gear producing the only sound in the silent aftermath of the explosion.
He didn’t have much time. Each second away from the lantern was a second his inner passenger would wake further.
Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
Leon lay face down on the floor, the plaga not two feet away, stunned but already beginning to shift, many legs stretching and scrabbling to right itself.
Merchant raised the shotgun to his shoulder, took careful aim, and blasted the thing into next year, gore splattering Salazar’s rich red carpets.
Ashley leapt out from behind a pillar, already shouting, “Leon!”
Merchant shoved the shotgun at her. “Take this, I’ll have to carry him!”
“I can’t use this!” Ashley protested, clutching the weapon.
The plaga in Merchant’s chest cavity stirred, sending pins and needles through his arms and legs.
Not much time.
“You’ll have to learn right quick, missy!” The Merchant bent down, scooped Leon up in his arms, and hauled him bodily back down the hallway.
He couldn’t tell if the lad was breathing.
The stirring of worry in The Merchant’s heart was answered by a different kind of stirring. His internal passenger finally realized they were not in the blue light it hated so much; he could feel its awareness sharpening. The plaga reached for him, through him, and for half a second The Merchant’s vision grayed at the edges.
No, no! Just a few steps further! The Merchant gasped in a breath and held it, forced his legs to move, and burst through the doorway, into the purple and blue light of his safe room.
The plaga stilled in his chest, temporarily sedated by the light. It was awake, though. Awake and watching.
He went over to his table and laid Leon on top of it, immediately checking his vitals. Pulse - yes, but unsteady. Breathing too, thank heavens. Significant burns and tears from the grenade, but that was nothing some first aid spray and herbs couldn’t fix, and…
“What is that?” Ashley had followed him to the table, the shotgun held ready in her hands. She at least had the sense to keep it pointed downwards. “What’s that in his neck?”
The Merchant reached, fingertips shaking, and touched the broken end of a bony spine protruding from Leon’s neck. “It’s from the plaga,” he said, the words like grit in his mouth. “It had pierced the Stranger when he blew it off. It broke free.”
The area around the puncture was swollen and veined with black. Something in the venom of the spine had activated Leon’s plaga. Already his breathing was shallower, and sweat beaded on his forehead.
The spine would have to come out. The Merchant would just have to hope it hadn’t penetrated anything vital.
Ashley whimpered at his side, her pale face streaked with tears.
“Here,” The Merchant pulled down his smallest pistol from the display and offered it to Ashley.
Ashley gasped and stepped back. “What do you expect me to do with that? I’m not going to shoot him-!”
“No, that’s not-” The Merchant stopped, took a deep breath, and forced himself to explain slowly and clearly. “I’m going to help him, Miss, but it’ll be a lot easier without you breathing over my shoulder. Take the pistol, go down to the shooting range, and work on your aim.”
“What? But-” Ashley traded the shotgun for the pistol, her expression incredulous. “Is now really the time to-?”
“You could have saved him right away if you had had a gun and a calm enough head to use it,” The Merchant said bluntly. “Do yourself and the Stranger a favor, lass, and get some practice in while I patch him up.”
“Oh…” Ashley looked at the weapon with new understanding, her expression changing from stunned to determined. She stood taller, and took the pistol. “Right! Um, please tell me when he’s okay!”
“I will, Miss.” The Merchant watched her go to the elevator, and only when the iron doors closed behind her did he turn his attention back to Leon.
The fallen officer looked terrible, covered in dirt, plaga splatter and sweat. The one upside to his injury was the fact that the spike plugged its own hole, so at least he wasn’t bleeding out on Merchant’s table.
The Merchant rested a hand on Leon’s forehead. His brow was hot, and his plaga infection pulsed hungrily within him.
The Merchant’s plaga pulsed back, eager and insistent.
The Merchant quickly withdrew his hand, and turned his gaze to his lantern. It hurt his eyes, but the plaga in his core writhed with displeasure.
“Back,” he scolded it firmly under his breath. “Back, now. It’s not the time for any of your mischief.”
The plaga within him receded, but it was well and truly awake now, waiting its chance to once more fight him for domination of his own body. He could feel it, a living thing under his skin, within his core, observing his every move.
He’d pushed too hard today. He shouldn’t have left the light to grab Leon.
Too late for regrets now.
He wiped his own forehead on his sleeve and bent over Leon, patting the side of his face.
“Gonna get you fixed up, mate,” he said, as gently as possible. He hoped Leon could hear him - hoped his dear Stranger would recognize his voice, maybe even his smell, enough to know that he was safe and did not need to fight. “You jus’ relax as best you can, and this’ll all be over, quick-like.”
He’d have to draw the spine out with great care so as not to cause more damage, rinse the hole to avoid infection, and then use the first aid spray to seal the wound. Magical stuff, that spray - he could never get enough of it.
