Chapter Text
9:23 pm, Late September, 2026
The door slams shut, rattling the thin glass behind him. Luis doesn’t walk into his foyer; he falls into it, a mess of layers: scarves, muddy boots, a backpack stuffed with field notes and foggy glasses.
Everything comes off, one angry pull at a time.
“Mierda, I swear, if he shows up hurt again,” Luis mutters, propping his foot on the stool by the door. He yanks at the laces, fingers twisting in them.
One boot comes off with a thud, and the other is thrown against the wall. Fucking boot.
With a long, frustrated sigh, he stands in the pitch-black for a moment. Anger loose in him.
Then he turns and opens the front door.
The cold hits him first. Luis steps onto his small porch; it's just a wood railing and a few rickety steps onto gravel. Above his head are drooping multi-colored Christmas lights, a year-round staple he refuses to take down.
His house is an aging, deep-maroon ranch off a country road where cars pass through the night. The pines swallow everything at this hour, sharp-smelling and unmovable.
He listens. Nothing. No car or motorcycle.
Fine. He’ll show up when he wants.
Luis steps back in, careful not to slam the door. It’s not worth risking the hinges again.
He flips the light switch, bathing the hallway in warm wood and familiar furnishings. Luis leans down for his backpack and lets out a groan; two days camping on the ridge were rough on his back. He heads into the kitchen, toward the dining table. Curled up there is Tabatha, a sweet-faced stray cat who adopts him in the cold months. She blinks sleepily up at him.
“Off, Amorcito, I will feed you soon,” Luis chides warmly, and she stretches lazily, flicks her tail, and ambles away.
He throws the bag on the table, and his work badge tumbles out of an open pocket. It’s a scuffed thing, with an old photo, a few years back, bespectacled, less gray. In bold letters, it reads, Dr. Luis Serra-Narravo, Field Researcher: Parasitology & Environmental Health, Faculty.
Luis pushes it aside and fishes inside his bag, pulling out a case of cloudy petri dishes with a few live samples.
He's been monitoring an unfolding contamination in a local reservoir. Spending days knee deep in billowing reeds, sun hot, doing work better reserved for a graduate student. If a younger version of himself could see him now, Luis is sure there would be some choice words; instead, he just itches at the sunburn starting on the bridge of his nose.
Luis heads down the hallway to his home lab, not bothering with the lights, tracing the familiar shapes in the dark until he pulls open the fridge, cold air blasting out, glowing blue, and shoves the samples inside.
Through the flimsy curtain, a single yellow light travels by. He holds his breath, but it moves across the wall quickly and then disappears.
Shutting the lab door, Luis passes the bathroom, then turns back, mindlessly grabbing the first-aid kit and the Tylenol on the sink. He has no idea what state the other man will be in; it’s better to be prepared. With that in mind, he opens the kitchen cabinet, looking for coffee grinds. He loads them into his old coffee pot, starts the drip, filling the room with the smell.
Luis is curled up on the ground, spooning a can of tuna into a small dish for Tabatha, when he hears it.
It starts as a distant rumble, then it comes closer and closer. Until he hears a car pull in, gravel breaking underneath. The car idles in front of his house, like it’s waiting, perhaps stalling, then the engine cuts.
He rises on cracking knees, hesitating in the hallway as a dark shadow approaches the front door. Then there is a single, gentle knock, short and curt. Luis heads over, straightening his back, and realizes he hasn’t changed out of his hiking clothes.
If there’s dirt on his face, well. It doesn’t matter anyway.
His hands tighten on the rusty copper of the doorknob for a moment, and then he swings it open.
Leon.
He’s looking down, hunched over himself, a black box clutched in his gloved hands. When he looks up, all Luis sees is blue.
Blue, blue, blue. The color still kicks him in the chest, twenty years later.
Leon looks startled, broad shoulders tense in a dark coat as he gazes back at Luis.
After a moment, he seems to catch himself, straightening up.
“Luis,” he says, voice low, gravelly. “Can I come in?”
Luis squashes down his feelings, plasters a smile on his face, and steps aside, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He steps in, bringing the cold in.
Leon doesn’t respond to his taunt, nor does he remove a single thing he's wearing; instead, he stays wrapped up like armor in his coat, gloves, and boots.
“Not going to make yourself at home,” Luis quips, attempting to shut the door, but it immediately jams, forcing him to fumble with the doorknob.
When he looks up, Leon has slinked away from his side and is making a beeline for the living room.
