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There's blood on Leon's hands.
He feels it still. The monster thrumming beneath his veins. It itches and churns and beats his raw heart bloody. His brain sends a signal to his body in hopes of flexing his fingers, to know he's still here and alive and human, yet only an aching numbness meets where the joints connect.
The Major had long since lost his mind. Leon couldn't save him, but he could grant him the mercy of death.
Krauser wanted it. He wanted Leon to kill him with his own damn knife.
He can feel it still.
The blood on his hands.
"Your knife need fixin', mate?"
Leon looks up, vision sinking. Only following where his mission takes him, he had ended up at the Merchant's wares again. It's always been like that.
The Merchant, ever unchanging, stares at his dutiful customer with a curious shine in his eyes. It's different from the various times he's looked at Leon in the past, as if he wants to wring him dry of coin. It's different, too, from the few times Leon's caught him staring with an almost chilling hunger. Like he wants to eat him alive.
A whistle passes through the air. "You look like you've seen hell."
Leon lifts a shaky hand to rub his eyes clear of sweat and blood. He realises then that perhaps he had confused how the Merchant's eyes are set upon him now.
The Merchant isn't curious. He's concerned.
Leon gulps down a dry swallow. He doesn't know anything about this man, other than the evidence of Las Plagas coursing through his skin. He doesn't try to, for fear of losing himself in a comfort he can't have, and now he has made yet another worry over him. The Merchant is a safe haven, somewhere Leon's presence tainted with death cannot stain. He wants to preserve it for as long as he can.
"Blood will only dry if you allow it, mate. You don't seem the type that enjoys having sticky hands," the Merchant says wisely. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a clear vial. Leon watches warily as he twists open the lid and applies a hefty amount of liquid onto a purple handkerchief. He leans his elbow over the counter and gestures to Leon, his other hand holding the fabric. "Come on, then. Give 'em here."
Leon hesitates. He reaches for his half-broken knife, laying it on the table. He presses his fingers against the steel still wet with blood, willing the trembling in his hands to cease.
The Merchant clicks his tongue. "Not that!"
He reaches over the table, tentatively at first, before wrapping his fingers around Leon's wrist. Leon freezes immediately, fight or flight kicking in through the haze of his exhaustion. His muscles draw taut with tension, and black spots cover up so much of his vision at first that he misremembers whether the man in front of him is an enemy or not.
"Easy," a familiarly gruff voice coos in the space of his mind, filling his head with smoke. Leon breathes an unsteady exhale. "Just me, stranger."
He squeezes his eyes shut until his vision clears. When he opens them again, he finds the Merchant's fingers gently brushing away strands of hair from his forehead. His heart gives a debilitated quiver. Whether it's from unease or because of the way the Merchant is looking at him now, so soft and kind unlike the other monsters that have torn Leon apart since the moment he became a police officer, he isn't sure.
"There we go," the Merchant huffs amusedly. "There's those pretty blues."
Leon’s eyelashes flutter against the fingers so close to his face. He doesn’t know what the Merchant is trying to achieve through compliments, but his face warms in spite of the adrenaline thundering through his body.
He tries to convince himself that he has to split away from the Merchant, that Ashley's safety is more important than a quick, blessed moment of comfort. Yet, he can't find the words to voice those beliefs to the man that holds him with such immediate regard now.
The Merchant's fingers linger near his cheek before pulling away fully. He takes Leon's hand again, tenderly stripping him of his glove knuckle by knuckle. Leon allows him.
It's almost intimate, the way the Merchant cleans him of blood. He presses the wet cloth to each of his digits with merciful care, as if tending to a frightened lamb. Leon had never been treated with such consideration before in his life, nor did he think he deserved it. It rattles his heart in ways that overcomes the panic, and he soon realises that his breathing evens out similarly to that of the Merchant's.
"Feelin' better, stranger?" The Merchant acknowledges him again as he scrubs the last of the blood from Leon's nails. His eyes seem so much more clear up close.
"Yeah," Leon rasps, throat dry.
Underneath the mask and the hood, Leon imagines the Merchant handsome. It isn't hard to tell, especially with the distance they have now. That understanding never fails to make Leon's head fuzzy.
He flinches out of his thoughts when the Merchant lowers his head to grasp Leon's other hand. The hooded man chuckles as he removes the last of Leon's gloves. "You're as sensitive as a leaf, stranger. Never would'a pegged you a shaker, but I guess we all got our secrets."
He watches me that much, huh?
Leon shakes his head. "Some of us more than others."
He doesn't look up, even when he feels the Merchant glance at him from under the hood. His gaze focuses on the dedicated motion of the Merchant's fingers, the soft fabric of the handkerchief brushing against his wrist, slowly but swiftly washing away the blood staining Leon's skin. It's difficult not to look away.
He wonders, belatedly, why the Merchant is doing this for him. The man had always been somewhat hospitable, but Leon doubts he cleans the blood of former comrades off of his other customers. That is if he has any other than Leon in this hellhole.
Leon lifts his eyes hesitantly, thankful that the Merchant has returned his attention to the task at hand. His clean hand twitches against the table, unnoticed or just ignored by the Merchant. An intense feeling of curiosity settles inside of his stomach, and it surprises himself just how much he wants to see what the Merchant looks like.