He rummaged around in his stores and pulled out what he needed: pliers, cotton gauze, disinfectant, spray can. He kept half an eye on Leon the whole time - but although the Stranger’s breathing was shallow, although the occasional noise of pain escaped him, he didn’t thrash about.
He didn’t open his eyes either, which was more than a little concerning.
The Merchant brought his bundle of supplies over and rested it on one of the cabinets near his table. He leaned close and laid a hand on Leon’s chest, hoping both to get his unconscious attention and provide reassurance. “This may hurt a bit, mate,” he said, “but you’ll make it through alright. You just gotta trust me for a bit. You’ll be okay.”
Leon’s eyelids flickered, and the Merchant caught a momentary flash of blue under those golden eyelashes. The officer took a deep breath, turned his head, let it out, and laid still.
God, The Merchant hoped that was a good sign.
He picked up the disinfectant first and stripped off his gloves, giving his own hands a heavy wash with the pungent liquid before dousing the pliers and returning to Leon’s side. He poured a heavy splash over the plaga wound, then set it aside, cap still off, next to the gauze. Good to have it immediately ready to use once the spine was out.
Finally he picked up the heavy black pliers and leaned close, getting one last good look at the point of injury.
It seemed deep, but not lethal, and though there was a small amount of blood dribbling down the now-disinfectant-wet entry site, it was not a pulsing gush, which to The Merchant’s mind meant that no artery had been contacted.
Lucky Stranger.
He took a deep breath and rested one of his bare hands on Leon’s neck in such a way that the spine poked out between his middle and ring finger.
“Brace yourself, mate,” he said softly, and closed the pliers around the jutting-out edge.
He began to pull, slowly, so slowly, taking care to follow the slightly curved path of the spike and not tear anything new within.
It wasn’t easy. The spike was some kind of bone-like substance, not particularly smooth, and it seemed to suck hungrily at the edges of the wound while he pulled at it. It certainly hurt, for Leon groaned in pain and tried to shift away from him.
The Merchant let go before Leon’s movement could cause any damage. “Easy, Stranger. Easy.” He reached out, brushed the hair back from Leon’s forehead, wiped the sweat off his own brow on the back of his sleeve. “We’ve got a good start. Just hang in there…”
He put his hand back on Leon’s neck, gripped the spine again with the pliers, and resumed pulling. Blood flowed under his fingers, hot and wet, and the spine inched free with brutal slowness, fighting him.
“Stop, no-” Leon’s pleading was half slurred, half growled.
The Merchant couldn’t afford to stop. The skin of the Stranger’s neck was growing blacker by the second with the presence of plaga, and his rolling eyes flashed red instead of blue. Even when he paused a moment to breathe, Leon’s flesh seemed to be trying to close around the spine and draw it in again, as if the plaga within him knew it could more easily take control with a compromised host.
Leon whimpered in pain, the noise making him sound so much younger than he looked.
Merchant kept a firm hold. “It’s alright, mate,” he tried to croon the words through gritted teeth, tried to brush Leon’s cheek with the thumb of the hand keeping his neck braced. “Steady, steady-”
Leon moved before the Merchant could stop him, jerking in a spasm that was either out of pain or sheer defensive reflex. His forehead collided with The Merchant’s brow. The Merchant yelped, “OUCH,” and staggered back, dropping the pliers and clutching at his face with a bloodied hand. Stars flashed in his vision, and he almost tripped over one of his own crates. He sat down hard instead, his face throbbing.
On the table, Leon shifted, his limbs flexing as if something were trying to compel him to stand.
The plaga was winning, right before the Merchant’s eyes.
This wasn’t going to work. The Merchant was only one man, with two hands. He couldn’t properly brace to pull the spine out without doing more harm and restrain Leon at the same time…
…the plaga within The Merchant’s chest churned, further awakened by the smell and feel of hot blood on his hands and now, face.
And suddenly he saw the answer.
It was a terrible answer. He would pay a heavy price for it once all was done. Unfortunately, he needed to act *now*, and he didn’t see any other choice.
He stood up, shed his pack, undid the clasp of his coat, and shrugged out of it, holding it with care so as not to disturb the various bits of live ammo stored within.
He took his lantern and set it on the floor. The blue light made the plaga within him grow still, for at least a moment.
Before he could second guess himself, before he could listen to the cold fear engulfing his heart, he covered the lantern with his coat, and turned away.
The plaga within him stirred and stretched, gleeful and eager.
“Come on then, you little bugger,” The Merchant pulled at the neck of his apron, letting the seam that stretched from his jaw to his chest split open. He hated how natural and easy a motion it was, hated how he could feel the rush of cold air breathe into him, hated feeling the plaga gleefully stretch its tendrils out of his insides, the sensation at once his and not his.