Luis blinks as the scene unfolds, walking over to the entryway of the sleepy room. He watches Leon scan intently, clutching the box in his hand, searching from corner to corner. Luis nearly speaks up.
But then Leon crouches over one of the outlets, runs his fingers over it, and peers into it.
"Oh, you can't be serious," Luis starts, irritation flaring. "Nobody is bugging my house."
Leon stands, his eyes skirting over him, expression hazy, before walking over to the Bluetooth speaker on his fireplace mantle and flipping it over without a response.
“Pain in my ass,” Luis lets out a huff. “I’m going to make coffee. Feel free to join when you’re done sweeping my throw pillows.”
9:48 pm
Luis takes a long sip of coffee, nearly burning his tongue, while Tabatha curls around his leg, a black ball of fur, purring. Footsteps approach down the hall, then Leon comes into view, standing in the archway.
He lingers, looking around the kitchen silently, holding the box to his chest.
“Am I banned from the coffee pot?” He says dryly.
“Depends, are you going to search that, too?” Luis shoots back, and he watches as Leon’s mouth twitches. “If you can remember where the mugs are, help yourself.”
Leon heads to the cabinets, opening the correct one immediately, and reaches for the large forest-green mug he used last time.
Luis wasn’t particularly fond of it, but kept it.
With Leon turned away, he lets his gaze wander. His dark blonde hair is longer at the nape, trailing into his coal-colored jacket. Tracing the shape of his back, he notices his injured shoulder sits
higher than the other, tense the way it gets when he's exhausted.
Luis lingers there, taking in the details, only to realize that Leon is bigger than he remembers. The muscles in his arm shift as he picks up the coffee pot, and the sight sends a crawling heat down his spine.
Luis looks away, quickly, missing the moment Leon shoves the coffee pot back in too forcefully, and it spills over his gloved hand onto the counter.
“Shit, sorry,” he says, shaking out his hand, grabbing a nearby dishtowel, and starting to clean it. “Been driving for a while.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just come sit down, will you?” Luis says, exasperated, heat still in his face.
The chair creaks as it’s pulled out. Leon sits and places the black box between them, where it lands like a lead weight.
It looks mundane, just a rusted tin thing. It reminds Luis of one he had as a kid. He’d put rocks, sticks, and shells from the lake into it, the impulsive hoarding of a curious child. He always loved to keep things for himself, despite their nature.
Maybe that was his first sin.
“So-" Leon starts, pulling him from his memories.
He sets his coffee cup aside, brows furrowed, like he’s considering each word.
“You aren't going to be thrilled,” Leon says, “but I need your help.”
Luis blinks at that, considering.
“I can’t imagine what a humble college researcher, such as myself, could do for you,” Luis says, leaning back in his chair, “You know I’m out of practice.”
“I know,”
Leon's eyes slide away, and he reaches down to fidget with his glove, tightening the straps; the motion pulls at the wrist, and Luis sees a bandage peeking out. It catches his eye, a peculiar detail.
He's not bleeding, at least. Small mercies.
“Where’d you drive from?” Luis asks, pointedly, forging ahead.
“Luis,” Leon crosses his arms. Dark hair casts a shadow over the side of his handsome face; his eyes are steady. To anyone else, he would seem focused or intimidating, a signal to back off, but Luis just waits.
“Chicago.”
That gives him pause. Close to Raccoon City.
“Haven’t been out there in a long time, Sancho,” Luis states, the old nickname falling out of him, despite the dread forming in his chest. “Just seeing some old sights?”
“Oh yeah, all the hits,” Leon shoots back. He scratches at the wood of the table for a moment, like he wants to say more, blue eyes finding his, and they both stay there.
But Leon doesn’t speak. And Luis needs to look away.
“Fine, show me,” Luis sighs, flitting his fingers at the box between them.
Leon leans in, opening the lid, and nestled inside is a single vial of blood, or at least that’s what he thinks it is.
It’s the color that he notices; it looks black at first, but the light above it shines on it, and a hint of red peeks through. It feels ominous; so much so that the back of his neck tingles.
Luis can’t help but stay fixated on it.
“I need you to run some tests on it,” Leon says, very carefully. “Just…get a picture of it.”
“Why would you need me to do that?” Luis questions, thoughts whirling. “DSO has its own labs.”
“They do,” Leon replies, dry as a bone. He feels a prickle of irritation behind his eye.
Luis waits.
“But,” Leon sighs. He looks away, and Luis catches the deep shadows under his eyes. “That’s not the best course of action right now.”