He huffs. Great first date, Leon.
Even still, he wants to try. He pauses, seriously considering how his actions will unfold from here. He chews on the inside of his cheek, before inevitably deciding to be selfish for once. He raises his arm tentatively, heart beating thunderously in his ears, echoing his wants straight into his brain and shocking his body with a new bout of adrenaline. He's close enough that his fingers brush the material of the Merchant's hood, softly at first, exploring just how far he can go, then—
"There we go," the Merchant announces, leaning back to admire his handiwork. Leon's hand drops immediately from his head, and he sets his jaw in an attempt to mask his embarrassment with neutrality. The Merchant blinks at him, before harking a surprised laugh. "Aww, stranger, did I make ya nervous...?"
Too late. Even without the Merchant's sly comment, the way Leon's skin burns is enough of a realisation that he did a poor job at concealing any of his emotions. At least the man seems to take Leon's reaction as his tending to him and not Leon's feeble attempt at unveiling his appearance.
Leon turns his head away from the vehemently smug gaze, coughing out a quick, "Thanks," in hopes that his means of escaping the awkward aftermath is just around the corner.
"Ah-ah-ah, stranger! Not so fast," the Merchant calls sleazily, making Leon stop in his tracks. He throws a grimace over his shoulder, turning fully to face the Merchant's wares again. Of course his life was anything but easy.
He watches as the Merchant folds the handkerchief, now soiled with blood, and places it on the table next to the almost empty vial. He then tugs the heavy backpack from his shoulders, though not without taking a moment to roll the tension out of them. He kneels and rummages through his stock, muttering to himself as Leon continues to grow more antsy as the seconds pass. "A-ha!" The Merchant comes to a stop, slowly raising himself from the ground and leaning his dark frame over the counter again. "For you, querido."
Leon chooses to ignore the Spanish pet name the Merchant has for him. Instead, he hovers over the Merchant's unfurling fingers, brows furrowed as he examines what exactly the man had pulled out for him.
He blinks down at the object in the Merchant's hand with slight confusion.
"...Gloves?"
The Merchant scoffs. "Don't be picky, mate. You can't go storming into battle without proper gear, yeah? So," he wiggles the drooping handwear around as if to further prove his point. "Gloves!"
Leon spares a glance to his old, dirty tactical gloves laid forgotten on the counter. "What's wrong with mine?"
"What isn't wrong with them?" The Merchant slides one of his hands over the ruined garments and not-so-subtly lets it fall off the wooden surface. "Look, I know you think I'm absolutely fantastic at repairing all your broken tools, but some things are just beyond saving, mate..."
Leon frowns, not quite recalling when he'd ever thought or said something like that, but he supposes the Merchant isn't entirely wrong. He sighs when he comes to understand that the other man is being serious, and curls his fingers around the fuzzy item. "Alright. If you say so."
They don't look much different from Leon's, and are adequately snug when he fits his fingers inside. It looks like it's seen some wear and tear, and it's a lot browner than his, but other than that, it's pretty comfortable. Maybe even more so.
They're still fingerless too. Leon wonders whether the Merchant is just short on gloves, or that he's hoping Leon will get blood all over his fingers again.
"Not bad," Leon says when he notices the Merchant is still watching him. "How much?"
The other man, however, rubs the back of his head in an almost awkward manner. "Let's just say it's on the house. Free of charge! You earned it, mate."
Leon's eyebrows raise to the skies. "You're giving it to me for free?"
"Don't make me regret it!" The Merchant waves him off. Leon becomes curious over whether the Merchant is still capable of blushing under all of that and through the influence of the infection, because he probably would be now. "Like I said, I can't have my favourite customer gallivanting into battle and risk hurting any parts of his pretty little body, and that includes his hands."
Leon smirks. "I don't think you said all of that."
"...I didn't, did I?"
This is nice, Leon thinks. It helps him forget about the ongoing battle, both in his brain and the one that seems to berate him every time he takes a step away from the Merchant's wares. He gestures at his knife left discarded on the counter. "Are repairs also on the house?"
The Merchant fixes him a glare. "You ask for a lot, stranger."
"You offered."
"Yeah, gloves," the Merchant grumbles. "I ain't exactly looking for a sell-out."
Leon ascertains that he only has to stare at the man to get what he wants. The Merchant, not even two minutes later, relinquishes with a groan, aggressively taking hold of the fragmented object. "This ain't gonna be a regular thing, mate."
Leon shrugs. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Once the Merchant finishes up on Leon's knife, all the while muttering complaints about Leon's eyes, he hands it back to Leon with tactless care. "Go on, then! Get outta here. Make me some coin while you're at it."
Leon admires the newly repaired knife before pocketing it. He sends the Merchant a genuine smile. "Thank you. I'll try bringing back something nice."
The Merchant's gaze lingers sternly around his features for a while. Leon heavily considers leaving before he starts feeling warm and exposed again, but to his credit, the Merchant just looks away with a sigh.
Leon wonders what the guy does all day as he parts ways with the Merchant. Surely he doesn't just stand around waiting for someone to buy from him. Where do Leon's well-earnt pesetas even go?
Maybe he should ask him on his next visit.