He stepped over to Leon and put a hand firmly on his chest once more, this time holding him down with the core strength of a man who regularly wore over a hundred pounds of weaponry and ammunition.
Leon’s heart fluttered against his palm.
“Come on,” The Merchant growled, the words now slurred with the distortion of his jaw, “hold him for me.”
And, miraculously, his plaga obeyed, snaking down over his own chest and limbs, wrapping around Leon’s arms, wrists, middle and legs, pulling him straight, and binding him to the table. Leon gasped and struggled, but he was no match for the ropes of warm flesh keeping him restrained.
Somehow, the plaga having a task to focus on left The Merchant with enough of his own mind to pick up the pliers. Somehow, even with his snaggletoothed chest-mouth fully expanded and half his plagified guts on the outside, he was able to once more brace his hand on Leon’s neck and grip the end of the barb with the pliers. Somehow, even with Leon’s every breath, every heartbeat, every twitch of muscle and skin telegraphed to him through limbs as sensitive as his fingertips, he was able to focus on his work, to pull the spine out, to ignore Leon’s moans and whines of pain and finally, finally, draw out the wicked shard of bone.
The scent of blood filled the air, and his plaga purred with eagerness.
He dropped the spike to the floor, breathing hard, and grabbed the disinfectant, sloshing it clumsily over the now-open wound.
It looked like a lot of blood, especially mixed with the disinfectant, but once again, it wasn’t gushing out in pumps. No arterial damage, despite everything, and there was no whistling or catch in Leon’s breath, so his windpipe must be intact as well.
It was the best he could have asked for.
The Merchant grabbed the cotton gauze and pressed on the wound, holding it closed for now.
Leon’s eyes snapped open.
The Merchant froze in place. He should have backed away, or even ducked, but it was too late. His Stranger’s gaze had found him, locked eyes with him, traced the full length of his terrible limbs to see the plaga wrapped firmly around his sweat-covered body, holding him down.
Blue eyes darted briefly back up to the Merchant’s face. The terror there nearly broke The Merchant’s heart right there in his open chest.
“S’alrigh, Strageh…” The Merchant rasped, the words barely human around all the teeth and tendrils.
Leon’s eyes rolled back, and his head hit the wood of the table once more; unconscious.
Well. The Merchant supposed that was better than more fighting. Now that the worst was over, he could feel his eye swelling from Leon’s skull-bash.
Still, he had a hunch that Leon wouldn’t be wanting any upgrades for a while, after this.
He kept the gauze pressed on the wound and reached across with his other hand for the first aid spray. He had to focus immensely on this task - had to keep his thoughts firmly on his goal, for the plaga, although it was otherwise occupied, still had its own interests and agenda, pulling at him like a hundred tiny strings. ‘Look how defenseless he is.’ It seemed to whisper in his ear. ‘Look how ripe and fleshed he is. Smell him, his sweat, his blood. Feel his beating heart. He is probably delicious…he could be ours…’
“None of that now,” The Merchant growled around his misshapen jaw. He shook the spray can and shifted his gauze pad, immediately coating the injured area with several generous layers of healing vapor. Blasted plaga, twisting his thoughts.
Leon lay so still now, with the spike removed. His eyes were closed, eyelashes casting small shadows on his dirt-stained cheeks. His mouth hung half open, his lips chapped from hours of combat without water. Sweat and gore caused his shirt to cling to his muscular form, making every rise and fall of his chest strain his shirt…
The Merchant quickly shifted his eyes back to his work. Ahem. Yes. Definitely the plaga, making him notice such things.
Once the wound was as clean and covered as he could get it, he set aside the dirty cotton and took up a new piece, taping it to Leon’s neck to shield the area while the spray did its work. Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and, half through mental strength and half through muscular impulse, forced the plaga tendrils to release his Stranger from the table.
They obeyed to some degree, loosening their grip on Leon’s wrists and body, but the plaga pulsed angrily within The Merchant’s core. ‘No,’ it said, ‘I am out and free now, I will not return to the prison of your flesh.’
Its wrath pierced him like tiny hooks, cutting into his nervous system. The pain was shocking, overwhelming, too much all at once. He fell to his knees with a gasp, hands on the floor. The stone was cold under his bare palms, especially in comparison to Leon’s warm flesh and hot blood.
The plaga began to curl about his own wrists, fighting his will, intending to bind him so it could overthrow him completely.
It hurt, oh it hurt. His head, his limbs, his chest. He almost lost consciousness, could feel the creature within him trying to wrestle his mind into submission.
He braced himself, and then with an effort of mighty will and strength, shot his arm forward, overpowering his own tentacles.