It’s so evasive and cold that it churns his stomach, and the irritation that has been bubbling up all evening starts to spill over.
“...Best course of action, really,” he mutters, pinching between his eyes.
“That’s all you need to—” Leon starts.
“Leon,” he cuts him off, gently, trying to get himself underneath, but Leon just looks down at the vial, pressing rigidly into the chair.
“Mierda, you can’t be serious,” Luis says, red flaring in his voice.
Leon's eyes snap up to his, wary.
“You come into my house, and you aren’t going to give me a single straight answer, are you?”
Leon's eyes flicker for a second, with something close to hurt, and then it’s buried. Luis realizes there are more lines on his face than he remembers, deepening with the twist of his frown.
“I thought you didn’t want answers,” Leon shot back, “you were the one that left, remember?”
Luis had quit smoking years ago and forgotten how unpleasant struggling to take a full breath could be, sharp and mean.
He can’t help the ugly, tired laugh that follows it, “Dios dame fuerza. You are a real piece of work, you know that.”
There is an immediate flash of regret on Leon’s face, and he pulls back, turning his face into the collar of his coat.
Luis gets up and walks over to the kitchen sink, holding his hands against the cold linoleum, trying to center himself. There is a small circular window that looks out onto the backyard, all dark pine, safe and distant; this is the life he’s built for himself.
Luis takes an exhale.
“You know, last time you were here, you were bleeding all over that table, and then you just left,” Luis says, voice hushed, “Somehow, that was more pleasant,”
Leon doesn’t respond to that, and he doesn’t have it in him to turn around and look.
“Take it to Chambers, she’ll help.”
“I can’t do that,” Leon says, weakly, at the end of the line.
Luis walks right out of the kitchen.
10:20 pm
Somehow, they still fight the same, even years after breaking up. Luis would laugh if he weren’t so intent on peeling out of the kitchen. Behind him is the sound of a chair scraping on wood.
“Luis, wait, just hold on a minute,” Leon calls out, voice strained.
He’s not even sure where he’s going, flushed with embarrassment at running away in his own home, stomping down the hall until he nearly walks into an end table.
There is a single photo of his grandfather and him, one he managed to steal from home all those decades ago and keep in his pocket, and a delicate fern that nearly tips over with the force of his impact.
Part of him wants to pick up the photo and beg, “¿Por qué sigo haciendo esto, abuelito? ¿Soy un tonto?”
His head keeps buzzing, angry electric, until he feels a pressure on his wrist, guiding him to turn around, despite everything.
Leon is right there. There’s only a thin space between them, and he’s surprised how they still fit. The coldness Leon wore in the kitchen is gone, replaced by a soft look in his eyes, human and unsure.
After a beat, Leon takes a step back.
“Look,” he starts, “I’m working outside the DSO on this.”
Luis's mind bubbles up with questions, and Leon catches it in his eyes immediately.
“Don't,” Leon says softly, “I don't want to involve you like that,”
“Someone close to me is, well, in trouble. And I need to see these results. Off-book, yeah?”
It’s barely anything, and it’s more than he expected.
He looks down at Leon’s hand, which is clutching the sample, dark blood slipping around the vial.
“Would have been nice if you just said that when you walked in,” Luis replies, words thorny, tilting his head to the side.
“Yeah, well,” Leon lets out a huff, it’s a joyless heavy sound as he presses his fingers to his temple.
This close, Luis can see how the shadows under his eyes are indigo, and it pulls at him, just enough that turning away would ache.
Really, what’s one more bad decision?
Luis reaches out, fingers grazing, feeling the other man jolt at the simple contact.
Still, Leon slowly uncurls his fist, opening his palm. Luis' fingers brush against it. It’s so warm, alive, that he wants to linger for a single selfish moment. But he quickly grabs the vial, pulling himself away.
“Go sit,” he says, voice strained, “It’s getting late, I do have a bedtime, you know.”
Leon blinks at him, mouth open like he might say something, but then just nods and heads back towards the kitchen.
Pushing open the lab door, he flicks on the small overhead light, warm yellow bathing his equipment. He pulls out his chair and sets up the sample plates, which shine beneath him.
The vial gets placed down first, then he opens his drawers, fishing around for his glasses. Luis feels a flicker of self-consciousness as he puts on the wiry frames; he needs them more and more these days.
Finally, he holds up the vial, looking at the dark, sludge-like blood; the sight of it nearly sends a shiver through him. Whose is this? The thought rises up in him.