His hand closed on his coat. He jerked it free of the lantern. Blue light blazed.
The plaga let out an audible screech and shrank back from the light, coils withdrawing into his chest even as agony washed over him, through him. He had no choice but to share the discomfort felt by this wretched creature that was as much a part of him now as his own spine.
It hurt, but it worked. The plaga buried itself inside the safe, shadowed prison of his body, writhing with displeasure.
The Merchant collapsed fully onto the floor, but he did not close his eyes. He clutched at every breath he could gasp, and stared into the light - stared until the tears ran down his face and the dark tendrils receded from his vision.
“Not today,” he whispered, once the beast was reluctantly back in its usual space. He pushed himself up with shaking hands, dabbed at his streaming eyes with his apron, and picked up his coat. “Not today.”
He felt some relief when he looked away from the light, at least. He considered Leon instead; noting that his color looked normal, and the angry black plaga lines that had crowded his neck around the wound were already fading.
He was still deeply unconscious, though; either from shock or sheer exhaustion.
The Merchant hesitated a moment, wavering on his choices. He could try to wake Leon now and send him on his way, but the Stranger had been having a rough time of things already. To send him off while he was still weak and exhausted would mean him facing even greater danger than he had already overcome, and in worse mental and physical condition.
Nah…best to let him rest somewhere comfortable for a time.
But first, he had best let the little miss know that her savior was safe.
He shuffled to one of his shelves and pulled the tarp off his speaker/monitor system. He brought the screen to life with a few taps, then took the walkie-talkie style communicator into his hand.
Ashley came into view on the screen, taking careful aim at six pirate cutouts and knocking them all down with clean, easy shots.
Well, well. The gal had some talent. Maybe she’d get Leon out of a jam for real, next time.
The Merchant cleared his throat and tried his best to put on his usual upbeat tone. “You’ll be happy to know, Miss, that your dashing hero has survived the ordeal, and is now resting quietly.”
Ashley jumped, then lowered the gun. She even took her finger off the trigger, he noticed, demonstrating proper discipline. She must have had more training than she let on. “Is he okay?” she asked, looking around as if expecting to see The Merchant or Leon pop up among the pirates.
“He’ll be right as rain in no time, just needs to rest up for a bit. I’m going to settle him somewhere more comfortable than a wooden table. You keep working on your aim, and he’ll come fetch you himself when he’s ready to press on.”
“Great! I mean, um, okay. Thank you, weird Merchant guy. Er, I mean, Mr. Merchant.”
She slapped her own forehead, clearly embarrassed at having called him weird. The Merchant chuckled, said, “You’re quite welcome, Miss. Keep up the practice,” and turned off the machine.
He retrieved his blue lantern, the light once more making his eyes water, then walked back over to Leon.
The Stranger slept, breathing but otherwise motionless.
The Merchant knew he had to pick Leon up to move him to the back, but found himself hesitating. He wondered if Leon would have any memory of what happened when he awoke; would he remember the friend he thought he could trust, distorted into a nightmare and holding him immobile while subjecting him to pain? Would The Merchant’s friendly voice cause him only disgust, in their future meetings?
Would his Stranger only see him as one of the many loathsome enemies to be avoided, or worse, eliminated, in this hellish town?
The Merchant dearly hoped not.
He slipped his coat back on and fastened it carefully, drawing up his hood so that no trace of his warped face would be visible. He laid the lantern on Leon’s chest, making sure the blue light would keep away any shadows of plaga. Finally, he reached over and scooped Leon into his arms, slow and gentle, lifting him off the table.
It wasn’t easy. The Merchant’s weary arms shook, his back strained, and every muscle in his legs seemed intent on reminding him that the plaga was the one who wanted to be controlling this body.
And his brow throbbed something terrible. He was pretty sure he would be getting a black eye from Leon’s earlier trick.
He allowed himself a single, soft curse and pressed on anyway, turning away from the table with Leon cradled close to his chest. He carried the slumbering officer back into his storage room. Every step was an effort, and sweat dripped down his neck, but he was determined, and did not let himself falter.
His storage room was a cramped little area full of stacked boxes and tarp-covered implements. Behind a curtain lay a camping-style cot, bedroll, and blankets for his own sleep. Now he laid Leon there, though bending with the Stranger’s weight in his arms made him wheeze with effort.
“Right then,” he rasped, setting the lantern on one of the crates. He arranged Leon with care, making sure arms and legs were all snugly on the bedroll, and pillowing his head on a spare bit of folded tarp. He tried not to notice how soft that golden hair was against his bare hands. He tried not to look at the bruising on Leon’s wrists - clear signs of the plaga’s restraining grip. “Right then,” he said again. Finally he picked up the lantern, intending to bring it with him back to the other room. “You just rest as long as you need, Stranger, and I’ll be in front-”
He straightened from his stooped position, and the world tilted around him.
He sank down to his knees beside the cot, just barely placing the lantern on the blankets in time to avoid dropping it. Blackness threatened to overtake his vision, and a distant ringing seemed to be growing louder. Oh, he really had pushed too far. His own resources were utterly spent from his little trick with the plaga earlier, and even though he was now in control, the piercing light of the lantern still felt like needles in his skull; hurting him enough to show that the plaga had deepened its hold, despite his victory.
He didn’t know if he could gain back the ground he’d lost to his parasite. The thought was terrifying, adding further emotional pain on top of the physical.
The room continued to spin around him, even now he was seated on the ground, and a shiver raked his body. He closed his eyes, sank his face into his hands, and rested his forehead against the cot, trying just to breathe. Praying that it would pass. Praying that he could burn back the plaga’s influence.
Warm fingers touched the back of his hand.
He froze, not daring to move, his aching heart suddenly all a-flutter.
A rough voice rasped, “stay.”
The Merchant dared move his palm enough to look.
Leon’s eyes were still closed, but it was his hand that had touched The Merchant’s - his voice that had spoken, that spoke again, whispering, “please.”
The Merchant found himself having to blink a good deal, and it wasn’t from the pain of the light.
He placed his other hand over Leon’s, as if it were a bird that needed to be soothed, and allowed himself to shift his position, to lean against the cot, and rest his elbows on the blankets. His spinning world stabilized, focused on his Stranger.
“Alright,” he whispered back. He took Leon’s hand in both of his, and squeezed it tight. “I’m right here, Stranger. You’re safe.”
Leon didn’t respond, but he took a deep breath, let it out, and seemed to settle deeper into sleep, his hand now holding The Merchant’s.
He was so beautiful.
The Merchant allowed himself this now, only because Leon had told him to stay, only because of what he had sacrificed to be here. He allowed himself to watch the Stranger sleep, to gaze upon those closed eyes, those thick eyelashes, those sculpted features.
Leon really did look like a gallant prince out of legend, draped in the body armor of a modern age. He was brave to a fault, kind under his gruff exterior, intelligent enough to solve any puzzle, and a survivor of immense hardship. Leon S. Kennedy never gave up no matter what life threw at him, and he never stopped trying to do the right thing, even when it seemed impossible.
The Merchant’s heart beat very fast, now, and the plaga within him growled at the noise, flexing its hold and sending a spike of pain through him.
He winced but kept himself silent, even as once more the room seemed to spin around and around. He settled his gaze on the burning blue light and laid his head on the bedroll, unblinking, letting the tears fall and refusing to blink at the merciless, piercing glow that burned into him, through him.
The plaga within him recoiled, pulled itself as far down as it could, shying away from the accursed beams of pain.
If Leon could get through all this, The Merchant could fight to regain lost ground.
Leon’s breath came slow and steady, the sound somehow easing the tension that had worked itself into The Merchant’s shoulders.
The blankets were soft under his cheek.
Leon’s hand was warm in his.
The Merchant sank into sleep despite his best efforts, his exhaustion and contentment dragging him down with subtle speed of quicksand.
**
A throbbing headache woke Leon from his slumber.
For a moment he just lay there, eyes closed, cursing himself for having drank so much of…whatever it was that had gotten him into this state. His whole body felt sore, especially his wrists.
His wrists? That didn’t make sense.
Someone was snoring softly at his side. That didn’t make sense either, though he felt strangely reassured by the sound.
He opened his eyes.
Blue light blinded him for a moment, and he lifted a hand to shield his face from the glare. Ouch. Worst hangover since…no. This wasn’t a hangover.
He allowed himself a few minutes to adjust, hand over his face, just trying to think around the ache in his head. Some of his memories surfaced from the murk of unconsciousness. He recalled the plaga on him, his desperation, the grenade. Ashley. Strong arms holding him. A soothing, familiar voice promising him he’d be okay. He remembered pain, and fear, and at last relief, and safety. Softness. Hands holding his.
He spread his fingers and peeked through them. His other hand was still being held, in fact. The Merchant lay there at his side, sitting on the floor but with his arms and head nestled on the cot, completely asleep. Even unconscious, his fingers remained curled around Leon’s. His hood had slipped partly as well, revealing a black eye, and some silvery strands fallen across his brow.
Leon could also see significant plaga scarring reaching across the man’s temple. If he had to guess, he’d wager that white hair was not from old age.
On an impulse he reached out to brush the hair back from The Merchant’s black eye. It looked pretty bad…
The Merchant’s breath caught, and he stirred, a soft noise escaping his masked mouth.