His hands shake slightly. Luis had left this life behind, and part of him fears what even Leon’s singular request could open up; if more danger lurked underneath.
“Run some tests, that’s it. Concentrado, tonto,” Luis mumbles to himself, picking open the plate, readying it for the dollop of blood to be sealed into it.
He shakes the vial, watching anxiously as it barely moves, seemingly viscous. Then he hears footsteps coming down the hall.
“You want your coffee?” Leon peers in, holding a chipped powder blue cup in his hand, sheepishly. He must have removed his jacket in the kitchen, and the full shape of his shoulders crowds into the doorframe, and Luis bites the inside of his cheek.
Jesús, María y José. Really, what were they feeding him these days?
He waves his hand towards the old, beat-up filing cabinet next to the door.
“Put it there, unless you want a contaminated sample,” Luis says. He pulls on a latex glove, one after the other, hands slightly sweating in them.
He pops open the vial, peering into the dark abyss.
“Tell me something…”
There is the gnawing question sitting in his gut, growing louder inside his mind. It’s one that he shouldn’t ask, but not knowing scares him more.
“This isn’t your blood, is it?” Luis asks, voice shaking, and he can’t look up. He doesn’t want to see the other man’s expression.
“No,” Leon says simply, “It’s not.”
Luis can’t help the rush of air that leaves his mouth, deflating, a string that had been wrapped around his lungs snapping. Behind his eyes, there’s a younger Leon, black veins twisting around his face, slowly killing him—it’s an old nightmare that still has a grip on him.
Willing himself to look up at the man now, more lines on his face than ever before; it’s a relief in a way, what time is doing to them both.
“I would have told you if it was,” Leon supplies, voice low, leaning against the doorway.
Would you? The retort sits right on his tongue, a mean little thing. Full of concern and anger. Luis has always been good at that, making a bad situation between them worse.
But it’s gone far enough tonight, so he sticks a dropper into the dark blood.
It goes in easily, despite the thick consistency. Then he squeezes it onto the small glass before sealing it. The dark blood spreads quickly, a tangled, hungry thing. Luis can breathe easier with it safely contained, another horror made sterile by science, if only for a moment.
“Now what?” Leon asks, kicking his boot against the door.
Luis taps away at his computer, sliding the plate into its proper place and sticking a USB drive into a port without looking, going through the familiar motions.
“Now, we wait,” Luis turns back, snapping each powdered glove off, shaking out his hands for good measure. “It will run through it on its own.”
Luis stands up, stretching his arms overhead. The motion pulls at the old scar tissue on his back, and a wave of fatigue hits him.
“How long is that going to take?” Leon replies, impatience peeking through.
Annoyance prickles under Luis’ skin again, and he turns around, grabbing for the coffee cup, drinking deeply from it.
“Well, cowboy, I can’t imagine how long it took you to get your mystery sample,” Luis says, voice too bright, moving closer to him, “So, I think you can stand still, un momento, sí?”
Leon takes a step back, widening the space between them, shoulders stiff.
“I shouldn’t stay long,” Leon offers tensely, his eyes skirting over Luis, as if he’s caught on some detail.
Luis just waves him off, “Of course, you need to go. The world is in danger as always.”
He drains the last of his coffee, grinds swimming at the bottom, and realizes that Leon is still watching him, that he hasn’t refuted him or volleyed back another comment. When he looks up, he realizes that the other man’s gaze is focused around his eyes.
Mierda, the fucking glasses.
Luis pulls them from his face, shoving them into his shirt pocket, “Not a word,”
There is a measure of softness to Leon; it peeks out, the lines smoothing out around his blue eyes, just for a fraction of a second.
“Didn’t say a thing,” Leon says wryly, fingers catching on the doorframe, leaning in.
Suddenly, the space feels compressed, and Luis feels himself slipping, just a bit. He looks down at his watch, away to safety. His face is warm.
“I can get the results in the morning, around six am.”
“Okay, good,” Leon starts, eyes sliding away too quickly, “I’ll, uh, be back in the morning.”
Leon doesn’t wait for his reply, just turns away and starts down the hallway. And Luis swears, he can feel the same chain that’s been tugging at them all these years; hell, they woke up together like that, once upon a time.
One day soon, he will have to pray for this foolishness to leave him, maybe even go back to church, and get on his tired knees, beg—even.
“Leon?”
The man in front of him stops, the name drifting around them.
“Just take the couch, no?” Luis asks, quietly.
Yes, he will have to pray, just not tonight.