Leon shifted his hand so he was, instead, pulling The Merchant’s hood down for him. “Hey,” he said, and his own voice was rough and sore. He cleared his throat, gave half an apologetic smile, and said, “thanks for saving me, I think.”
The Merchant blinked, and Leon saw the man’s pupils constrict and dilate as they adjusted to the light. “Stranger,” he croaked, sounding about as bad as Leon felt, but with a smile clear in his voice. “You’re alright! Glad to see it. Ah, mmm…”
He glanced down at his hands holding Leon’s, then gently let them go, sat back, and reached into his pocket, pulling out his gloves and slipping them back on. “Yes, ah. All in a day’s work, mate.”
“All in a day’s work, huh.” Leon watched the Merchant, smiling, but still trying to sort through his memories. There were definitely flashes of something darker, of something terrible…
He looked down at his hand, and turned it back and forth, noting the near perfect ring of bruising.
Hmm. So that part hadn’t been a dream.
He raised his eyes to meet the gaze of The Merchant, who watched him with clear nervousness. “Ah, well.” The Merchant pulled at his great coat, making sure it was closed and properly in place. Now Leon knew to look for it, he recognized the plaga discoloration of those fingers. “Sorry if I caused you a bit of a fight, Stranger,” he said. “Time was short, and I ‘ad limited options.”
Leon shook his head. “No, don’t apologize. I…heh. Well, I had my suspicions.” He leaned forward, put his hand on The Merchant’s arm, and gave it a squeeze. “Nothing’s changed.”
Or, well. Maybe it had.
Leaning forward like this, he could see the tear crusts at the corners of The Merchant’s eyes, and feel his air of exhaustion. From what Leon had learned about plaga, there were significant costs paid for any use of its power.
If what he was remembering wasn’t a dream, The Merchant had paid that cost. That wasn’t the kind of thing a man did for just any stranger.
And, judging by the look of deep, almost pained gratitude The Merchant gave him in reply, his friend had been worried about more than just his health, after what he’d done for him.
Leon wanted to ask more, but his sense of duty tugged at his mind. He took a deep breath, saying instead, “is Ashley alright?”
“Oh she’s fine, fine,” The Merchant chuckled and shifted his seat so that his weight rested on his other hip. The movement brought him just a little closer to Leon. “Practicing her aim at the range as we speak, in fact. Told her you’d come down an’ collect her yourself, once you’d recovered enough to walk proper. She’s a surprisingly good shot.” He hesitated, his expression growing serious. “How are you feeling, Stranger?”
He peered into Leon’s face, as if he could read the truth there even before Leon spoke it. His eyes were so blue, especially in contrast to the darkness of his shadowy hood, and the black eye.
Leon caught himself staring, cleared his throat, and looked away, stretching his arms and back until he groaned. “Bit sore. Bit stiff.” He relaxed once more, rubbing at his neck. No sign of injury there. “Feels a bit like a bad hangover, but nothing worse.” He hesitated, looking once more at Merchants black eye. It had already swelled enough to make his eye half-closed. It looked quite painful.
Leon reached out to gently touch the bruising. “Did I do that?”
The Merchant, who had been watching Leon’s stretches with a carefully neutral expression, went very still. “Ah,” he said. Funny how this close, Leon could see the man blush, even under the plaga discoloration. “Mm, well, Stranger, um. Any man would fight, if they felt cornered, afraid, and in pain.”
The Merchant reached up to brush his fingers against Leon’s, also examining the bruising, but half catching Leon’s hand in the process. The contact was pleasantly warm and gentle.
“Nothing a bit of time won’t mend, aye? Don’t fret yourself about it, mate. I’m more worried about your state.”
Leon chuckled. “I’ve had worse from mixed drinking. This is nothing.” He hesitated for half a second, then captured the Merchant’s hand with his own. “Well. More than nothing.”
He did remember. He remembered The Merchant’s voice telling him to be steady, that he’d be alright. He remembered the barb in his neck, drawn out with such gentleness. He remembered that voice crying out in pain…
The Merchant cleared his throat, squeezing Leon’s hand in return and speaking with unusual softness. “Glad to hear it, mate. I confess, you did me quite a fright, for a moment there, but I shoulda known you can get through bloody well anything.”
Leon chuckled, a strange ache in his heart. He wanted to tell his friend that he was grateful, not only for his own life, but for The Merchant’s kindness. He wanted to tell him he noticed it, that it mattered, that he’d seen so much darkness and despair in his few years of this line of work that true compassion shone out brighter than any lantern. Unfortunately, Leon did not feel his skill with words was quite enough to convey all he was feeling. His mind was still torn between memory, pain, and the distracting grip of that worn hand in his.
He had to try, though.
He took a deep breath, gave The Merchant a sideways look, and said, “I feel like I owe you more than I have in my pocket right now.” He curled his fingers through The Merchant’s, his own heart beating a bit more quickly.
The Merchant blushed pink behind his mask, but chuckled, patting Leon’s hand in a companionable manner. “Ah, d-don’t worry about that, mate-”
His stammering brought a slow smile to Leon’s face. He would never have guessed that a man with such easy sales-charm would grow flustered by a bit of hand holding. Leon shook his head, and leaned closer, putting a bit more strength in his grip, forcing The Merchant to meet his eye.
“I mean it,” he said gravely. “I don’t know about you, Merchant, but once this is over, I’m gonna need one hell of a drinking night.” He ran his thumb over The Merchant’s knuckles. “I’d rather not drink alone.”
“Stranger,” The Merchant whispered, staring at Leon as if he were an angel descended from the heavens. As if he were the only person in the world who mattered. “You don’t….you don’t have to- I don’t need payment, mate. Your life is what matters to me.” But he didn’t say no, Leon noticed. And he didn’t look away.
“Not payment,” Leon shook his head. “It’s- listen. In a few moments I’m going to go get Ashley, and I’ll carry on risking my neck to protect her from every nightmare Saddler’s twisted mind can imagine. But if I have this to hang on to…”
The Merchant furrowed his brow, looking as if Leon were breaking his heart with every word.
Leon gave him a small smile, and traced his fingertips along the edge of The Merchant’s glove. “Well. It’s easier to live through the worst if you’ve got something to live for. To look forward to.”
“Stranger,” The Merchant said, and his rough voice broke on the word. He blinked hard, then took a deep breath and smiled, his eyes crinkling up with the force of it. “Alright then. After this is over, you tell me where to be, and I’ll be there. We’ll share a brew of some sort…”
He traced his fingers down the back of Leon’s hand, almost reverently.
“...and if on that day you decide you’d rather just have a cuppa tea, that’s alright too, mate. You’re under no obligations for my sake. But…I’ll be looking forward to that drink, believe you me.”
Leon chuckled. “I believe it.” He gave The Merchant’s hand a last squeeze. “Can you stand, after spending so long on the ground like that?”
The Merchant snorted. “I aint no senior citizen, mate.” He pushed himself up with a soft moan. Leon could practically hear his bones creak. “Gor, though I sure feel like it, some days.”
He offered Leon his hand one last time, to help him up.
Leon accepted, letting the taller man pull him to his feet. He swayed a moment, the room shifting slightly in his vision, but The Merchant steadied him, and soon everything settled to its proper stillness. He wasn’t great, but he felt well enough to proceed.
“Alright,” he said, checking his belt, his weapons, his ammo. “Guess I should press on.”
“Need anything tuned up before you go?” The Merchant looked him up and down. “Guess I should have done some repairs on that body armor while you slept.” He reached out and tugged fretfully at a torn edge of Leon’s armored vest.
His hand that close made Leon’s heart speed up again. He suddenly found himself wondering what other things those skilled fingers were capable of, and he felt his own face redden at the thought.
The Merchant noticed, and raised an eyebrow.
Leon coughed. “Maybe later. Uh. I should probably get Ashley. I imagine she’s worried.”
“Yeah, yeah. O’course, mate.” The Merchant smoothed the worn edge back down, gave Leon a pat, and retrieved his lantern before walking him back to his shopfront.
Leon forced himself to take a few calming breaths before following. He knew near-death experiences did things to a man’s primal drives, he’d heard stories of it happening to soldiers in battle and similar situations.
He’d have to really think about this, when he had time.
“Thanks again,” he said, once he and The Merchant were back in their usual places, facing each other across the table. There was a certain comfort in immersing in their usual routine, though part of Leon regretted the distance. “I’m guessing I’ll see you again, further along?”
“O’course.” The Merchant winked at him. “But you gotta make it that far. Don’t get yourself killed now, heh heh. Be a shame to waste all my hard work. Though if you need any help before then…” he ran his fingers along the red, now-bloodied cloth of his table. “You know where to find me, aye?”
The smooth charm was back, but as comfortable and familiar as it was, Leon could feel the new warmth in The Merchant’s words. A bond forged between them, in blood, exhaustion, and a stolen moment of peace.
“Yeah,” he said, finally forcing himself to turn away. “I’ll find you.”
He walked to the elevator, feeling The Merchant’s stare on his back like a warm caress. He took the elevator down to the shooting range, his thoughts and emotions all tangled up. He didn’t have time or attention to spare for frivolities right now, but he couldn’t stop remembering; The Merchant’s words. His gentle fingers. His soft gaze.
…the strange warmth in Leon’s chest now seemed too good a thing to be only a chemical side effect of stress.
He looked at his wrists, at the bruises he wore like dark bracelets.
He closed his eyes, remembering both the half-mad terror at seeing his friend’s raw form, and the contrasting gentleness of the hands that had held his while he slept.
He probably should have cared more about the plaga thing, but it hardly seemed to matter in the face of all the kindness and care The Merchant had shown him, these past hours.
It was good to be reminded that the world held more than darkness, pain, and filth.
It was even better to know he had something waiting for him on the other side of all this.
He stepped out of the elevator, and was greeted by Ashley giving a small shriek and sprinting towards him for a hug.
“Leon!” she cried out, “oh, I was so worried!”
“Worried? What, you didn’t have more faith in me?” he managed a lopsided smile, giving her a quick embrace. “I can’t believe The Merchant gave you a gun.”
She laughed, wiping her eyes and setting the weapon down on one of the tables. “J-just to practice with. I think it’s safer for me not to be carrying one.”
“Aw, too bad. He told me you’re a good shot.” Still, he was a little relieved she was fine leaving it. He didn’t actually want a jumpy twenty-year-old waving a gun around behind his back.
Her entire face lit up at his compliment, though. “Really?”
Leon nodded. “Really. But let’s hope you never need to show off your skills in combat.”
She shivered. “Ugh, yeah. Here’s hoping. Let’s just get out of here, I want to go home. But you know what, it was fun to practice! I can’t believe he has this whole setup right here just for us. Do you think he made it all himself?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” Leon led the way back to the elevator, his mind once more wandering back to The Merchant. Those hands. Those eyes. That voice.
Easy, Stranger. Easy…
The words replayed unbidden in his head.
“Hey Leon, are you alright? Your face is all red.” Ashley peered at him, worry creasing her brow.
Leon shivered and hurriedly pulled his thoughts away from the memory. “Never better,” he said.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The sooner they finished this messy business, the better. He really was looking forward to that drink.
–
The Merchant watched the pair leave the elevator.
Ashley looked much happier, practically skipping towards the hallway. Leon hadn’t let her bring the gun with her, The Merchant noticed with amusement. Not that he would have charged anyway…
Leon seemed fine too, which was a relief. No staggering, no paleness or plaga streaks, and he walked with his usual focused intensity. The Merchant liked watching him walk, truth be told. Good shape of a man, that Stranger.
Hah. Strange, feeling like he was allowed to notice that.
Er. Was he allowed to notice it?
Even now, he was a bit unsure. Yes, Leon had invited him for drinks after this was all over, but Leon had also just woken up from a pretty rough ordeal, all things considered. It was possible he’d change his mind once he was out of this hellhole. Heh, it was even possible he’d changed his mind already, truth be told.
The two Americans were halfway down the hall when they stopped. Leon gestured at Ashley to wait, then hurried back to the Merchant’s table.
The Merchant raised his eyebrows. “Well then,” he said, “what can I do you for?”
Leon stopped, closed his eyes, clenched his fist, and failed to keep a smile or a blush from appearing on his face.
“Interesting choice of words,” he said. “You got a pen?”
Oh?
“Not for sale, but…” The Merchant dug in his coat, pulled out a ballpoint he’d stolen from Umbrella, handed it over.
Leon accepted it, his face getting even redder for some reason. He retrieved an empty ammo box from his gear, scribbled something on it, and set both the box and the pen back on The Merchant’s table. “In case I forget,” he said. “You have a cellphone, I assume.”
He actually waited for The Merchant to pick up the box and look at what was written.
A phone number. Leon’s phone number. Leon was giving The Merchant his phone number.
The Merchant felt his own face color in response. He let out a rough little laugh that almost managed to not be a giggle, and tucked the empty box lovingly into his coat. “Aye,” he said softly. “That I do, mate. I’ll…I’ll be sure to give you a call, once this is all over.” He winked at Leon. “Or a text, if that’s what you’d prefer.”
Leon looked away, unable to meet the Merchant’s gaze, his face even redder. “Either is fine,” he said. “Heading out for real this time.”
He trotted back down the hallway.
The Merchant chuckled, waved after him, and called, “Come back any time!”
Leon met back up with Ashley, and the two finally disappeared from sight.
The Merchant made sure they were gone before sagging down onto one of his crates.
He pulled out the ammo box again, looking at the number, just to be sure it was real.
Leon had signed his name there and everything. Even if The Merchant never worked up the courage to call him, he still had his autograph.
He already knew he’d have the courage, though. He wouldn’t miss that night of drinks for the world.
The Merchant tucked away the box again and buried his face in his hands, grinning so hard his twisted, snaggletoothed face hurt. Oh, he felt like an old fool, but…
…he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy.