Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The airship hummed like a held breath.

Vibration threaded through the metal ribs, into the floor, into boots and bones. Above, the engines’ low drone flattened into a constant, a pressure at the back of the skull that made it hard to remember silence. Outside the narrow windows, sky and cloud stacked themselves in layers: blue, white, then, far below, a brighter smudge on the horizon that the pilots kept calling “Dossoles” as if naming it would make it behave.

The Doctor sat strapped into the jumpseat bolted to the bulkhead and tried not to count how many hours of sleep she hadn’t had.

Her tablet rested on her knees; the mission brief still glowed resentfully on the screen. She skimmed it for the eighth time, eyes snagging on the same phrases.

Civil unrest.
Unstable factions.
Medical opportunity.
High risk. High reward.

The words blurred if she stared too long. They sounded tidier than the reality: a country that had never stopped bleeding, a coastal city that sold its own reflection as a festival and a vacation package while its outskirts choked on dust and smoke. She had read the reports, watched the grainy footage of Dossoles summer events and rooftop gunfire and floodlit arenas. She had treated patients who’d come from there.

She had never been.

She was going now. With him.

On the other side of the cabin, Tequila stood by the window like he’d grown there, shoulder propped against the frame, tail low and still. The glass cut his reflection into long, narrow pieces: blonde hair flattened by the dry cabin air; golden ears tipped forward, then back, not quite sure where to rest; profile set in a line that someone who didn’t know him might call relaxed.

The Doctor knew better. She watched the angle of his shoulders, the way his fingers tapped once, twice, then stopped, as if he remembered halfway through that he shouldn’t look nervous.

“Approaching Dossoles airspace,” the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Expect light crosswinds and heavy politics.”

A few of the operators chuckled. Someone, probably Midnight, made a noise that might have been a wolf whistle or a yawn. A medic in the next row tightened the straps of the supply crate between her boots. No one looked particularly surprised.

Rhodes Island had a way of normalizing phrases like heavy politics.

The Doctor forced herself to look back at the tablet, pretending she was still reviewing the plan instead of watching Tequila’s ears flatten slowly against his head.

– – – –

The plan had been simple when they talked about it on the landship.

Plans always were, in rooms with good ventilation and coffee.

Kal’tsit’s office had smelled faintly of antiseptic and mint tea that had long gone cold. The Doctor had stood with her hands in her coat pockets, reading the map projected on the wall: Bolívar’s borders, rivers like veins, Dossoles an ugly bright star clinging to the coastline.

“Civilian casualties are rising,” Kal’tsit had said, voice thin with fatigue, not emotion. “Supply lines are unstable. Local clinics are overwhelmed or underfunded. Rhodes Island is already treating a steady stream of Bolivarian and Dossoles refugees. If we don’t address the source, we’ll be mopping up forever.”

Amiya had nodded, ears dropping. “They requested an official delegation this time, Doctor. Dossoles wants us there.”

“Some of them do,” Kal’tsit corrected. “Others would prefer to weaponize our presence.”

The Doctor had folded her arms, studying the glowing lines. “We’ll need local contacts,” she’d said. “Navigators. Someone who knows which alleys not to walk down.”

Kal’tsit’s gaze had flicked past her, to where a blonde figure sat on the examination bed, swinging his legs as if he were back in some street-side bar instead of a medical office.

Tequila had stopped swinging the moment he realized they were looking at him.

“No,” he’d said, before anyone asked. “No, ma’am. Find someone else.”

Amiya’s ears had lifted in surprise. “Tequila, we only wanted to-”

“You wanted a guide,” he’d cut in, smile sharp around the edges. “I’m honored, really. But if you’re sending the Doctor into that city, you don’t want me anywhere near her down there.”

Kal’tsit had steepled her fingers. “You know Bolívar. You know Dossoles. You’re bilingual. You understand how the factions operate, and you’ve worked with Rhodes Island long enough to act as a bridge. Those are useful traits.”

“It’s not the city that worries me,” he’d said quietly. “It’s the people who remember my name.”

The room had gone a shade quieter. They all remembered the reports, the explosion, the panic, the way Dossoles had nearly torn itself apart around a single incident. The Salas name had been in the debriefs like shrapnel.

The Doctor had cleared her throat. “We can manage how visible you are,” she’d said. “You won’t be alone. They’ll know you work for Rhodes Island now. That matters.”

He’d looked at her then, really looked, eyes bright and tired and a little disbelieving, like he was watching someone place a bet with the wrong currency.

“You’re a good person, Doc,” he’d said. “But being nice to me doesn’t make Dossoles nicer back.”

“It does mean I trust you,” she’d answered, because it was true and because she could see him brace every time the conversation brushed his past. “I think that counts for something.”

His ears had flicked, betraying him before his mouth could. “You shouldn’t do that too freely,” he’d muttered. Then, louder: “If I go, Rafaela stays.”

Amiya had frowned. “Tequila…”

“Ernesto,” Kal’tsit had said, and the use of his given name had made his shoulders stiffen. “We are discussing deployment, not exile. Rafaela will not be forced to return to Dossoles if she doesn’t wish to.”

“Then it’s settled,” he’d said, almost too fast.

Except it hadn’t been.

Later, the Doctor had found Rafaela in the training room, scythe leaning against her shoulder, face turned toward the skylight. Her eyes had been calm in the way of people who had already survived more than they should have.

“I heard,” Rafaela had said before the Doctor opened her mouth. “He doesn’t want me going.”

“He’s worried,” the Doctor had offered.

Rafaela had shrugged, the motion small and measured. “He’s always worried. It doesn’t change the fact that I can help. And if he’s going, I’m not leaving him alone with that place.”

Her smile had been thin and oddly gentle. “With all due respect, Doctor, you’re good. But you don’t know how Dossoles bites. Ernesto does. I do. If you insist on walking into its mouth, someone should be there who knows where the teeth are.”

In the end, the roster had gone out with both their names.

Tequila, Ernesto, had seen it on the mission board and said nothing. His fingers had tightened around the copy so hard the paper had crinkled, but he hadn’t torn it. He’d just given the Doctor a look that held something sour and grateful and scared in equal measure, then gone to pack.

She remembered the day she’d signed their intake forms after Dossoles, how he’d stood in the infirmary doorway like a man expecting a sentence instead of a bed. How Rafaela had sat on the edge of the cot beside him, still in bloodstained clothes, hand on his wrist like she was anchoring them both. How easily she’d found space for them in her schedule, how impossible it had felt to do anything else.

– – – –

A luggage crate shifted as the airship banked, metal complaining. Someone cursed and kicked it back into place.

The Doctor unstrapped herself, slid the tablet into her coat, and braced a hand on the bulkhead as she stood. Her legs protested more out of habit than genuine pain. She ignored them and crossed the aisle.

From up close, Tequila looked even more wrong in his stillness. His ears, normally full of restless life, sat flat; the fur at the base was mussed, like he’d been rubbing them without realizing. His tail hung low, the end twitching once when the ship hit a pocket of turbulence, then going quiet again.

“You’re going to wear a groove in the floor if you keep pacing that line in your head,” she said.

He startled, just a little, a twitch of shoulders, ears flicking upright. Then the change rolled over his face like a practiced wave.

The smile slid into place first, bright and crooked. Then his posture shifted, spine unwinding into something like ease. His tail gave a half-hearted wag, as if remembering it was supposed to.

“Doc,” he drawled, turning just enough that the window’s reflection wouldn’t show him the ground. “They let you out of the paperwork cage, huh? Should I be worried? Did we run out of forms?”

“Tragic news,” she said. “You’ll have to fight for your life without a requisition sheet to sign first.”

He laughed, and it sounded almost real. Almost. “Guess I’ll have to improvise. Don’t tell Kal’tsit, she’ll revoke my operator license.”

“She’d put you on remedial procedure training first,” the Doctor said. “Then revoke it.”

“Oof. Cruel.” He clutched at his chest, as if mortally wounded. “And here I thought Rhodes Island was kinder than home.”

At the word, home, his gaze flicked sideways, unguarded for the space of a heartbeat. The window offered nothing but clouds and the thin line of land, but his jaw tightened as if he could already smell the streets.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said before she could stop herself. “If this is too much-”

“You’re not backing out on me now, are you, Doc?” he cut in lightly. “I dressed up and everything.”

She looked him over: Rhodes Island uniform neat for once, vest buttoned properly, sidearm holstered just a little too comfortably at his hip. His tags glinted against his throat where his shirt collar had shifted. Someone had tried to tame his hair earlier; the cabin air had already undone the effort, the back sticking up stubbornly.

“You didn’t even comb back there,” she pointed out.

“Ah, you wound me.” He reached back, patted the mess, and grinned. “Can’t go back to Dossoles looking too polished. They’ll think I sold out.”

“You work for a pharmaceutical company on a landship,” she said. “You did sell out.”

“Yeah, but I like to keep the illusion alive.” His ears perked fully now, tail giving another small wag as he leaned in, dropping his voice just enough that the others would have to pretend not to hear. “Besides, you said it yourself. The logo buys us maybe three minutes of people pretending they respect us before they start asking how much we’re worth.”

She wanted to argue. She didn’t, because he wasn’t wrong.

From the row of seats behind them, Rafaela watched silently. Her scythe rested between her knees, point wrapped in cloth, her fingers resting on the haft with the ease of long familiarity. Her eyes met the Doctor’s briefly, then slid to Ernesto’s back. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her shoulders softened, as if she recognized the mask being adjusted from this angle too.

“Are you angry she’s here?” the Doctor asked quietly.

Tequila followed her glance, then winced as if Rafaela’s attention had weight.

“Angry?” He shrugged. The movement was a little too stiff to be casual. “No. I’m… impressed. She can be very persuasive when she wants something. You noticed?”

“She asked to go because she didn’t want you doing this alone,” the Doctor said. “That sounds like a reasonable position.”

“It sounds like a family bad habit,” he muttered. Then, catching her raised brow, he added more brightly, “Don’t worry, Doc. We’ll keep an eye on you. It’ll be just like a vacation. You, me, Rafaela, a few imminent riots, some shady politicians, what’s not to love?”

“Most of that,” she said dryly. “All of that.”

“Hey, you signed up.” His smile tilted toward fondness by a fraction. “You’re either very brave or very bad at self-preservation.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“Yeah, well.” His ears drooped for a second, then flicked back up. “Takes one to know one.”

Silence settled between them for a moment, filled by the airship’s steady hum and the murmur of operators talking, gear clinking. Outside, the smear of land had thickened into something more detailed: hints of coastline, rivers like veins, a faint glint that might have been glass or water or something more artificial.

“You’re tense,” she said carefully.

“Mm?” He glanced at her with studied blankness. “Nah. I’m great. Look at this view. Ten out of ten, would not recommend to anyone with a nervous disposition.”

“Ernesto.”

His name sounded softer from her than from Kal’tsit. His ears flicked toward her despite himself.

He hesitated, just long enough for the smile to thin. The Doctor saw the faint tightness at the corners of his eyes, the way his fingers flexed once against the window frame before he forced them to still.

“I’ve been away a while,” he said finally, voice lighter than it had any right to be. “Dossoles likes to pretend it’s always the same. I’m just… curious how much of that’s still true.”

Curious. Not worried. Not afraid. Curious.

She let him have the word.

“If at any point this starts to be too much,” she said, “you tell me.”

He huffed a small laugh. “And do what, Doc? Make them turn the airship around because I’m getting nostalgic?”

“Adjust,” she said. “Routes, meetings, who’s in the room. We can work around you needing a break. That’s all I meant.”

His mouth twitched, softer this time. “You always talk like that,” he said. “Like it’s normal to plan around me.”

“It is,” she said, because for her it was. “You’re part of the team.”

His tail betrayed him again, giving a quick, startled wag before he stilled it. Heat rose along his ears, barely visible under the pale fur.

“You’re… really terrible for the image I’m trying to maintain, you know that?” he said. “I’m supposed to be the carefree guy with the big sword and the bigger smile. Terrible role model. Cautionary tale with good hair.”

“That’s not a healthy image,” she said. “Or an accurate one.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He flashed her a grin that, this time, had more genuine warmth in it than deflection. “Seriously, though. Don’t worry about me, Doc. I’ve handled Dossoles before.”

That was one way to describe surviving it.

Her gaze lingered on his profile. He felt it; his ears angled toward her again, like they couldn’t decide whether to listen or hide.

“You were the one who said yes to this,” she reminded him.

He snorted. “I said ‘no’ very eloquently at least twice.”

“And then you saw the roster,” she said, “and you didn’t ask Kal’tsit to remove your name.”

“Yeah, well.” His eyes slid to her, quick, assessing. There was a flicker there she’d seen before in others, but on him it sat differently: a kind of quiet astonishment that anyone had written him into a future on purpose. “Somebody’s got to show you the good food stalls, right?”

“Is that part of the official delegation schedule?” she asked.

“Should be. I’ll submit a form later.” His mouth quirked. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t at least get you a drink with an umbrella in it?”

“You’re not my host,” she said. “You’re my colleague.”

He looked at her a second too long. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Lucky me.”

Her chest did something inconvenient at that, a little stutter under her ribs. She pretended not to notice. So did he.

The intercom crackled again. “Ten minutes to local airspace,” the pilot announced. “Operators, check your kits. Diplomatic personnel, rehearse your fake smiles.”

Midnight made a theatrical groan. Someone else muttered something about hazard pay. Rafaela rose silently, adjusting her weapon strap across her back, gaze on the floor until she lifted it to meet Ernesto’s.

“You all right?” she asked him, simple as that.

He straightened automatically. The mask slid back into place with almost audible ease. Ears perked, tail giving a friendly sweep.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just getting sentimental.”

Rafaela’s eyes narrowed, but she let it pass. She looked to the Doctor instead. “If he starts talking too much, it means he’s nervous. Distract him.”

“What?” Ernesto protested. “That’s slander.”

“That one,” she said.

The Doctor couldn’t help it; she laughed, tension loosening in her chest for a moment.

Outside, the smear of land had sharpened into coastline and city blocks, into bright glass towers hugging the waterfront and, behind them, sprawling neighborhoods stacked like rough hands, concrete and corrugated metal and rust. Even from up here she could see the difference between the festival skyline on the postcards and the rest.

As the airship began its slow descent, Ernesto’s ears angled forward, fixed on the approaching city. His tail went still again, every line of him suddenly too careful.

The Doctor stood beside him, shoulder almost but not quite brushing his, and watched the place that had tried to swallow him once rise up to meet them.

She didn’t say it’ll be all right.
She didn’t believe in promises you had to repeat to sound convincing.

What she did believe in was this: that they were going down there together. That she had chosen that. That he had, in his own unwilling way, chosen it too.

Dossoles grew larger in the window, the city and its scars coming into focus: the glittering waterfront, the crowded inland blocks, the stadium lights even in daytime, waiting.

Ernesto’s reflection stared back at himself, jaw tight, eyes steady.

“Welcome back to Dossoles,” the Doctor said softly, not because it was home, but because the word needed a new shape.

He flinched, just slightly, then covered it with a grin.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s hope it remembered its manners.”

Chapter Text

Dossoles hit them in layers.

First came the postcard: glass towers and sun-glare, banners strung between high-rises, holo-posters for festivals that never seemed to end. The air was thick with heat and distant music, the faint tang of salt sneaking in from the ocean whenever the wind remembered it had a job.

The airship had docked on one of the cleaner platforms, all polished metal and security checkpoints that pretended to be polite. There had been handshakes, badges scanned, luggage counted twice. The local liaison had smiled too much and said all the right words in accentless, polished English.

“Welcome, Rhodes Island. We have arranged transportation to your temporary quarters. Please, this way.”

“This way” was down.

They took the stairs because the lift was “under maintenance.” Ernesto didn’t say anything. His ears twitched once, catching the way the two guards at the bottom watched them descend, the way their hands hovered near holsters without resting on them. The Doctor felt it too, a prickle at the back of her neck, but she pushed it aside as travel-paranoia and lack of sleep.

Outside the terminal, the heat hit properly, a full-body push. The first street was wide, lined with palms and manicured shrubs tucked into too-small pits of soil. Tourist kiosks clustered along the sidewalk: bright umbrellas, neat racks of postcards and sunhats, bottled water at a criminal mark-up. The pavement was clean, almost glossy.

“This way,” the liaison repeated, leading them along the frontage road. “Your lodgings are in a central, convenient district. Very safe.”

“Lovely isn’t it,” Midnight murmured. The Doctor caught the words and hid a smile.

For the first few blocks, it could have been any coastal city with money and something to prove. Holographic billboards cycled through ads for arenas and resorts and cocktails with too much garnish. Tourists in light clothes and bad hats drifted by, laughing too loud, oblivious to the way the local security’s eyes skimmed over their wallets.

Then they hit the first roadblock.

“Apologies,” the liaison said, frowning at the red-and-yellow barrier set across the main avenue. “There was no notice about this.”

Two city workers in reflective vests moved a crate half-heartedly, as if performing construction rather than doing it. A sign blinked DESVÍO in cheerful orange letters.
“We can circle around,” the Doctor suggested.

“Yes, of course.” The liaison’s smile reassembled itself. “Just a minor detour. This way.”

They turned off the main road.

The next street was narrower. The buildings pressed closer, glass giving way to painted concrete, balconies hung with laundry instead of flags. The air smelled more like people and less like air freshener. A kid on a bike threaded through their group with practiced ease, eyes quick on their weapons and vests before he pulled away.

Ernesto walked half a step ahead of the Doctor, not enough to be obvious, just enough to catch a first glimpse of whatever the next corner held. His tail stayed low, the tip brushing his calves. His ears tracked every car door slam, every shout from a side alley.

They reached another junction. The main route ahead was blocked by a stalled truck, its hood up, three men standing around it in a way that said they were more interested in blocking than fixing.

“Again?” the liaison muttered.

“City’s got stage fright,” Ernesto said lightly. “Forgot its lines.”

They turned again. The pavement changed underfoot, from smooth concrete to patched asphalt, then to something that had been repaired too many times and given up. Potholes collected dirty water. A stray dog slunk between overflowing bins. Music leaked from an open window, distorted by cheap speakers and distance.

The umbrellas at the kiosks here were older, sunbleached. Stalls spilled over the sidewalks, tables crowded with plastic trinkets, fried food, secondhand clothes. The air thickened with oil smoke and spices and the sour-sweet smell of fruit left a day too long in heat.

The buildings leaned. Paint peeled. Signage hung crooked. Shouting floated down the street, not playful, but not yet dangerous. The tourists thinned out; the few that remained walked faster, eyes fixed ahead.

The “detours” kept coming. A burst water pipe flooding half a street. A police cordon around “routine maintenance.” A market crowd thick enough to make progress slow. Every time the liaison tried to angle them back toward the waterfront, something blocked the way.

“Unlucky,” the liaison said eventually, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. Sweat darkened his collar. “The city is… unpredictable sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Ernesto said, gaze flicking down the latest narrow side street they’d been funneled into. “You could say that.”

The Doctor glanced at him. His expression was easy, almost amused, but his tail hadn’t lifted once since they’d left the terminal. His ears were forward, sharp.

“You okay?” she murmured.

“Mm?” He rolled a shoulder, casual. “Dossoles likes to make an impression, is all. Doesn’t get many chances to parade a Rhodes Island squad down its back streets.

Gotta show off the whole wardrobe.”

“That’s what this feels like to you?” she asked. “A parade?”

He smiled, toothier. “Depends which side of the street you’re on.”

They kept walking.

The tourist gloss had peeled away completely now. Streets narrowed to the point where their group felt too big, too visible. Concrete walls sweated with graffiti, bold strokes of color layered over older slogans half-scrubbed away. Balconies sagged under the weight of potted plants, satellite dishes, rusting cages.

People watched.

From doorways, from stoops, from shadows. Older women with arms crossed and eyes like scales, weighing. Men in plastic chairs, cigarettes burning down forgotten between fingers. Kids barefoot, dirty-kneed, pausing a game to stare at the operators’ armor and rifles and medical bags and the Doctor’s white coat.

It would have been so easy to go back to the main road. To insist. To push past a single barrier and keep to the safe, clean line.

The roadblocks said otherwise.

A stack of crates. A parked armored vehicle. A cheerful LOCAL EVENT banner strung over a cordoned-off plaza that was, conspicuously, empty.

Ernesto’s mouth didn’t flatten, but something behind it did.

“This isn’t accidental,” the Doctor murmured.

“Mm.” He didn’t look at her, eyes moving from balcony to window to alley. “Dossoles likes to say hello. You don’t visit someone’s house and just walk past all the rooms, right? It’s just being polite.”

“That’s not most people’s definition of polite.”

“Yeah, well.” His ears flicked back briefly. “Keep your attention sharp, Doc. The city’s curious. Doesn’t mean it’s friendly.”

She nodded, adjusting her grip on the strap of her bag. Rafaela had fallen into step on her other side, weapon held vertical, wrapped tip just above her shoulder.

“You see something I don’t?” the Doctor asked Rafaela quietly.

Rafaela’s eyes scanned the street. “Just old ghosts who like to stare,” she said. “They’re not looking at us.”

The Doctor followed her gaze. She realized what she meant when she saw the angles of those looks: not at the logo on their vests, not at the Rhodes Island insignia.

At Ernesto’s back.

A shadow fell across her path. She looked up.

A stall had claimed the corner, patched tarp roof sagging under the weight of dust and sun. The table was crowded with cheap sunglasses, knockoff bracelets, bottles of local soda sweating in the heat. Behind it stood a man of indeterminate middle age, skin browned by work, hair going gray at the temples. A cigarette burned down between two fingers.

He smiled when he saw her. It showed more teeth than warmth.

“¡Doctora!” he called, the word rolling easily off his tongue. His English, when he switched to it, stumbled and lurched. “Welcome, welcome. Pretty lady, eh? First time here?”

The liaison glanced back, displeasure flickering over his face. “We should keep moving,” he began.

The Doctor offered a polite, professional smile meant for donors and stubborn patients. “Yes,” she said. “We’re on a schedule, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, always work, never fun,” the man said, waving away the excuse. His eyes slid past her, landing on Ernesto. His grin sharpened. He switched back to Spanish without missing a beat. “Mira nada más. Pensé que la ciudad ya te había digerido, perrito.”

The Doctor didn’t miss the change in tone, but the words slipped past her. Ernesto understood every one.

◊Look at that. I thought the city had already digested you, little dog.◊

His ears tipped a fraction lower. He stepped between the stall and the Doctor without thinking, like a habit from an older life.

“Buenas tardes, don,” Ernesto said, Spanish smooth, casual. “Solo estamos de paso.”

◊Good afternoon, sir. We’re just passing through.◊

The man snorted smoke. “De paso, dice.” He looked Ernesto over, not unkindly, but not kindly either. Appraising. “Ernesto Salas vuelve con bata blanca detrás. Qué chiste tan bueno.”

◊"Just passing through," he says. Ernesto Salas returns in a white coat behind him. What a great joke.◊

“Trabajo es trabajo,” Ernesto said with a shrug. “Mejor esto que estar muerto, ¿no?”

◊Work is work. Better this than being dead, right?◊

The man leaned on his stall, eyes narrowing. “Mejor para ti. Para los que estaban en la calle aquel día, no sé.” His gaze cut to the Doctor, then back. “Vienes con gringos a limpiar la sangre que ayudaste a tirar. Muy bonito.”

◊Better for you. For the ones who were in the street that day, I don’t know. You come with gringos to clean the blood you helped spill. Very nice.◊

The Doctor watched his face, Ernesto’s, the liaison shifting uncomfortably. She felt rather than understood the weight in the exchange.

“Señor,” she began cautiously in English, “we’re here to-”

The man lifted a hand without looking at her. “No worry, doctora,” he said in halting English. “You good. All doctors good people, sí?” He tapped his temple, then pointed to Ernesto. His smile dropped. He went back to Spanish. “Tú no. Tú trajiste fuego a nuestras casas. Creías que eras héroe, ¿no?”

◊You, no. You brought fire to our homes. You thought you were a hero, didn’t you?◊

Ernesto’s tail had gone still. His voice, when he answered, stayed light. “Yo era un idiota, don. No hace falta que me lo recuerde.”

◊I was an idiot, sir. You don’t need to remind me.◊

“Idiota, terrorista, lo que quieras.” The man flicked ash to the ground. “Todavía huele a humo en esas calles. Tú te fuiste. Nosotros nos quedamos a barrer.”

◊Idiot, terrorist, whatever you want. It still smells like smoke in those streets. You left. We stayed to sweep up.◊

The Doctor didn’t catch the words, but she saw the way other nearby heads turned, attention pricking like static. Rafaela shifted her weight; the weapon moved a hand’s breadth forward before she checked it.

“Don,” Ernesto started, quieter now, “no estamos aquí para-”

The man cut him off with a short, ugly laugh. “No me digas que vienes a ayudar.” His gaze slid deliberately over the Rhodes Island logo on their gear. “Vendes medicinas ahora, ¿sí? Primero nos das las heridas, luego nos vendes las curas. Negocio redondo.”

◊Don’t tell me you’re here to help. You sell medicine now, yeah? First you give us the wounds, then you sell us the cures. Nice business.◊

Ernesto’s smile didn’t move. Something behind it did, a subtle pull at the corners, a tightening that only someone standing too close would see.

The Doctor took a small step forward, instinct tightening in her chest. “If there’s a concern,” she said, “we can-”
The man’s eyes snapped back to her. “Doctora,” he said, English heavier now, leaning on the word. “You no know this one, eh?” He jerked his chin at Ernesto. “He good boy now. Puppy on a leash. Before… boom.” He spread his hands. “Mucho boom. Mucha gente muerta. You don’t read?"

Rafaela’s jaw clicked. Ernesto didn’t look at her.

“I am aware of the incident,” the Doctor said, voice level. Her heart was beating faster than she liked. “He’s here under Rhodes Island’s supervision. If you have a complaint, you can bring it to me or to Dossoles’ council.”

“Council,” the man repeated, amused. “Ah, doctora. You very sweet.” He shook his head, then returned to Spanish, words like gravel. “Te escondes detrás de ella ahora. ¿No te da vergüenza?”

◊You hide behind her now. Aren’t you ashamed?◊

“Estoy parado,” Ernesto said calmly. “No me escondo.”

◊I’m standing. I’m not hiding.◊

The man’s lip curled. “Siempre tan listo para hablar.” He spat the last word like a pit. “¿Qué, no te enseñó nada la cárcel? ¿O ni siquiera te tocó?”

◊Always so ready to talk. What, prison didn’t teach you anything? Or did it not even touch you?◊

The Doctor didn’t know the literal meaning, but she knew spitting when she saw it.

The man gathered phlegm in his throat and spat on the ground in front of Ernesto’s boots. The sound was wet and ugly. The glob hit the cracked asphalt and spread slowly.

The world narrowed.

The Doctor stepped in front of him before she could think better of it, boots scuffing the mark. Heat flooded up her neck.

“That was unnecessary,” she snapped, English crisp. “You will not spit at my operator.”

“Doctor-” Ernesto’s voice came from just behind her, surprised.

She planted herself, hands clenched at her sides. “Rhodes Island is here at Dossoles’ invitation to help,” she said. “You might not agree with everyone on this team, but you will speak to them with basic respect. At the very least, you will not spit on them.”

The man stared at her, then laughed. It wasn’t kind, but it wasn’t entirely cruel either. Mostly it was disbelieving.

“Look at you,” he said, English broken but intent clear. “Little doctora with big words. You think this your hospital? Your landship?” He flicked his fingers toward Ernesto, dismissive. “He make mess, he clean mess. This is between us. Not you.”

“He’s under my care,” she said, temper flaring. “Medical and otherwise.”

Ernesto sucked in a breath behind her. “Doc-”

“He is trying to make amends,” she pressed on. “He is working, healing people, putting his life on the line for others every day. You have no right to-”

“Doctor.” Ernesto’s voice cut across hers, sharper than she’d ever heard it. Not loud. Not pleading. Sharp.

She went still. The street did too, in a way. Conversations faltered. Somewhere, a radio crackled. The heat pressed in harder.

She glanced back over her shoulder.

His mask had slipped sideways, not off. The smile was gone, replaced by a flatness that made his eyes look older. His ears angled back, not in hurt, but in warning. His tail hung completely still, like something waiting.

“Knock it off,” he said quietly, in English for her alone. “Now.”

That tone wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t aimed at her, but it included her. It felt like stepping too close to a drop in the dark.

“Ernesto-”

“This isn’t Rhodes Island,” he said, still calm, still too calm. “You lecture him like that, he won’t apologize. He’ll make an example. And I won’t get there fast enough to make it hurt less.”

There was no doubt in his voice. No drama. Just certainty, honed and unpleasant.

The vendor snorted, muttered in Spanish, “Mírala. Le ladras y todavía se queda.”

◊Look at her. You bark and she still stays.◊

Another voice from further down the block tossed in, half-amused, “Es que está bonita, pues!”

◊It’s because she’s pretty, man!◊

Laughter skittered along the edge of the crowd’s attention.

The Doctor’s jaw was tight enough to ache. Every instinct in her wanted to keep arguing, to demand decency in a place that had already decided what that meant.

Rafaela shifted beside her, low voice in Spanish: “Déjalo, doctora. No vale la pena.”

◊Let it go, Doctor. It’s not worth it.◊

The Doctor wasn’t sure if Rafaela meant the spittle, the man, or the whole street.

Ernesto stepped past her with deliberate ease, shoulders loose again, smile returning as if it had only gone to fetch something.

“Ya dijo lo que tenía que decir, don,” he said lightly, back in Spanish. “Y usted también. Estamos a mano, ¿no?”

◊You’ve said what you needed to say, sir. And so has she. We’re even, right?◊

The man eyed him, then clicked his tongue. “Anda. Llévate a tu doctora antes de que alguien con menos paciencia que yo la escuche hablar así.”

◊Go on. Take your doctora away before someone with less patience than me hears her talk like that.◊

Ernesto dipped his head, a parody of a polite nod. “Que tenga buen día.”

◊Have a good day.◊

The man’s mouth twisted. “Ojalá tú no,” he said softly. “Pero la ciudad decide.”

◊I hope you don’t. But the city decides.◊

Ernesto didn’t answer that. He put a hand lightly on the Doctor’s elbow, the touch more guiding than restraining.

“Come on,” he said, switching back to English, voice easy again. “We’re blocking the man’s business. And I don’t know about you, but I’d rather argue with council members in air conditioning than with vendors in the sun.”

She almost jerked her arm away on reflex. Then she caught the faint pressure of his fingers: steady, not gripping. A line, not a leash.

She let him steer her a step, then matched his pace. Rafaela fell in on her other side, weapon a silent punctuation mark.

As they moved on, the vendor called after them in Spanish, voice carrying down the narrow street.

“¡Corre, perrito! ¡La ciudad no olvida! Algún día te va a morder de vuelta!”

◊Run, little dog! The city doesn’t forget! One day it’s going to bite you back!◊

Ernesto’s ears dipped once. His tail gave the barest twitch, then flattened again. He didn’t look back. The men behind him made an echo of barking and yipping sounds.

“What did he say?” the Doctor asked, after a few beats of brittle silence.

“Nothing useful,” Ernesto said. His smile was back in place, light, casual. Only the set of his jaw betrayed how hard he was holding it there. “Just local poetry.”

“Ernesto.”

He sighed. “He said the city doesn’t forget. That it’ll bite me eventually.” He glanced at her, eyes bright with something like humor that didn’t touch the rest of his face. “Good nose on him. That’s just Dossoles being Dossoles.”

Her hands still felt tight. “He spat on you.”

“He spat near me,” Ernesto corrected. “Trust me, Doc, for some people here that’s practically a love letter.” He bumped her shoulder lightly with his. “Also, points for style. I would’ve gone with something less obvious, but hey, different schools.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Didn’t say it was.” His ears flicked, catching another cluster of whispers from a doorway. “Look, I appreciate the defense. Really. It’s… new.” His mouth twisted. “But don’t do it like that. Not here. Not unless you’re okay with things getting very ugly, very fast.”

She frowned. “I’m not going to stand there and let someone-”

“Talk?” he asked. “Doc, if talking hurt me, I’d have been dead years ago.” He shook his head. “He got his say. That’s how some people survive here. Words and spit. If you take that from them, they grab the next weapon.”

Her steps slowed a fraction. “Is this really what it’s like for you here?”

He gave a small, careless shrug. “Sometimes. Sometimes they just sell you a soda and ask who you’re working for now. Dossoles is mean, not imaginative.”

“That sounded imaginative.”

“Trust me, he was holding back.” He looked ahead again, toward the bend in the street where the world narrowed further. “Besides, he recognized me. That means the city’s paying attention. That’s good intel.”

She wanted to argue that being recognized as a former terrorist by angry locals was not, in fact, good anything. Instead she said, “I stepped in because you matter to me.”

That got him.

His ears flared out, then flattened, as if they couldn’t decide whether to show off or hide. His tail jerked once, betraying him.

“Doc,” he said, soft in the middle like he’d bitten his tongue halfway through. “You really gotta stop saying stuff like that out loud here. People will start thinking you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

He exhaled, something like a laugh and a sigh tangled together. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s what worries me.”

Up ahead, the liaison waved for them to hurry, his patience and shirt equally damp.

“This way, Rhodes Island,” he called. “We’re almost there.”

“See?” Ernesto said, tone light again. “Almost at our lovely temporary accommodations. Hot water, thin walls, suspicious neighbors. You’ll love it.”

The Doctor looked back once. The stall owner had already turned away, serving someone else, voice rising and falling in the rhythm of a man who had too many opinions and not enough hours.

Dossoles watched them go, its eyes in windows, in doorways, in the ragged gap where a building had never been rebuilt.

She turned forward again, matching Ernesto’s stride.

She kept her attention sharp.

Chapter Text

The inn had a name, but by the time they reached it the Doctor was too tired to read it.

The sign hung crooked over the doorway, some of its neon letters half-dead, so the word flickered in a way that made it hard to tell if it was intentional branding or neglect. The building itself was tall enough to lean over its neighbors, pressed between a pawn shop and a bar with no windows.

Inside, the air was cooler, though not by much. A ceiling fan turned with the tired persistence of someone working a double shift, not fast enough to really move the heat, just enough to rearrange it.

The receptionist glanced up as their liaison spoke fast, local accent thickening his words. Keys clinked onto the counter. Forms were signed. IDs were scanned. The whole thing took less time than it should have, like the arrangements had been made days ago.

“Three rooms for Rhodes Island,” the liaison said, turning back to them. “Two doubles, one single. Same floor. You’ll be quite comfortable.”

The Doctor glanced at the keys, metal, old-fashioned, each with a plastic tag.

“Who’s where?” she asked.

The liaison flicked his gaze over the group, clearly more interested in his next appointment. “Doctor, you have the single. Your colleagues can arrange themselves for the others, I’m sure.”

Ernesto scooped up one of the double-room keys before anyone else moved. “Rafaela and I will take one,” he said easily. “We’re used to tripping over each other’s stuff anyway.”

Rafaela made a small face at him but didn’t protest. The way her fingers tightened briefly on her scythe strap betrayed her discomfort more than anything she said.

The Doctor picked up the remaining keys, weighed them in her hand. “If either of you feel like you need more privacy,” she said, “I don’t mind sharing my room. We can swap around. It’s not a problem.”

Ernesto’s ears flicked sharply. For a heartbeat his composure glitched, something startled in his eyes, tail giving the smallest twitch, and then the grin was there, fast and bright.

“Doc, if you’re trying to recruit me as a roommate, you gotta at least buy me dinner first,” he said. “Maybe a drink with one of those little umbrellas. Sweep me off my feet a little.”

Midnight, halfway through signing something, snorted. Rafaela’s lips twitched, once.

The Doctor rolled her eyes, but she felt the heat rise in her cheeks anyway. “It’s a logistical offer,” she said. “Not a romantic one.”

“Tragic.” He pressed a hand over his heart. “Shot down before we even see the room.”

“If you two are finished,” the liaison said tightly, “I will leave you to rest. Someone from the council will send for you in the morning.”

There were nods, polite noises, a few half-hearted salutes. Then the liaison was gone, swallowed by the city again, and the inn fell back into its own quiet.

The Doctor held out the spare key. “The offer stands,” she said to Rafaela. “For either of you. It’s been a long trip. If sharing feels like too much-”

Rafaela shook her head, quick. “It is alright,” she said, “I’m fine. Thank you, Doctor.”

Ernesto hooked an arm around his sister’s shoulders and steered her gently toward the stairs. “See?” he said. “She’s stuck with me. You had your chance, Doc.”

“Lucky Rafaela,” the Doctor murmured.

Rafaela’s smile was small but real. “Good night, Doctor.”

“Good night,” the Doctor said.

She watched them go for a moment, Ernesto’s tail swaying lazily now that eyes weren’t on him, Rafaela then turned toward her own room with a sigh that felt bigger than her ribs.

-----

Their room smelled like detergent and older cigarettes.

Someone had opened the window at some point and then given up on the idea of fresh air; the curtain stirred faintly with the movement of the fan. Two narrow beds waited against opposite walls, white sheets too crisp to be trustworthy. A small table slouched between them, one leg shorter than the others, compensating with a folded beer coaster.

Ernesto closed the door with his heel and let his bag slide off his shoulder. It thumped onto the nearest bed. Rafaela stepped around it, scythe laid carefully along the wall, and looked the room over without any obvious expression.

“Well,” Ernesto said. “It has beds. And walls. That’s two more luxuries than some places.”

“Thin walls,” Rafaela murmured.

He rolled a shoulder. “So we’ll whisper.” He popped his bag open and began the slow, pointless ritual of unpacking, shirts folded onto the bed, spare magazines lined up on the table, a packet of cigarettes and lighter slid into the bedside drawer almost without thinking.

Rafaela didn’t touch her bag.

She sat on the edge of her bed instead, hands on her knees, watching him. The quiet stretched, finer and tighter with each thing he moved.

“¿Por qué la dejaste hacer eso?” she asked finally.

◊Why did you let her do that?◊

He didn’t look at her. “¿Hacer qué?” he asked, defaulting to ignorance.

◊Do what?◊

“Pararse enfrente de ti así,” Rafaela said. “En la calle. Defendiendo. Dejando que todos vean.”

◊Stand in front of you like that. In the street. Defending you. Letting everyone see.◊

Ernesto’s hands paused over a folded shirt, fingers clenching the fabric for a moment before he made himself smooth it out again.

“Ella hace lo que quiere,” he said. “No soy su jefe.”

◊She does what she wants. I’m not her boss.◊

Rafaela huffed, a sharp exhale with no humor. “No, pero sabes cómo es este lugar,” she said. “Sabes cómo son. La dejaste hablar así. Delante de todos. Delante de él.”

◊No, but you know how this place is. You know how they are. You let her talk like that. In front of everyone. In front of him.◊

He tossed the shirt onto the bed, not as carefully this time. “¿Y qué? ¿La iba a callar delante de él también?” he snapped. “¿Decirle que se quite, que no se meta? Eso sí que les encantaría ver.”

◊And what? Was I supposed to shut her up in front of him too? Tell her to move, to stay out of it? They’d love to see that.◊

“Mejor eso,” Rafaela shot back, voice rising, “que verla con la cara hecha mierda porque alguien decidió darle una lección por abrir la boca.”

◊Better that than seeing her face smashed in because someone decided to teach her a lesson for opening her mouth.◊

The word mierda sounded strange in her voice, clipped. She rarely swore. It landed heavier for that.

Ernesto turned then, leaning back against the wall, arms folding over his chest. His mask was nowhere to be seen. No smile, no tilt of the head, no softening around the eyes. Just tired lines and something sharp coiled underneath.

“No va a pasar nada,” he said flatly. “Fue un viejo con más humo que dientes. Ya dijo lo que tenía que decir. La gente miró, murmuró un rato, y ya. Mañana tendrán otro chisme.”

◊Nothing’s going to happen. He was an old guy with more smoke than teeth. He said what he had to say. People looked, muttered for a bit, and that’s it. Tomorrow they’ll have another piece of gossip.◊

“Estás siendo terco,” Rafaela said. “Más que de costumbre.”

◊You’re being stubborn. More than usual.◊

Her fingers twisted together in her lap.

“Ernesto.” She said his name the way she had when they were kids and he came home with bloody knuckles. “Tú y yo sabemos que no es sólo chisme. Lo vimos en sus ojos. En los de los demás. Vieron cómo se le encendieron los ojos a la doctora cuando lo defendió. Vieron lo que le importas.”

◊You and I both know it’s not just gossip. We saw it in his eyes. In everyone else’s. They saw how the Doctor’s eyes lit up when she defended you. They saw how much you matter to her.◊

He shifted, discomfort skittering across his face before he could bury it. “No empieces,” he muttered.

◊Don’t start.◊

Rafaela leaned forward, elbows on her knees now. “Lo van a usar,” she said. “Si pueden joderte a través de ella, lo van a hacer. Le van a gritar, le van a escupir también, la van a empujar. Y si alguien se levanta con ganas de ser más cabrón-”

◊They will use it. If they can fuck you up through her, they will. They’ll yell at her, they’ll spit at her too, they’ll shove her. And if someone wakes up wanting to be more of a bastard-◊

“Ya,” Ernesto cut in sharply.

◊Enough.◊

“No, no ya,” Rafaela insisted, eyes bright now. “La pueden arrinconar en una calle. Cuatro, cinco tipos. Decirle que cierre la boca de gringa, que aprenda su lugar. Pueden pegarle ahí mismo. Pueden meterla a un carro. Pueden—”

◊They can corner her in an alley. Four, five guys. Tell her to shut her foreign mouth, to learn her place. They can beat her right there. They can throw her in a car. They can-◊

“¡Rafaela!” His voice cracked over her name, too loud for the small room. “Dije que ya.”

She flinched, but didn’t stop. “Pueden hacerle cosas peores,” she whispered. “Y tú sabes cómo son. Sabes que lo harían sólo para ver cómo se te rompe la cara cuando te lo cuenten. Porque aquí no sólo pegan donde duele. Pegan donde se ve.”

◊They can do worse to her. And you know how they are. You know they’d do it just to see your face crack when they tell you about it. Because here they don’t just hit where it hurts. They hit where people can see.◊

Silence slapped the room. The fan ticked once as it turned.

Ernesto’s jaw clenched, muscles jumping. He looked away, toward the window and the slice of city visible through it: rooftops, laundry, the suggestion of neon further off.

“No les doy tanto crédito,” he said finally, voice low. “Ni que fuera tan importante.”

◊I don’t give them that much credit. I’m not that important.◊

“No hablo de ti,” Rafaela said. “Hablo de ella.”

◊I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about her.◊

He swore, a soft, vicious “puta madre,” under his breath. “No eres justa,” he said. “Ella sabía a dónde venía. Nadie la obligó. Ella se plantó ahí porque quiso. Porque es así. No es una niña.”

◊You’re not being fair. She knew where she was coming. Nobody forced her. She planted herself there because she wanted to. Because that’s how she is. She’s not a child.◊

“Es buena,” Rafaela said. “Demasiado buena para este agujero.”

◊She’s good. Too good for this hole.◊

He laughed once, sharp. “¿Y qué, la meto en una caja cada vez que alguien me mire feo?” he shot back. “¿Le pongo bozal? Ya bastante hice trayéndola aquí.”

◊What, you want me to put her in a box every time someone looks at me funny? Muzzle her? I already did enough by bringing her here.◊

“Eso es lo que te reprochas,” Rafaela said softly. “No es chiste, Ernesto. Tú la trajiste. La metiste en la boca del lobo. Y ahora dejas que le ladre en la cara por ti.”

◊That’s what you blame yourself for. This isn’t a joke, Ernesto. You brought her. You put her in the wolf’s mouth. And now you let it bark in her face for you.◊

His nostrils flared. “No es mi responsabilidad educar a todo pendejo con rencor acumulado,” he snapped. “Ni ser niñera de nadie. Ni su niñera, ni la tuya, ni la del puto barrio entero.”

◊It’s not my responsibility to educate every asshole with a grudge. Or be anyone’s babysitter. Not hers, not yours, not the whole damn neighborhood’s.◊

“La estás dejando sola,” Rafaela said. “Como te dejaron a ti.”

◊You’re leaving her alone. Like they left you.◊

That landed like a slap.

Something ugly flickered in his eyes. “No vuelvas a comparar eso,” he said, voice suddenly quiet in a way that was worse than shouting. “No sabes lo que dices.”

◊Don’t you ever compare those things again. You don’t know what you’re saying.◊

Rafaela’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Sé lo que vi,” she said. “Te vi parado detrás de ella, como si fueras tú el que necesitaba que lo taparan. Te vi callado. Te vi dejando que cargara con todo. Como siempre.”

◊I know what I saw. I saw you standing behind her like you were the one who needed covering. I saw you stay quiet. I saw you let her carry it all. Like always.◊

His laugh this time was low and mean, with no real humor in it. “Qué fácil hablas, ¿eh? Siempre fuiste buena para ver lo que te conviene ver.”

◊Easy for you to talk, huh? You’ve always been good at seeing what you feel like seeing.◊

“No me hables como si fuera estúpida,” Rafaela said. Her hands were shaking now, fingers knotted together. “Soy ingenua, sí. Me gusta pensar que la gente puede cambiar. Pero no soy ciega. Los ojos de la doctora se encendieron por ti. Todos lo vieron. Eso es un blanco pintado en su frente.”

◊Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. I’m naive, yes. I like to think people can change. But I’m not blind. The Doctor’s eyes lit up because of you. Everyone saw. That’s a target painted on her forehead.◊

Él apretó los dientes. “Y tú crees que si alguien le pone un dedo encima me voy a quebrar, ¿verdad?” he said. “Que voy a llorar, o confesar, o lo que sea que crees que va a pasar en tu cabecita de telenovela.”

◊And you think that if someone lays a finger on her I’m going to break, right? That I’ll cry, or confess, or whatever you think is going to happen in your little soap opera brain.◊

Rafaela flinched, but pushed on. “Sé que te va a doler,” she said simply. “Y sé que lo saben. Eso es todo lo que necesitan.”

◊I know it will hurt you. And I know they know. That’s all they need.◊

His lips peeled back from his teeth, just for a second. His tail twitched, broke its stillness.

“No me conoces tanto como crees,” he said. “He visto peores cosas que una doctora siendo gritada por un viejo amargado. Y seguí respirando. Si le pasa algo, pues le pasa. Es adulta. Es fuerte. Se levantará como todos los demás. Yo no soy el protagonista de esta mierda.”

◊You don’t know me as well as you think. I’ve seen worse things than a doctor getting yelled at by a bitter old man. I kept breathing. If something happens to her, then it happens. She’s an adult. She’s strong. She’ll get up like everyone else. I’m not the protagonist of this shit.◊

“Mentiroso,” Rafaela whispered.

◊Liar.◊

“¿Perdón?” His brows shot up.

◊Excuse me?◊

“Te haces el duro,” she said, voice starting to fray. “Siempre lo has hecho. Haces chistes, sonríes, te haces el perro feliz. Pero cuando alguien te mira como ella te mira… te asusta. Y cada vez que te asustas, haces esto. Empujas, muerdes, dices que no te importa.”

◊You act tough. You always have. You joke, you smile, you play the happy dog. But when someone looks at you the way she looks at you… it scares you. And every time you get scared, you do this. You push, you bite, you say you don’t care.◊

He barked out a laugh, harsh. “Mira quién habla de empujar,” he said. “La que se apuntó a regresar a la ciudad que casi la mata nomás porque no quería dejar solo al hermano idiota.”

◊Look who’s talking about pushing. The one who signed up to come back to the city that almost killed her just because she didn’t want to leave her idiot brother alone.◊

“No vine por ti,” Rafaela lied badly. “Vine por la doctora.”

◊I didn’t come for you. I came for the Doctor.◊

“Claro,” he said. “Te encantan los casos perdidos.”

◊Sure. You love lost causes.◊

Her eyes filled, but she didn’t let the tears fall. “Te odio cuando te pones así.”

◊I hate you when you get like this.◊

“Pues acostúmbrate,” he snapped. “Porque Dossoles saca esto de mí. Y si no te gusta, hubieras aceptado la oferta de la doctora y te ibas a su cuarto a abrazar almohadas y hablar de sentimientos.”

◊Then get used to it. Because Dossoles brings this out in me. And if you don’t like it, you should’ve taken the Doctor’s offer and gone to her room to hug pillows and talk about feelings.◊

Rafaela stood up so fast her knees bumped the underside of the table. It wobbled, the beer coaster shifting. “No vuelvas a burlarte de ella así,” she said. “Ni de mí. No somos tus chistes.”

◊Don’t you ever mock her like that. Or me. We’re not your jokes.◊

He opened his mouth, something cruel and automatic on his tongue, then shut it again with a click of teeth.

The fan turned. A car backfired somewhere outside. Voices drifted up from the street, distant and indifferent.

They faced each other across the small space, two people with the same eyes, one full of fury and fear, the other wrapped in it like armor.

“Ya terminé,” Rafaela said finally, voice rough. “No tengo ganas de seguir peleando contigo. Sólo quería que lo pensaras. Que la cuidaras.”

◊I’m done. I don’t feel like fighting with you anymore. I just wanted you to think about it. To watch over her.◊

◊Ernesto stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable.◊

“¿Ya?” he asked quietly.

◊You done?◊

She clenched her jaw. “Sí.”

◊Yeah.◊

“Bueno.” He pushed off the wall. “Entonces ya.”

◊Good. Then that’s it.◊

He didn’t slam the bathroom door, but he closed it hard enough that the mirror rattled.

Rafaela stood there for a few seconds, breathing like she’d just come out of a bad dream. Then she sat back down on the bed, hands covering her face.

Through the thin wall, muffled by cheap plaster and paint, she could hear the Doctor’s footsteps in the next room, the creak of a bedframe, the soft thump of a bag dropped to the floor.

Up close, Dossoles always sounded like this: fans, pipes, distant shouting, the city chewing on old bones.

In the bathroom, water hissed on. Ernesto didn’t look at himself in the mirror. He didn’t want to see which of Rafaela’s words had actually hit.

He scrubbed his hands under the tap until the skin reddened, as if he could wash off the feeling of the vendor’s spit near his boots, the Doctor stepping in front of him, Rafaela’s voice saying te va a doler.

He turned off the water and braced his palms on the sink, head bowed, ears drooping for the first time since they’d landed.

“Estúpido,” he muttered, to himself, to the city, to whoever was listening. “Todos son unos estúpidos.”

◊Idiots. Everyone’s a fucking idiot.◊

He didn’t specify whether he meant the vendor, Rafaela, the Doctor, or himself.

When he came out, Rafaela was lying on her side with her back to the room, eyes open and fixed on a crack in the wall. His bag still gaped open on the bed. Hers remained untouched.

He didn’t say good night. Neither did she.

Outside, Dossoles breathed around them, the city settling in for the kind of night where anything could happen, and often did.

Chapter Text

Sleep came in pieces.

The inn’s mattress was too thin, the pillows too flat, the fan too loud and too slow at once. Ernesto lay on his back and stared at the cracked ceiling until it blurred, listening to the city through the thin glass: scooters, laughter, a fight two streets over, someone singing off-key. Dossoles breathing.

Rafaela’s back was a curve on the other bed, blanket pulled up to her shoulder. He couldn’t tell if she was asleep. He didn’t ask.

Eventually exhaustion did what comfort couldn’t. His eyes drifted shut between one blink and the next.

The fan ticked once. The sound became footsteps.

– – – – –

He remembered the hallway first.

The fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, color leached out of everything. The air smelled like disinfectant and metal and someone else’s blood. His own, too. Feathers of it dried on his shirt, on his hands. It stuck tacky between his fingers when he flexed them.

Rafaela walked beside him, bare-armed, her uniform jacket hanging off her shoulders like it didn’t know where she ended. Her face was wrong, too calm, too empty. That scared him more than the bandage at her hairline or the way her gait hitched every third step.

Ahead, the woman with the sword didn’t look back.

Officer Ch’en’s heels clicked on the tile. Each step was a verdict. She had already beaten him once that day, out in the sun where everyone could see. He could feel the memory in his ribs, in the ache of his jaw, in the way his body flinched when she shifted her weight.

He didn’t blame her. Not really. He and his father and Rafaela had given Dossoles plenty of reasons to swing.

“Keep up,” she said, without turning, and they did.

He couldn’t remember how long it had been since the smoke. Time blurred after things exploded. The noise, the screaming, the smell of cooked metal and concrete dust and panic. The plan falling apart. His father’s voice going ragged, then silent. Rafaela stumbling, coughing, eyes wide with the wrong kind of light in them.

He had thought, in the thick of it, that this was it. That this was the last street he’d ever see, the last sky. That the city would either swallow them whole or spit them out in pieces.

Instead, he’d woken up on concrete with Ch’en’s boot on his chest and a sword at his throat.

“You’re lucky,” she’d said, and he hadn’t felt lucky at all.

Now, in the memory, the hallway narrowed around them. Each door they passed looked the same: metal, small window, lock. Some had guards outside. Some didn’t need them.

“Where are you taking us?” he heard his own voice ask, hoarse. “Holding cells?”

“Somewhere you can’t cause any more trouble,” Ch’en said. “If you’re very fortunate, that might even involve beds.”

Rafaela’s fingers brushed his, barely. He wondered if she was reaching for him or checking that he was still there.

He swallowed, throat raw. “Hey,” he said. “Could I talk to you? Just-” his gaze flicked to Rafaela, then down the hall-“alone. For a second.”

Ch’en’s stride didn’t break. “You are in no position to make requests,” she said.

“I know,” he said quickly. The ache in his chest spiked when he spoke; one of her earlier kicks had found a rib. He powered through it. “Just… please. Thirty seconds. That’s all I’m asking.”

She stopped then, finally, and turned. Her eyes were sharp and tired and very, very done. “You have ten,” she said. “Make it worth something.”

He glanced at Rafaela. Her expression didn’t change, but her shoulders drew tighter. “It’s okay,” he lied. “Wait here, Raf.”

She didn’t like it. He saw the way her fingers twitched toward him, then curled into her palm instead. But she nodded, once, and stayed.

Ch’en stepped a pace away, far enough that Rafaela couldn’t hear easily, but close enough that her presence pressed on his skin.

“You already confessed to enough charges to bury you three times,” she said. “If this is some attempt to renegotiate-”

“It’s not,” he cut in. “I know what we did. I know what I did. I’m not here to bargain for myself.”

Her brows lifted, a fraction. “Interesting. Go on.”

He exhaled, a shaky thing. Saying it out loud made it real. “She doesn’t belong here.”

Ch’en’s gaze slid briefly toward Rafaela. “Your sister helped plant the charges,” she said. “She fought the officers who tried to disarm them. She may not be the mastermind, but she’s not collateral, either.”

“I know,” he said, too fast. “I know. I’m not saying she’s innocent. Just… she’s not built for this. For prison. For whatever the hell they’re going to want to do to us to make a point.” His voice dropped. “I am.”

She looked at him, long and steady. “You think you’re made for punishment?”

“I think I already made that choice when I lit the first fuse,” he said. “I knew how this could end. She followed me. She followed our father. She trusted us. That’s on me.”

He swallowed, the words tasting like rust. “You said there was this… group. Rhodes Island. They fix things. Medically. Politically. Whatever. You said they were taking some of the arrested people who… who still had a chance not to end up on a wall. Take her. Please. Give her that chance.”

“And you?” Ch’en asked.

He laughed, a short, humorless sound. “I’m the guy people saw on camera with a detonator in his hand,” he said. “The son of the man who almost turned half a district into a crater. Nobody’s gonna buy my redemption arc, ma’am. And that’s fine. I knew that going in.”

She watched him like she was weighing him against something only she could see. “You’re very quick to throw yourself under the bus.”

“I stood in front of the bus first,” he said. “This is just letting the tires finish the job.”

“And what, precisely, are you asking me to do about that?” Ch’en said. “Beyond transferring your sister to Rhodes Island’s custody.”

He met her eyes. His heart hammered like it wanted out. “Kill me.”

The word fell between them with no echo. Too heavy.

Ch’en’s expression didn’t change much. A slight tightening around her mouth. “That’s a ridiculous request.”

“It’s efficient,” he said, desperate to keep his voice from shaking. “You’ve already hit me hard enough to justify it, right? Add ‘resisted arrest’ to the report. Say I lunged for your gun. Whatever. People would believe it. They want blood. I get it. Better mine than-” His gaze flicked to Rafaela again. She stood exactly where he’d left her, but her shoulders were hunched now, like she could feel his thoughts pressing on her spine. “She gets to leave. You get to tell the city you put down the prodigal son like a rabid dog. Everybody wins.”

“Except you,” Ch’en said.

He shrugged, or tried to. His muscles protested. “I made my peace with that when I signed on. I only stayed alive long enough to drag her along. This is the part where I stop taking up oxygen someone better could use.”

For a moment, he thought she was going to hit him again. Her hand flexed near her sword hilt, then dropped.

“You said something earlier,” she said instead. “When we first pulled you in. About wanting to ‘wake the people up.’”

He flinched. “That was before.”

“Before you saw what waking people up actually looks like,” she said. “Right.”

He clenched his jaw. The images rose uninvited: bodies in the street, smoke pouring from broken windows, someone screaming for a child who didn’t answer. He’d thought he was prepared. He hadn’t been.

“Officer,” he said, and hated the way his voice broke over it. “Please. I don’t need another lesson. I get it. I fucked up. I burned everything. I don’t want to keep walking around being the guy who did that. Just… give her something better. That’s all I’m asking.”

“And you think Rhodes Island is ‘something better’?” Ch’en asked.

“You said they help people who got dealt a bad hand,” he said. “Rafaela got dealt me. That’s pretty bad.”

“Self-pity doesn’t impress me,” she said. “And killing you would be… convenient, perhaps. But convenience is not justice.”

He almost laughed. “Feels like justice from where I’m standing.”

“Of course it does,” she said. “You’re a coward.”

The word hit harder than her kicks had.

He stared. “Excuse me?”

“You’d rather die quickly than spend the rest of your life cleaning up what you helped break,” Ch’en said. “You’d rather make one dramatic request in a hallway than do the boring, painful work of living with what you did. Of being seen. Of being useful. That’s not noble, Ernesto Salas. That’s lazy.”

His ears burned. His tail felt like it had been cut off at the base. “You think sending me to prison isn’t a death sentence?” he snapped.

“I think there are options you haven’t considered because they don’t flatter your sense of tragedy,” she replied coolly. “Rhodes Island treats the infected, defuses crises, negotiates with people like the man your father was trying to be. They take in strays. They train them. They put them to work. They have a Doctor who insists on seeing the best in people who don’t deserve it.”

He swallowed. The word Doctor lodged somewhere near his sternum. “You’d send me there too,” he said slowly. “Not just her.”

“I’d send you where you can be someone other than the city’s favorite monster-of-the-week,” she said. “If you insist on calling that mercy, that’s your problem.”

He shook his head. “You honestly think anyone’s going to trust me in a place like that? A walking bomb put in the clinic?”

“No,” Ch’en said. “I think it will be very uncomfortable for you. That’s part of the appeal.”

He almost smiled at that, despite himself. “You’re cruel.”

“I am,” she said. “But I’m not your executioner. You don’t get to hand me that catharsis and call it justice. You’re going to live. You’re going to work. You’re going to watch your sister build a life, and you’re going to carry the knowledge of what you did into every room you walk into.” A pause. “And if you try to blow anything else up, I’ll come personally to correct that mistake.”

He believed her.

The dream blurred, as dreams do. The hallway stretched, folded. Rafaela’s face wavered at the edge of his vision. Ch’en’s figure receded, voice trailing, replaced by another.

“…Rhodes Island is a place for second chances,” Amiya was saying, ears lowered. “If you’re willing to try.”

“The Doctor will be overseeing your integration,” Kal’tsit added. “She’s… stubbornly optimistic. Do not confuse that with naivety.”

He remembered the first time he’d seen her properly.

Not in a report, not in a doorway, not as a rumor about the person at the top of too many charts. In the flesh, in front of him, holding a clipboard and a mug of tea she’d clearly forgotten about halfway through drinking.

Her eyes had been tired and kind and sharp all at once. Not the kind of sharp that cut you down. The kind that cut through.

“Ernesto Salas?” she’d said.

He’d already decided, somewhere between Dossoles and the landship, that if this was his second chance he would meet it wearing the right mask. Not sulking. Not snarling. That was easy to hate. Easy to lock away, to write off as a lost cause.

So he’d smiled. He’d loosened his shoulders, wagged his tail just enough to be charming, not enough to look desperate.

“Tequila, if we’re going to be friends,” he’d said. “The other one’s a bit of a mouthful.”

Her lips had twitched. “Tequila, then,” she’d agreed. “I’m the Doctor. I’ll be reviewing your case and making sure you don’t fall through any cracks. Or blow anything up on board.”

He’d clutched that line like a lifeline. As long as she called him by the name he chose, he could pretend he was someone else. Someone who made stupid jokes and carried heavy boxes and smiled through training sessions. Someone who belonged.

Time bent again. He saw her in fragments, stitched together by sleep.

Her in the infirmary, sleeves rolled up, leaning over Rafaela’s chart. “You don’t have to push yourself this hard,” she’d said. “Recovery isn’t a competition.”

Her in the cafeteria, balancing a tray and a stack of files, stepping in between him and a glare from another operator whose unit had seen the footage from Dossoles. “He’s with me,” she’d said, tone mild and unyielding.

Her at a briefing, tired lines around her eyes, taking his input on a route through a Bolivarian suburb without flinching at the way he knew which streets were good for an ambush. “If you’re sure about that alley,” she’d said, “we’ll mark it as unsafe. Thank you.”

She always said thank you. For intel, for reports, for coffee he’d “accidentally” left on her desk when she’d been working too late.

It wasn’t subtle, the way she took their side when she could. When someone muttered something too loud about terrorists on the landship, she redirected the conversation. When a supply officer dragged their feet on issuing them new gear, she asked why, and the gear showed up on their beds that evening.

On good days, she believed his act completely. She laughed at his jokes, rolled her eyes at his dramatics, treated him like any other operator with a history that was messy but manageable.

On better days, worse days, he caught her looking at him with that knowing softness that made his stomach knot.

The days when he came back from a mission quieter than usual, his smile an inch too tight. When he lingered in the training room, hitting the practice dummy long after everyone else had gone. When he looked at his hands a beat too long after patching someone up.

She never called him on it. Never said I see you pretending. Never cornered him with words like trauma or guilt the way a lesser person might have.

She just… adjusted.

Another cup of tea appearing by his elbow. A hand on his shoulder after a debrief that had gone badly. A simple, “You did well today,” that landed harder than any medal.

He’d tried to file what he felt under safe categories.

Gratitude. Respect. Professional attachment. The weird, wary kind of fondness you developed for the person who insisted on being kind to you even after reading the worst parts of your file.

Nothing else. Nothing dangerous.

Because at the end of the day he knew what he was. Ch’en had said “stray,” but that was generous. Strays didn’t usually come with casualty numbers.

He was a dog someone had put down once and then decided to drag back up again just to see if he could be housebroken.

A dog with sharp teeth and a reputation. The kind that lived on the edge of a yard, chained to a post, brought out when someone needed scaring. He’d made peace with that.

Rhodes Island had given him a leash. A nice one. Soft material. Doesn’t chafe as much as it could. A leash with a name in neat letters: Tequila. A leash held by a hand that stroked the fur behind his ears when he sat and stayed and did tricks like help on missions and don’t explode.

He dreamed in loops of that hand.

The Doctor’s hand. Ink smudge on her thumb, faint callus on her middle finger where a pen had rested too long. Warm. Steady.

That hand on Rafaela’s arm, guiding her to a bed. That hand taking a bomb schematic away from him gently, saying, “You don’t have to hold this alone.” That hand smoothing a crease in his file, as if she could smooth the contents by extension.

He knew he could bite it.

He knew it in the way his jaw clenched when someone on the landship looked at them with too much suspicion. In the way his thoughts went dark and petty and protective when he saw her working herself into the ground for people who didn’t appreciate it. In the way Dossoles rose up in him tonight, all teeth and alleys, whispering that if he just leaned into the worst of himself, he could wreck this whole carefully balanced life she’d fought to build around him.

He could break her. Not physically, though the part of him that knew how easy it was to hurt someone smaller hated that he knew that too, but in all the ways that mattered.

He could be the one who proved her wrong about people. The final data point in a long, long line that said you were stupid to trust us.

He hated that.

In the dream, he lay at her feet like some loyal thing, head on his paws, leash coiled neatly. She reached down to scratch behind his ears, smiling absentmindedly as she read a report. Her eyes were soft. Too soft.

“All you have to do,” the city’s voice whispered, sounding like a hundred different throats, “is close your mouth on that wrist. Just once. Watch what happens.”

He saw it.

Her flinch. The blood. The disbelief in her eyes, not at the pain, but at him. The way her shoulders would stiffen afterward when anyone mentioned his name. The way she’d stop putting tea on his desk, stop standing between him and the stares. The way she’d fold that part of herself away, the trusting part, pack it up and bury it somewhere no one could touch.

He’d done that to other people. Dossoles had taught him how. Helper one day, nightmare the next.

In the dream, he wanted to bark, to snarl, to run. Instead he lay there, tail thumping once against the floor in some sick parody of contentment, because the leash was just tight enough.

“I’m a good dog,” he told himself, in the half-lucid logic of sleep. “I sit. I stay. I don’t bite the hand.”

But under it, quieter, the rot spoke.

You would, if it meant keeping her.
You would, if it meant pushing her away before she can decide to let go.
You would, because you don’t know any other way to stop things from hurting you first.

In the dream, the scenes folded over each other: Ch’en refusing his execution, the Doctor offering him a future, Rafaela looking at him like he was both her brother and the gun pointed at her life.

You’re just a dog, the thought hissed. A very lucky mutt with the prettiest leash you could ask for. And you are still one bad day away from sinking your teeth into the only person who keeps insisting you’re more than that.

The worst part wasn’t the image of breaking her.

It was the part of him that believed, absolutely, that if she held out her hand afterward, bleeding, bruised, stubbornly open, he’d lick it clean and let it happen again.

Because that’s what he did. That’s who he was. Someone who hurt things and then tried to make up for it with jokes and late-night patrols and half-mumbled apologies.

In the dream, he turned his head away from her, from the imagined blood on his tongue, from the city looming at the window with all its old resentments.

“I don’t want this,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he meant the leash, the hand, or the teeth. “I don’t want to be able to hurt her.”

The city laughed, a sound like bottles breaking in an alley.

That’s not how it works, Salas.
You don’t get to choose what you can break.
You only get to choose whether you pick up the pieces afterward.

The Doctor looked up from her file then, wind from nowhere ruffling her hair. She smiled at him, tired, fond, unafraid.

“Thank you for coming with us,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

The leash tightened. His throat closed.

He woke up with his heart racing, breath shallow, the taste of smoke and metal on his tongue.

The fan turned overhead. The room smelled like detergent and someone else’s cigarettes. Rafaela’s breathing was slow and even on the other bed.

Outside, Dossoles shifted in its sleep. Somewhere, a dog barked.

Ernesto stared at the ceiling and flexed his hands, nails biting into his palms just enough to anchor him to now.

“Just a dream,” he muttered, though he knew better. Dreams like that weren’t fiction. They were just the parts of the past and the future that refused to stay in their drawers.

He rolled onto his side, facing the window. Beyond it, the city waited, teeth in the dark.

On the landship, the Doctor would be asleep by now, too, if she had any sense. Or working herself past that point if she didn’t. She’d offered him kindness and a room and a future, over and over, like it didn’t cost her anything.

He hated that. He cherished it. He didn’t know what to do with it.

“Stupid,” he whispered, to himself, to her, to the version of him in the hallway who’d asked for death like it was mercy. “We’re all so fucking stupid.”

The fan ticked. The leash he couldn’t see but always felt settled a little heavier around his throat.

He closed his eyes again, not expecting sleep, only a darker kind of waking.

Chapter Text

Ernesto woke up tired.

He wasn’t sure when sleep had actually taken him, only that when it spat him back out, the light at the edges of the curtain was pale and sour, and his mouth tasted like old fear.

Rafaela was a still shape on the other bed, turned toward the wall. The fan muttered overhead. Pipes clanged somewhere in the building’s throat.

He lay there for a long moment, staring at the stained ceiling, listening to his heartbeat slow down from the dream’s rhythm to something almost normal.

Then he swung his legs over the side of the mattress, scrubbed his hands over his face, and reached for his bag.

It took digging.

He pulled out folded clothes, a spare holster, a tangled mess of charging cables, a beaten-up paperback he’d forgotten he owned. His fingers found the packet by feel before his eyes did, crumpled cardboard, the edges gone soft with age.

He stared at it for a second.

The last time he’d opened this pack, he’d been standing under Rhodes Island’s sky, honest, open, not borrowed like Dossoles’, with a cigarette between his fingers and a lot of bad ideas in his head.

He’d lit it, leaned back against the railing, watched the smoke curl away. Thought about burning things that were safe to burn, for once. Wrapping his lungs in something he chose instead of whatever the city decided to set on fire.

He’d heard her footsteps before he’d seen her. The Doctor moved heavier when she was tired, lighter when she was on her second cup of coffee. That day, she’d been somewhere in between.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” she’d said, not quite disapproving, not quite not.

He’d shrugged, bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. “Old habit,” he’d said, exhaling sideways so it wouldn’t hit her face. “Helps me think. Terrible for my life expectancy, though, so you’re about to tell me off.”

She’d leaned on the railing beside him, eyes on the horizon. “I’m not here to police your coping mechanisms,” she’d said. “Just to remind you that you already live in a world full of things trying to kill you. You don’t have to volunteer another one.”

He’d snorted. “That’s a very poetic way of saying ‘stop smoking,’ Doc.”

Her gaze had flicked to his hands, to the way his fingers trembled just enough to give him away. “It’s a very poetic way of saying I’d rather you didn’t die of something preventable if I can help it,” she’d said.

He’d watched her for a moment, then ground the cigarette out on the railing, pack still heavy in his pocket.

“Want me to quit?” he’d asked, half teasing, half challenge.

She hadn’t smiled. She hadn’t gotten angry, either. She’d just looked at him with that steady, soft-worried expression that said she’d already started counting his breaths as something she was responsible for.

“Yes,” she’d said simply.

He’d almost laughed, almost lit three more in a row out of spite at the tight, scared feeling that answer put in his chest.

Instead, he’d thrown the rest of the pack into his duffel and closed it. Out of sight. Out of reach.

For a while.

Now, in the thin light of a Dossoles morning, the cardboard crackled under his fingers. He turned the packet over, thumb worrying at a corner.

“Fucking weak,” he muttered to himself, and opened it anyway.

There were three left. They smelled stale, paper and dust and something chemical. He took one between his lips and tucked the pack into his pocket.

The balcony was barely worthy of the name, just a strip of concrete outside the sliding door, enough space for a plastic chair that had seen better decades. The air outside was cooler than the room, but only by a little. The city’s morning breath rolled over him: exhaust, frying oil, damp stone, someone already sweating through a workout two rooftops over.

He cupped his hand around the lighter, flicked it until the flame caught, and drew in smoke.

It tasted as bad as he’d expected. Old, bitter, like something that had sat too long in the dark waiting to be bad for him.

He closed his eyes and let the nicotine hit anyway. It took the edge off the jitter under his skin, sanded down the sharpness of the dream’s aftertaste.

Below, Dossoles yawned awake: shutters rattling up, vendors dragging carts into place, motorbikes whining past. Somewhere, a radio played yesterday’s news like it was new.

He leaned on the railing, cigarette between his fingers, and tried to stitch himself together enough to be functional.

Tried not to think about what the day held: meetings with people who remembered the last time the Salas family had tried to make a point; streets that would recognize his walk before he got halfway down them; eyes that would linger on the Doctor’s coat and then slide past it to the man beside her.

He thought about her, too. Coming here anyway. Carrying her hope like a lantern into every bad corner.

Idiot, he thought, but without heat. The word curled in his chest, aimed as much at himself.

The door behind him squeaked. He didn’t turn until he heard the small, familiar sounds: Rafaela’s feet on the tile, the rustle of her feathers against her shoulders.

“¿En serio?” she said.

◊Seriously?◊

He glanced over his shoulder. She stood just inside, arms folded, blanket-dent still on her cheek, eyes narrowed.

“Buenos días para ti también,” he said. “¿Dormiste bien?”

◊Good morning to you too. Sleep well?◊

She made a face. “Hueles fatal,” she said. “Pensé que habías dejado eso.”

◊You smell awful. I thought you’d quit that.◊

He looked at the cigarette, at the ember eating its way down. “Lo hice,” he said. “Hoy es una excepción.”

◊I did. Today’s an exception.◊

“Dices eso cada vez que haces algo tonto,” she said. “Una excepción aquí, otra allá. Al rato ya es costumbre otra vez.”

◊You say that every time you do something stupid. An exception here, another there. Soon it’s a habit again.◊

“Rafa,” he warned.

She sighed, the fight from last night still in the set of her mouth but dulled by sleep. “Haz lo que quieras,” she said. “Sólo no eches el humo adentro. Y apaga eso antes de que suba la doctora.”

◊Do what you want. Just don’t blow the smoke inside. And put that out before the Doctor comes up.◊

He frowned. “¿Qué?”

◊What?◊

“Está tocando la puerta,” Rafaela said, jerking her chin toward the hallway. “Desde hace rato.”

◊She’s at the door. Been knocking for a while.◊

As if on cue, there was a knock, polite, rhythmic, three short taps, barely audible over the fan and the morning noise.

“Puta madre,” Ernesto hissed, flicking the cigarette over the railing with a guilty speed that would’ve made a firefighter cry. “¿Y me dices hasta ahorita?”

◊For fuck’s sake. And you’re telling me just now?◊

Rafaela shrugged, unrepentant. “Estabas muy dramático en tu balcón,” she said. “No quise interrumpir.”

◊You were very dramatic on your balcony. I didn’t want to interrupt.◊

He shot her a look and ducked back inside. The room smelled like smoke and cheap soap. He crossed to his bag in three quick steps, digging until he found the small roll of mints buried at the bottom.

Two popped into his mouth, crushed between his teeth until the sharp sweetness stung his tongue. He grabbed the small bottle of cologne he’d thrown in as an afterthought and spritzed his neck, his wrists, the front of his shirt.

“¿Crees que no se va a dar cuenta?” Rafaela asked, amused.

◊You think she won’t notice?◊

“Calla,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, ears flattening, then forcing themselves back up. “Pon cara de que no dijimos nada.”

◊Shut up. Put on a face like we didn’t say anything.◊

The knock came again, gentle but patient.

Mask on.

He let his shoulders drop into an easy line, loosened his jaw, let the corners of his mouth curl up. When he opened the door, the Doctor stood there exactly as he’d pictured: coat on, tablet in hand, hair pulled back in a way that looked like practicality rather than vanity.

“Good morning,” she said. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

“Doc,” he beamed. “Perfect timing. We were just arguing about who got first shower. You saved us from an international incident.”

Her nose wrinkled, just barely, as the cologne and mint and the leftover smoke hit her.

He felt it like a pinprick. The urge to swear out loud gripped his tongue. He swallowed it.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, tone light. “The room came with a complimentary eau de… whatever that is. I’m trying to fight it off.”

“It’s fine,” she said, which meant it wasn’t, not entirely. Her expression wasn’t angry, she rarely did angry, but there was a tiny downturn at the corner of her mouth, a little crease between her brows. Worry, disappointment, nothing dramatic. Enough.

He’d seen that look once before, on the railing. It had made him throw away a full pack.

“It’s really fine,” she added, softer, as if she realized where his eyes had gone. “I just… the ventilation in these rooms isn’t great. You’ll give yourself a headache.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve done to my brain,” he joked. “But I’ll keep that in mind. What’s up?”

“I came to invite you both down to breakfast,” she said. “The inn has a small hall on the ground floor. The liaison will be meeting us there in about half an hour for a short debrief, so I thought it might be good to eat before then.”

“Look at you,” he said. “Thinking ahead. That’s why you’re in charge.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the flicker of relief when Rafaela appeared over his shoulder, already pulling on her boots.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Rafaela said.

“Good morning,” the Doctor replied, smile returning properly now. “Did you sleep at all?”

“A little,” Rafaela said. “Enough.”

Ernesto stepped back, sweeping an arm out. “After you, ladies. Lead us to the feast.”

– – – – –

The breakfast hall was a narrow room with mismatched tables and a buffet laid out under a row of flickering lights. The food was simple: bread rolls, fried eggs, beans, plantains, coffee that looked like it had been sitting in the metal dispenser since dawn.

It smelled amazing.

Operators clustered in small groups, plates in hand, voices low. Midnight was already on his second cup of coffee, eyes only half-open. The medic from the airship had a notebook out beside her plate, scribbling between bites.

Ernesto loaded his plate with the enthusiasm of someone who’d learned early to eat when food was available and worry about flavor later. Rafaela took half as much and twice as carefully. The Doctor served herself moderately, then made sure to grab a second cup of coffee to carry to the empty seat beside hers, just in case.

They sat together at one of the corner tables. The inn’s cracked window let in the sounds of the street and the smell of frying dough from a vendor outside.

“Today’s schedule,” the Doctor said, once they’d all taken a few bites, “is fairly tight.”

“No surprises there,” Ernesto murmured around his food.

She ignored that. “We have a morning briefing with representatives from the city council,” she continued. “Mostly to establish expectations, outline what Rhodes Island can and can’t do, and reassure them we’re not here to interfere with internal politics.”

Midnight snorted softly from the next table over. “We’re just here to gently suggest they stop bleeding all over their own citizens,” he said.

“Preferably without phrasing it that way,” the Doctor said. “After that, we’ll be visiting one of the larger clinics near the waterfront. They’ve been seeing a surge in patients they can’t handle. I’ll be doing an assessment; I’d like at least one of you with me at all times.” She glanced at Ernesto and Rafaela as she said it, and he felt the weight of that choice land.

“Happy to play bodyguard,” he said, tapping his chest. “You point, I loom.”

“Please don’t loom,” she said. “It sends the wrong message.”

“Always so demanding,” he sighed.

“Afternoon,” she went on, “we’ll be meeting with a few local community organizers in one of the mid-districts. Less official, more… reality-based. I want to hear what they’re seeing on the ground. After that, we return here, debrief, and collapse.”

“Sounds like a holiday,” Ernesto said lightly.

She huffed a small laugh. “A very specific kind.”

He watched her as she spoke, the way her hands moved when she emphasized a point, the way she checked her notes even though he knew she’d memorized them hours ago.

When she lifted her cup to drink, the light caught on her mouth.

Shiny. Subtle, but there.

He frowned, just slightly. The coffee’s steam wavered in front of her lips, distorting the gleam for a moment.

Lip gloss.

He noticed it again when she smiled at something Rafaela said, a quick, shy curl of the mouth that made the gloss catch the light like wet fruit. It was nothing dramatic, no bright color, no glitter, just a soft sheen, a tiny decision she’d made when she’d gotten dressed.

Most people probably wouldn’t see it at all.

He saw it too clearly.

The rest of breakfast passed in a blur of logistics and coffee and the metal clink of forks on plates. When they were done, chairs scraped back, plates stacked. The liaison appeared like he’d been conjured, all polite smiles and thinly veiled impatience.

“Shall we, Doctor?” he asked.

“Give us five minutes,” she said. “I just want to double-check something with my team.”

He nodded, checked his watch with exaggerated martyrdom, and stepped away to take a phone call.

The others drifted off in ones and twos, Midnight to sightsee outside, the medic to refill her notebook with sloppier handwriting now that the caffeine was sinking in. Rafaela went to return her plate, then lingered by the doorway, watching the street.

Ernesto stayed.

When they were mostly alone, the noise dropping to a dull hum, he leaned forward, elbow on the table.

“Since when do you wear lip gloss?” he asked.

She blinked. “What?”

He gestured vaguely at his own mouth. “The shine,” he said. “New accessory. I don’t remember seeing it on the landship.”

A faint flush crept up her neck. She reached up, thumb brushing the corner of her lip like she could check if it was still there.

“I… don’t, usually,” she admitted. “I just thought… Dossoles is a coastal city. People dress differently here. I wanted to-” she searched for the word, then found it with a small, self-conscious huff- “feel a bit ‘holiday-ish,’ I suppose.”

She said it like a confession, not a crime.

He could see her the way someone else might: a tired woman trying to carve out one tiny piece of softness for herself in a hostile place. A little gloss. A little shine. Something that said I remember I have a mouth for more than giving orders.

Someone else might have found it cute, endearing. Sweet.

He did not find it cute.

Something in him went cold and sharp in a way that felt almost separate from his body.

He reached out before he could think better of it, hand coming up toward her face. She froze, more out of surprise than fear, eyes widening just a fraction.

His thumb pressed against her bottom lip, not gently. The gloss was slick against his skin, warm from her mouth. He dragged his thumb along the curve, wiping, smearing. The sheen dulled, then disappeared, leaving a faint redness behind.

Her breath caught, then steadied. She didn’t pull away. She also didn’t lean in.

When he spoke, his voice was lower, something darker coiled through the usual easy drawl.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “Not here.”

Her brows knit. “Do what?” she asked quietly.

“Doll yourself up for these streets,” he said. “They don’t deserve it. You walk around looking like that, somebody’s going to get the wrong idea.”

His thumb left her lip. The urge to wipe harder, to scrub, rose and fell, scrub off the gloss, the softness, the part of her that caught the light and made hungrier eyes pay attention. Scrub her clean of anything this city could grab on to.

He pulled his hand back instead, fingers curling into a fist under the table.

“This isn’t a resort,” he went on. “This isn’t your landship cafeteria where the worst that happens is some idiot stares at you too long. Here, you shine, and they think you’re for sale. Or a dare. Or a lesson.”

His smile stayed on his face, but it felt like it belonged to someone standing behind him, not to his own mouth.

Her gaze held his. There was no flinch there, only a small, startled sadness.

“I don’t intend to let anyone treat me that way,” she said. “Gloss or no gloss.”

“They won’t ask for your intentions,” he said. “That’s the point.”

Inside his head, the thoughts were nastier, more honest.

Don’t give them something pretty to stare at while they talk to me. Don’t let them see you and think that’s how we make him fold. Don’t paint a target on your mouth and then look at me like I’m overreacting when I want to cover it.

He hated how easy it was to picture it: some asshole in a doorway, eyes fixed on her lips first, language sliding ugly between his teeth, hand reaching-

His jaw clenched. He swallowed down the images, shoved them somewhere behind his ribs where the rest of the Dossoles rot lived.

He straightened, exhaled, and let the mask settle fully back over his face.

“Anyway,” he said lightly, flicking his now-clean thumb in the air like he’d just brushed a crumb away. “Can’t have you breaking hearts on every corner. City’s fragile enough as it is.”

Her mouth, bare now, just her mouth, tilted. “That’s not what you were worried about,” she said, but there was no accusation in it. Just observation.

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe I’m just selfish and I don’t want Dossoles falling in love with you more than it already will.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You know how it is. Doctor walks in, saves a few lives, smiles at a guy, suddenly there’s a cult.”

She snorted, tension smoothing a little. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed. “It’s part of my charm. But seriously, Doc. This place eats anything that looks soft. If you want to feel ‘holiday-ish,’ do it when we’re back on the ship. Let the landship’s security cameras fall in love with you instead. They’re less handsy.”

That got a real laugh out of her, small but honest. “I’ll… keep that in mind,” she said. Her fingers brushed her lips again, as if reacquainting herself with them. “Thank you. I think.”

“Anytime,” he said.

From the doorway, Rafaela called, “¿Ya?” Her voice carried over the clatter. “El señor de cara larga se está impacientando.”

◊Done yet? Long-face man is getting impatient.◊

“Ya vamos,” Ernesto called back. ◊We’re coming.◊

He pushed his chair back with a scrape, stood, and offered the Doctor a hand up in exaggerated gallantry.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go charm some politicians and try not to get killed before lunch.”

She took his hand, rolling her eyes but letting him pull her to her feet. Her fingers were warm. He let go quickly.

As they headed for the door, he kept half a step behind and to her side, where he could watch the hall ahead and the eyes that would inevitably follow her through it.

Outside, Dossoles waited, teeth in the concrete, tongue in the streets.

He tasted stale mint and ghost smoke on his own breath and thought, grimly, that it was going to be a long day.

Chapter Text

If you only walked the one street, you could almost pretend Dossoles was harmless.

The main drag near the waterfront had put on its best clothes: banners strung overhead, holograms flickering in the morning sun, stalls pressed shoulder to shoulder in a riot of color. Someone had cranked the music too loud too early; a beat thumped from a speaker on a crate, fighting with three different songs leaking out of nearby bars.

“See?” the liaison said, projecting cheer over the noise. “Lively. Vibrant. Much safer to keep to these areas.”

“That’s the plan,” Ernesto said, stepping just close enough that his shadow brushed the man’s shoulder. “We stick to what’s safe. You remember that, yeah?”

The liaison’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course.”

The Doctor seemed genuinely fascinated. Not in a naive way, her eyes kept tracking exits, crowds, uniformed guards, but there was a softness at the corners of her mouth that hadn’t been there in the inn’s stale hallway.

She moved at a pace halfway between a walk and a drift, pausing to take in details, the way a vendor had stacked their fruit, the trick of a busker’s hands with three knives and a chipped glass bottle, the metallic rustle of cheap jewelry as a girl shook a tray of bracelets.

“Good morning, pretty lady!” someone called in accented English, waving strings of beads. “Necklace? Lucky charm? Good price!”

The Doctor smiled, polite but firm. “They’re lovely,” she said. “However, not today, thank you.”

“Maybe later,” Ernesto added, slipping between her and the stall with a practiced ease. His hand ghosted over the small of her back, steering her just enough to keep her moving.

The vendor’s grin faltered when Ernesto’s ears flicked in his direction, when his tail swayed once behind him, controlled. The man’s eyes narrowed, then slid past to a couple further down the street who looked more easily parted from their money.

“A lot of commerce,” the Doctor said quietly. “For a place supposedly in crisis.”

“Tourist belt has its own gravity,” Ernesto replied. “As long as the lights stay on here, people can convince themselves the rest is an unfortunate rumor.”

They passed a food cart pushing skewers of meat over open coals, the air thick with spice and fat. A woman with tired eyes and bright lipstick called out names of dishes, offering samples on toothpicks.

“Hungry?” the Doctor asked.

“Always,” Ernesto said. “But maybe not for mystery meat from a grill parked next to an open sewer. I’ll introduce you to the good places when we’re off duty.”

“Looking forward to it,” she said, and he couldn’t tell if she meant the food or the promise of still being alive later.

The further they went, the more the offers sharpened.

A man in a doorway leaned, cigarette clinging precariously to his lip. “Hey, doctorita,” he called. “You like music? We have live band, good drinks. First one on the house.”

“No, thank you,” she said, still polite.

“You sure? We treat you very nice.” His gaze slid over her, assessing. It rolled off Ernesto, then snapped back when he realized the blonde was not just another tourist.

Ernesto didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just stepped closer, tail still, eyes flat in a way that didn’t match his smile.

The man’s smirk died. “Maybe later,” he muttered, retreating into the shadow of the doorway.

They passed a narrow alley with a painted sign above it: GIRLS. Another sign promised “massages.” The window next to it had a red glow even in daylight. Girls and women sat on plastic chairs under the awning, legs crossed, eyes scanning the flow of people with the quick, calculating gaze of hunters who couldn’t afford to miss.

One of them caught sight of the Doctor, clocked the coat, the posture, the way Ernesto stuck to her shoulder like a second shadow. She smiled anyway, teeth bright and sharp.

“Doctor,” she called in heavily accented English, the word a joke and a test at once. “You want girl? Boy? We take care of you.”

The Doctor’s cheeks colored faintly, but her smile didn’t falter. “Not today,” she said. “Take care of yourself.”

The woman laughed, throwing her head back. “No one does that here,” she said, but there was no bitterness in it, just fact. Her eyes flicked to Ernesto, reading him. When his gaze didn’t waver, her smile thinned. She turned her attention to a group of tourists in loud shirts.

It wasn’t something Ernesto had thought about, before Rhodes Island: how quickly warmth could switch off in a place like this when a man like him lingered.

The vendors’ faces didn’t change when the Doctor refused them. They changed when he stepped in. When his ears angled, when his tail cut the air, when his hand found a reason to touch her elbow or shoulder and keep her moving.

He didn’t like that much attention on him at the best of times. Here, it felt like dragging a sign down the street: This one is not unclaimed.

He did it anyway.

“You don’t have to keep touching me every time someone looks at us,” the Doctor murmured, not unkindly, as he guided her around a group of teenagers clustered around a busker breathing fire.

“I know,” he said. “I’m doing it for me.”

She snorted softly. “I’m not a suitcase, Ernesto.”

“Maybe consider being one,” he said. “Suitcases get ignored more in this town.”

They turned off the main tourist artery soon after, following the liaison’s jittery gestures. The music faded to a dull thump behind them. The air didn’t get cooler, but it got heavier.

The clinic was tucked into a mid-rise building that might have once been an office. The sign above the door was hand-painted, the lettering careful, the logo a simplified cross entwined with something meant to be a local symbol.

A line had already formed outside. People sat on plastic chairs or makeshift crates, leaning on the walls, fans in hand. Bandages. Coughs. Gloved hands covering lesions. A mother bounced a crying child on her lap, eyes hollow with lack of sleep.

Inside, the heat thickened with bodies and old air conditioning. The waiting room overflowed; people stood along the walls, pressed in. Nurses moved through the crowd like fish through a thick current, carrying clipboards and bottles, voices hoarse from repeating the same questions.

The Doctor’s entire posture changed when they stepped in.

The tired lines around her mouth smoothed. Her shoulders drew back, not in defensiveness, but in readiness. This was familiar ground. Not safe, never safe, but known.

The liaison did a quick round of introductions with the clinic’s head physician, a man whose white coat bore the battlefield stains of a working doctor: pen marks, mystery smudges, fabric worn thin at the cuffs.

“Thank you for coming, Doctor,” he said after they shook hands. His accent was different from the liaison’s, the vowels longer, the consonants softer. “We’ve been… overwhelmed. The council gives us more patients than supplies.”

“Let’s see what we can do,” she said. “I’ll need a quick rundown of your current protocols for Infected cases.”

Rhodes Island had a lot of words for what they did, but when you stripped it down, their approach to the Infected, anywhere, not just here, came down to a few key things.

Don’t turn them away.

Don’t treat them like they’re already half-dead.

Don’t forget that whatever Oripathy is doing to their bodies, the world has been doing worse to their lives.

Here, the local clinic was doing the best it could with what it had. It wasn’t enough.

Triage first. A nurse explained, in between calling out names, that they sorted patients by symptom severity and obvious Originium exposure. Those with visible crystallization were tagged in red, moved to a separate room more out of fear than proper isolation.

“We don’t have enough PPE,” the head physician admitted. “Staff are afraid. We try to educate, but…”

Fear was faster than any lecture.

Rhodes Island’s traveling clinics did it differently. They brought their own equipment, their own meds, their own training modules that they made staff sit through even when everyone grumbled. They taught transmission routes, proper disposal, the differences between direct Originium contact and airborne myths whispered in alleyways.

They separated, yes, but by actual risk, not superstition.

The Doctor listened, asked questions, took notes. “We can run proper diagnostics,” she said. “Rhodes Island brought portable scanners and a small Oripathy lab. We’ll prioritize your most acute cases first. From there, we can start classifying who needs immediate intervention, who needs long-term management, and who needs monitoring.”

The head physician looked like she’d handed him a new kind of weather. “You can do that here?”

“Yes,” she said. “We have mobile infrastructure. That’s… what Rhodes Island is. Mostly.”

Ernesto watched the staff’s faces as she spoke. Hope. Suspicion. Exhaustion. The familiar cocktail.

He’d seen this before in other cities. The way people’s opinions about the Infected shifted, just a degree, when someone in a white coat stood up and said, No, this isn’t a curse. It’s a disease. You can treat a disease. You can live with it.

Rhodes Island treated the Infected like patients, not walking plagues.

They offered contracts, sometimes, to those able to work under their conditions. They offered medicine even when people couldn’t pay. They offered information to governments that listened, and pressure to those that didn’t.

They offered, and offered, and offered. And when the world proved, again and again, that it didn’t deserve that level of persistence, they still offered.

He’d never understood that. He’d benefited from it. He still didn’t understand it.

They moved through the clinic in small circuits.

The Doctor set up in an empty office that barely deserved the name. Somebody cleared a desk for her. A nurse rolled in a portable scanner. Ernesto stood by the door, while Rafaela positioned herself near the windows, scythe wrapped and harmless-looking but not, not really.

Patients came in one by one, then in twos when the corridor backlog grew impatient.

A woman with crystals marching up her forearm like a slow explosion, snapping, “You’re just here so they can feel better about letting us rot.”

The Doctor’s answer: “If the council wants to feel better, they can come down here and volunteer. I’m here for you.”

A teenage boy who kept his hand over his mouth when he coughed, even when she told him it wasn’t necessary, that he wasn’t going to infect anyone with his breath alone. Shame had longer reach than disease.

Her voice stayed steady. Patient. She explained how Oripathy spread, what direct contact meant, how to minimize risk without exile. When people lied, she heard it but didn’t grind their faces in it. When they snapped, she didn’t snap back.

Ernesto leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching.

He’d seen her like this before, back on the landship: a force of nature in a lab coat, holding the entire creaking mess of hope and logistics together with sheer stubbornness.

Here, it felt different.

Here, every patient was a reminder that Dossoles didn’t do “non-discriminatory care” unless someone was watching. Every flinch when an Infected’s sleeve rode up was another tally on the board he’d been keeping since before he switched sides.

He saw the way some of the clinic staff looked at the Doctor, too. Admiration. Resentment. Relief that someone else was taking the worst of the burden, at least for a day.

He felt… things he didn’t particularly want to examine.

Pride, the ugly, possessive kind, at the way she walked into this chaos and started building order without demanding anyone change who they were first.

Resentment that she even had to. That Dossoles had been allowed to fester this long without someone like her.

Jaw-tight envy, too, at how easily she poured her attention into complete strangers. She listened with that same intensity she gave him when he made a rare honest confession. It shouldn’t have bothered him that he wasn’t special in that way.

It did.

When a man raised his voice, frustration, fear, not true aggression, it hit him like a physical thing.

“I waited three hours,” the man snapped, gesturing with a bandaged hand. “You ask the same questions they do. What’s the point? You give me another lecture and send me home to die slower?”

The Doctor didn’t even flinch. “The point,” she said calmly, “is that we can give you medicines the clinic doesn’t have. We can monitor your progression. We can teach you how to slow it down and protect the people you live with. If you’d rather not, that’s your choice. But I’m not going to lie and say there’s nothing to be done.”

The man sneered. “Easy for you to say, señora. You’ll go back to your floating hospital when this is over. We stay here.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “You do. That’s why I came here instead of asking you to come to me.”

Her voice stayed level. Even kind.

It was the man’s second sentence, more than his first, that made Ernesto’s teeth clench.

“You act like you care,” the man muttered. “But you’re just another tourist. At least he-” his chin jerked toward Ernesto “-looks like what he is.”

The Doctor’s mouth thinned. “What he is,” she said, “is someone who has put his life between mine and a bullet more than once. You’re welcome to your opinion. You’re not welcome to spit it at my staff.”

The man hesitated, swallowed, looked at Ernesto properly then, saw the way his ears had gone flat, the way his tail had stilled.

He looked away first.

Ernesto’s hands itched. Not to hit him, those days were supposed to be behind him, but to do something. To move. To dislodge the feeling in his chest that said you don’t get to talk to her like that.

He didn’t move. He watched her de-escalate, redirect, reframe. She sent the man away with meds and a follow-up appointment. He left muttering, but he left.

She rubbed at her temple once when he was gone, just briefly, then straightened and called the next name.

Her attention stayed on the patients.

It was supposed to. That was literally why they were here.

It still felt like a theft, watching it happen. His own mind tried to twist it into something petty, something gross: they were stealing the light he’d gotten used to having aimed his way. The part of him that knew better wanted to smack that thought down.

He leaned harder into the wall, eyes closing for a moment.

You’re disgusting, he told himself. She’s doing her job and you’re on the sidelines sulking because you’re not the one bleeding on the table anymore.

He thought about the half-smoked cigarette he’d flicked over the balcony railing. About the stale pack still in his pocket, cardboard growing softer with his body heat. About how nice it would be to step outside, just for five minutes, and burn his lungs instead of his thoughts.

It wouldn’t be enough.

Not for this. Not for the way the city whispered through the clinic’s open windows, not for the way the Doctor’s voice kept saying we, including herself in every promise she made to people who might never see her again after this week.

He opened his eyes again and forced his jaw to unclench.

She finished with another patient, a woman with a stubborn cough and tiny crystals like frost along her collarbone. Sent her away with medicine and a referral to Rhodes Island’s mobile unit parked two streets over. Promised to see her again tomorrow if she came back.

As the woman left, the Doctor caught Ernesto’s eye for the first time in half an hour.

“You okay?” she asked.

He shrugged, tugging his mouth into a grin that felt a little too tight. “Just enjoying the show.”

Her brow furrowed. “This isn’t-”

“I know,” he said quickly. “Bad joke. You’re doing good work, Doc. That’s all I meant.”

Her expression softened. “You don’t have to stand there the entire time,” she said. “Take a break if you need one. Get some air.”

He almost said You are the air just to see her expression. The thought horrified him enough to keep his mouth shut.

“I’m fine,” he said instead. “Not my first overcrowded clinic. Somebody has to make sure the line doesn’t turn into a mob if we give out more meds than they expect.”

Her eyes flicked to his clenched fist, then back up. She didn’t comment on it.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “For being here.”

He hated that that still hit him as hard as it did.

A nurse knocked on the doorframe. “Doctor? We have three more Infected outside who say they can’t wait. They came from… far.”

“Send in the worst first,” the Doctor said, already reaching for a new file. “We’ll make it work.”

Of course she would.

Ernesto took a breath that tasted like antiseptic and sweat and the faint, metallic tang of Originium from the next room.

Half a cigarette wasn’t going to cut it.

Maybe nothing would.

He shifted his weight, ears pricked, tail low and steady. Watched her turn her focus away from him again, back to the stranger in front of her.

He told himself that this was good. That the less she looked at him, the fewer chances Dossoles had to weaponize her gaze.

He didn’t entirely believe it.

But he held the wall, and his tongue, and his knife-edged thoughts, and let her work.

Chapter Text

The clinic sounded different after midnight.

During the day it had been all noise and motion, voices layered over one another, footsteps, doors opening and closing, the sharp bark of names being called. Now, the sound had thinned out into something quieter, rawer. Low coughs from the ward. The soft squeak of a gurney wheel that needed oil. Someone crying behind a curtain, trying not to.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead like tired bees.

Ernesto leaned against the far end of the staff corridor, shoulder to the wall, hands jammed into his pockets. The hallway bent in a lazy L-shape, one end leading back to the waiting room, the other to a set of supply rooms and a staff lounge with a coffee machine that had given up on making anything but burnt water around midnight.

He’d watched the hours slide past.

Eight p.m. turned to ten. Ten to midnight. Midnight to one. Nurses swapped shifts, rubbing at their eyes. The local doctor had tapped out around eleven, muttering an apology and something about needing to be functional for the morning. A few Rhodes Island operators had rotated through to help with crowd control and basic checks before heading back to the inn in pairs.

The Doctor stayed.

She’d moved from room to room with a kind of reckless, quiet determination that both impressed and irritated him. She took short micro-breaks, sips of water, a minute leaning on a counter between patients, but she didn’t sit. Didn’t stop.

He’d tried, once, around midnight.

“Doc,” he’d said, intercepting her as she came out of the makeshift lab, clipboard under her arm. “You’ve been going since morning. You need to lie down before you fall down.”

“Not yet,” she’d said, distracted, flipping through results. “We still have critical cases waiting. Once we stabilize the last of them, I’ll rest.”

“You said that three patients ago.”

“And I meant it then,” she’d said. “Things changed.”

He’d wanted to argue. Ch’en’s voice had shown up uninvited in the back of his head: You’re a coward. You’d rather die quickly than do the boring work.

He’d backed off that time.

Now it was nearly two in the morning, the cheap wall clock ticking smugly as if it wasn’t complicit.

Ernesto listened to her voice rise and fall in one of the nearby rooms. The rhythm of it was slower than it had been at noon, but no less focused. He knew her tells; she wasn’t at her limit yet. She’d push until her body pulled the plug.

He should have been proud. Rhodes Island was built on people like that, people who forgot to stop. Without them, he’d still be in some cell or ditch.

Instead, he was… waiting.

He waited until he heard her say, “We’ll monitor you overnight. If anything changes, call the nurse. I’ll check on you in the morning.” Her English had gone softer, vowels fuzzing a little around the edges with fatigue.

Footsteps. The scrape of a chair. A door opening.

She emerged into the corridor with a chart tucked against her chest like a shield. For a second she didn’t see him. She walked past the nurse’s desk, nodded at the woman half-asleep over paperwork, and kept going until she reached the junction between the main corridor and the smaller side hall where the windows were.

There, finally, she stopped.

She set the chart on a narrow ledge under the window, braced her hands on either side of it, and bowed her head. The glass threw her reflection back at her: tired eyes, smudged shadows under them, hair escaping its tie.

She closed her eyes and breathed.

In. Out. A little shudder at the end of each exhale, like her lungs were arguing with the weight she was asking them to carry.

Ernesto watched for a moment. Then he pushed off the wall.

Mask on.

He smoothed his expression as he approached, rolled his shoulders, let his tail resume an easy, slow sway. When he stepped into her peripheral vision, he already had a smile in place.

“Hey, Doc,” he said softly. “Shift over yet, or are you auditioning to become a permanent fixture?”

She opened her eyes. For a second, the surprise on her face flickered raw. Then she straightened, pulling her coat’s collar into place like that could hide the exhaustion.

“I thought you’d gone back to the inn,” she said.

“And miss the glamorous nightlife of a Dossoles clinic?” He clicked his tongue. “No way. I’m not paying for a room when I can stand in a fluorescent hallway and watch you do the work of ten people.”

She huffed a tired laugh. “You’ve been here this whole time?”

“On and off,” he hedged. “Took a couple of walks, made sure the alley cats weren’t unionizing. You know.”

Her eyes tracked him, taking in details the way she always did: the set of his shoulders, the way his ears weren’t quite as perky as his tone suggested, the faint smudge of smoke smell that clung to him no matter how much cheap cologne he sprayed.

“You should have rested,” she said. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“Neither did you,” he pointed out. “If we’re tallying bad decisions, you’re ahead.”

She shrugged, a small, weary motion. “We stabilized five Infected who would have been sent home otherwise,” she said. “That doesn’t feel like a bad decision.”

He stepped closer, enough that he could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes more clearly. “You did good,” he said. The words came out easier than he expected. “Really good. I’ve seen clinics turn people like that away at the door. You stayed until they were breathing easier.”

She looked down, guilty somehow, like praise made her uncomfortable. “It wasn’t just me,” she said. “Your presence helped. The staff listened more when they saw you weren’t… taking advantage of anything.”

“You mean not blowing the place up?” he said lightly. “Yeah, I thought that would reassure them.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Her mouth quirked. “You being stable helps them see you as something other than a headline. That matters.”

He felt that word again, stable, like a collar tightened, just a notch. He swallowed the reflexive rejection.

“Still,” he said. “You earned a break.”

“I will,” she said. “Soon. There are just a few more charts I want to-”

He moved while she was talking.

Not aggressively. Not all at once. Just a slow, steady closing of distance, until the stretch of corridor behind her was eaten up by his presence.

The wall was at her back. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that she’d feel it if she leaned.

He rested one hand on the wall beside her head, palm flat, arm bent. The other stayed loose at his side. His tail stilled of its own accord, more instinct than intention.

“Doc,” he said, and his voice dipped without him meaning it to. “You’re done for tonight.”

She blinked, confusion knitting her brow. “Ernesto-”

“You’ve been on your feet almost twenty hours,” he went on. “You’ve poured out everything you had into people who barely looked you in the eye half the time. You did your saint routine. They’ll tell stories about the foreign Doctor who stayed up all night for them. You can go sleep now.”

There was an edge under the compliment, and he knew she heard it. her shoulders tightened.

“They’re not stories,” she said quietly. “They’re people.”

“I know,” he said. “And a lot of them don’t give a damn that you’ve almost passed out three times.”

“They’re scared,” she said. “Pain makes people… abrupt.”

“Pain makes some people assholes,” he said. “You’re allowed to say the word.”

“I’m not interested in labeling them,” she replied. “I’m interested in treating them.”

He let his smile tilt, just a little. “Of course you are.”

His tone had dropped, almost without him noticing. Less bright, more… something else. He heard it and kept going anyway.

“You know what that looks like from where I’m standing?” he asked. “You, breaking yourself for people who will forget your name next week. You, walking into rooms alone with no security because it saves time. You, wearing yourself down so thin there’s barely anything left when you walk out here to breathe.”

“Is this leading to an actual suggestion,” she asked, “or are you just narrating?”

He leaned in a fraction. Not enough to crowd her. Enough that she’d feel the heat coming off him, the faint scent of smoke and sweat and the city that clung to his clothes.

“Go back to the inn,” he said. “Eat something that isn’t whatever they have in that vending machine. Take a shower. Sleep. Let the locals handle their own mess for five hours. The world won’t end.”

“You don’t know that,” she said. “And neither do I.”

“That’s the point, Doc,” he countered. “You’re not obligated to personally stand between every bad possibility and reality. You act like if you blink, the whole building will collapse.”

“If I don’t monitor the patients we just stabilized,” she said, “they could relapse. The staff are already stretched thin. I can at least check the rounds schedule, make sure the most acute cases-”

He cut her off, the smile on his face sharpening.

“Do you ever hear yourself?” he asked, a laugh under the words that wasn’t amused. “You sound like a Rhodes Island brochure. We’ll fix everything. We’ll be everywhere. We’ll save everyone.”

Her eyes cooled a degree. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you mean,” he said. “You’ve been starved all day, your hands are shaking, you probably haven’t pissed since noon, and you’re still out here thinking about whether the guy who called you a tourist deserves one more check-in.”

She straightened as much as the wall would let her. “He’s still my patient.”

“And you’re still a person,” he snapped.

The word echoed down the corridor, bounced off peeling paint and tired tile. He saw a nurse at the far end glance up, then look away again, deciding this was not her problem.

He forced his voice back down. “Sorry,” he said. “Just- look at you.”

She didn’t. She looked at him.

“You started smoking again,” she said, out of nowhere.

He froze. His ears twitched.

“What?” he said.

“In the morning,” she said. “On the balcony. You tried to hide it, but you still smell like it. The mint and cologne didn’t cover it completely.” Her gaze flicked briefly to his shirt, then back up. “You were doing so well.”

That little dip in her expression, half worry, half disappointment, there it was again. The one that had made him quit the first time.

He laughed, but it came out thin.

“Funny,” he said. “Here I am lecturing you about self-destructive habits, and you’re bringing up mine.”

“Habits are the same,” she said. “Mine fill hours. Yours fill lungs. Neither of us is making particularly smart choices.”

“Difference is,” he said, “nicotine doesn’t die if I take a nap.”

Her lips pressed together. “This place is getting to you,” she said softly. “I understand that. But throwing smoke on top of it won’t help.”

“Doc,” he said, and something inside him tilted. “Look around. You really gonna tell me this environment doesn’t demand a vice or two?”

“That’s an excuse,” she replied. “You’re better than-”

He laughed again, louder this time. “There it is,” he said. “The line.”

“What line?”

“You’re better than this,” he mimicked, voice just shy of mocking. “You clutch that sentence like a rosary, you know that? You say it to everyone. Infected patients. Tired staff. Me. As if willpower and my deep desire to impress you are going to magically rewire my brain.”

She flinched, a tiny movement. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair,” he said. “Dossoles taught me that, remember? You being disappointed in me doesn’t suddenly make cigarettes taste worse. It just makes me feel like a teenager who got caught behind the gym.”

“I’m not trying to shame you,” she said. “I’m worried. There’s a difference.”

He stepped closer. His hand on the wall slid a few centimeters, the space between them shrinking to something that would look very different to anyone walking by.

He could see the pulse at her throat. Not racing. Not calm.

“That worry is a habit too,” he said. “You ever think about that? How you collect broken things to worry about so you don’t have to look at your own cracks for too long?”

She inhaled sharply. “Ernesto-”

His smile stayed. His tone dipped.

“You spent all day worrying about strangers who yelled at you, snapped at you, treated you like an inconvenience,” he said. “You worried about me when I got a lungful of nostalgia on the balcony. You worry about Rafaela overextending herself, about operators you barely know. When’s the last time you worried about you?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. “This isn’t about me,” she said, and they both knew that was only partially true.

“That’s the problem,” he said. “Nothing is ever about you.”

He wanted, desperately, stupidly, to see something crack. Anger. Frustration. Anything aimed at him instead of the void of her job.

He wanted her to shove him back, to say you don’t get to talk to me like that, to tear at the mask he was wearing and tell him to stop.

Instead, she exhaled slowly, the kind of controlled breath she’d taken in front of a hundred hard cases before.

“I’m going back in,” she said.

The simplicity of it threw him.

“What?” he asked.

“I appreciate your concern,” she said, and this time her tone carried a thread of gentle irony. “You’re not wrong. I do have bad habits. I will rest as soon as the night nurse finishes rounds and we’ve double-checked the charts for the most unstable patients.”

“That could take another hour,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “It could.”

“Doc.” His hand flexed against the wall, muscles tensing. “I’m telling you, you’re running yourself into the ground. You’re not listening.”

“I am listening,” she said. “I hear your worry. I even agree with parts of it. But I’m still going to do my job.”

He scoffed. “Your job isn’t to martyr yourself for these people.”

Her gaze sharpened. “And your job isn’t to decide when I’ve given enough,” she said. “You don’t get to be my limiter, Ernesto.”

The way she said his name hurt more than it should have. Not cruel. Not cold. Just… firm.

“You’re allowed to tell me when I’m being stupid,” she went on. “I’m allowed to ignore you if I have a different assessment.”

He stared at her.

“That’s it?” he said. “I push you up against a wall and you give me a balanced answer about boundaries?”

“You’re not pushing me,” she said. “You’re standing too close. There’s a difference.”

The rebuke was so mild it almost didn’t register as one until it slid under his skin.

He could feel the urge rising, to say something sharper, nastier. To cut at her the way he knew how. To force a reaction that belonged to him.

Instead she stepped sideways, out from under his arm, with a simple shift of weight. The kind of movement you used to exit a packed elevator without spilling your coffee.

He didn’t stop her. His fingers curled into a fist against the wall instead, knuckles pressing into cracked paint.

She picked up the chart from the ledge, flicked through the pages to reorient herself.

“Go back to the inn,” she said, not looking at him. “Please. Or at least lie down in the staff room for an hour. This place eats energy, and you don’t have as much to spare as you think you do.”

He laughed once, bitter.

“This place eats a lot of things,” he said. “Energy’s the least of them.”

She paused. “I know,” she said quietly. “That’s why I’m here.”

She turned then, meeting his eyes. There was tiredness there, and worry, and underneath it all an affection he didn’t want to name.

“Thank you for checking on me,” she said. “Really. I’ll be fine.”

He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her, demand that she stop saying that, stop being fine, just once.

Instead, she gave him one of those small, maddeningly soft smiles that had gotten under his skin from day one. Then she stepped past him, down the corridor, back toward the rooms that still held people who needed something.

He watched her go.

His jaw hurt. He realized he’d been clenching it.

His hand dropped from the wall, fingers leaving a faint smear of sweat and chalky paint.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath.

No one heard him. The nurse at the end of the hall was dozing over her forms. The patients behind their doors had their own ghosts to fight.

He stood there another moment, chest tight, pulse thudding in his ears.

He’d gone looking for an outlet, for her anger, her concern, anything that was about him in a day that had been about everyone else. Instead, she’d folded him neatly back into the category of “people I appreciate but cannot prioritize right now.”

It shouldn’t have bothered him this much.

He hated that it did.

Hated the part of him that wanted to bite at her kindness until she yanked it away, just to prove the universe right.

Hated that she hadn’t even flinched hard enough to give him that satisfaction.

He needed air.

Not the recycled kind that carried too much antiseptic. Not the corridor’s stale, tired oxygen.

Real air.

He turned and walked away, boots loud on the tile. Past the nurse’s desk, past the waiting room chairs with their abandoned magazines and forgotten cups. Out through the clinic doors and into the night.

Dossoles hit him like a wet cloth to the face.

The heat had softened a little, but the city hadn’t slept. Streetlights cast a sickly yellow over cracked pavement. Neon signs buzzed. Somewhere nearby, a bar spilled laughter and off-key singing into the street. Further off, he could hear the distant pop of fireworks or gunshots, he’d grown up in this soundscape; he could tell the difference, but it didn’t matter. Either way, it meant someone celebrating or someone grieving.

He took a deep breath. Smoke, spilled beer, cheap perfume, trash. Familiar.

His fingers itched for another cigarette. For a drink. For a fight.

Something. Anything that would scrape the inside of his skull clean for a few minutes.

“You’re disgusting,” he told himself, stepping off the clinic’s small stoop and into the street. “You corner the one person who believes you can do better because she didn’t look at you enough today.”

A scooter zipped by, horn blaring. A couple argued two doors down, their words sharp and fast. A stray dog nosed an overturned bin, tail twitching.

He walked with no real destination, letting the city pull at his feet. It knew his stride still; he could feel it in the way heads turned, just slightly, in the way some faces tightened and others lit with ugly recognition.

You want to bite the leash off, don’t you? Dossoles murmured to him in the grind of tires and the rustle of leaves. You want to prove you’re not tamed. That you still know how to be mean.

He did. God help him, he did.

He also wanted, irrationally, for the leash to still be there when he came crawling back in the morning. For the hand holding it to be the same. For her to sigh and say, You’re an idiot, and patch up whatever he’d ripped open in the night.

He wanted everything. That was the problem.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking, away from the clinic’s dim halo of good intentions and into the darker parts of the city that had never asked him to be anything but what he was.

Chapter Text

He walked with intent this time.

Not the aimless drifting of a man killing an hour, but the steady, familiar tread of somebody heading toward a place he’d sworn off and always known he’d return to.

Dossoles at night fit him better than the daytime version. The neon stretched thin over broken pavement, the shadows crowded in tight, and everyone out this late shared an understanding: whatever brought you here, it wasn’t good for you.

He cut away from the main roads, losing the tourist gloss in three turns. The music got dirtier, the air thicker. Trash piled against chain-link fences. Someone laughed too loud behind him. A bottle shattered somewhere ahead.

He didn’t flinch. The city knew his walk. Some faces still remembered it.

The corner came up the way it always did: too sudden, like the city had folded space to make sure people like him could find it even drunk and half-blind. The sign above the stairwell was modest compared to the waterfront’s screaming neon, a single red strip, glowing dull as a fresh wound.

He paused at the top of the stairs, hand on the rusted rail.

You could still turn around, said the part of him that sounded faintly like the Doctor on nights when he was too tired to push it away.

He went down.

The basement club smelled like it always had: booze, smoke, sex, and regrets waiting patiently in the corners for their turn. Lights low, music just loud enough to keep people from hearing themselves think. Tables. Stools. A stage that wasn’t currently in use. Doors leading off to things you paid extra for.

Some of the faces turned when he walked in. Some were new; those ones glanced over him once and dismissed him as another night’s mistake. The others, the ones who knew, looked longer.

A man at the bar did a double-take, then grinned, crooked and mean.

“Pues mira quién volvió,” he said, wiping a glass that would never be clean. “Pensé que te habías hecho santo en ese barco de doctores.”

◊Well, look who’s back. Thought you’d turned saint on that doctor ship.◊

Ernesto slid onto a stool, elbows on the sticky counter. “Los santos no vuelven aquí,” he said. “Así que supongo que estamos a salvo.”

◊Saints don’t come back here. So I guess we’re safe.◊

The bartender chuckled, set a bottle down. “¿Qué va a ser esta noche, Ernesto?” he asked. “¿Trago, compañía, o las dos cosas hasta que no puedas caminar derecho?”

◊What’s it gonna be tonight, Ernesto? Drink, company, or both until you can’t walk straight?◊

Ernesto looked at the bottle. Looked past it, to the doors in the back.

“Empieza con trago,” he said. “Algo fuerte. Lo que mate más neuronas en menos tiempo.”

◊Start with a drink. Something strong. Whatever kills the most brain cells the fastest.◊

The first glass burned going down. The second burned less. By the third, flavor had stopped mattering; it was just weight, a spreading numbness that loosened something in his chest without making anything better.

He didn’t want better.

He wanted raw. Wanted to peel something inside him down to the nerve and see if that hurt less than the slow gnaw of the last twenty-four hours.

The Doctor’s face kept flickering against the back of his eyelids whenever he blinked—tired eyes, bare mouth, the ghost of gloss he’d wiped away, the way she’d stepped out from under his arm like he was just… in the way.

He tossed back another drink.

“Y la compañía,” he said, setting the glass down harder than he meant to. “Quiero una chica nueva. No las mismas de siempre.”

◊And company. I want a new girl. Not the usual ones.◊

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “¿Te cansaste de las que ya saben cómo te pones?”

◊Got tired of the ones who already know how you get?◊

Ernesto smiled without humor. “Algo así,” he said. “Alguien que todavía crea que se puede negociar.”

◊Something like that. Someone who still thinks things are negotiable.◊

The bartender’s gaze slid over him, taking in the way his ears sat, the tired curl of his tail, the tension riding his shoulders.

“¿Alguna preferencia?” he asked.

◊Any preference?◊

Ernesto hesitated, just for a second.

“Pelo pálida largo,” he said. “Si tienes. Que se le vea bien cuando lo traiga hecho nudo en la mano.”

◊Long pale hair. If you’ve got it. Looks good when it’s knotted in my hand.◊

He could taste the self-disgust even as he said it. He swallowed it with the last drops of his drink.

The bartender snorted, scribbled something on a notepad. “Eres un perro, Salas. No cambias,” he said, but there was no surprise in it. “Ve al fondo. Stall tres. Ya sabes.”

◊You’re a dog, Salas. You don’t change. Go to the back. Stall three. You know the way.◊

Ernesto did.

He walked the short hallway to the row of numbered doors, each one muffling different sounds: laughter, sobs, the rhythmic creak of a bedframe. The low-red lighting turned everything the color of dried blood.

Stall three’s door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open.

She was already there.

Late twenties, maybe. Long pale hair spilling over bare shoulders. Not dressed yet, just the club’s standard robe, belt knotted loose, bare legs folded under her on the edge of the bed. She looked up when he stepped in.

Her eyes flicked over him: ears, tail, scars under his collar. She catalogued him the way people in this line of work always did, risk assessment, habits, likelihood of getting paid in full.

“Eres Ernesto,” she said. Not a question. Someone had warned her.

He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked.

“Depende a quién le preguntes,” he said. “Pero sí.”

◊Depends who you ask. But yeah.◊

She watched him, waiting. Professional; not eager, not shy. Just… present.

“Me dijeron que querías nueva,” she said. “Tengo dos meses. ¿Te sirve?”

◊They told me you wanted new. I’ve been here two months. That work for you?◊

He nodded once. “Está bien,” he said. “Mientras no hayas aprendido demasiados trucos todavía.”

◊It’s fine. As long as you haven’t learned too many tricks yet.◊

She gave him a little half-smile. “Los trucos los traen ustedes,” she said. “Nosotras nada más tratamos de que se vayan caminando.”

◊You men bring the tricks. We just try to make sure you leave walking.◊

He laughed at that. It wasn’t a nice sound.

He took a step forward. She unfolded from the bed, standing, closer now. Up close, the differences screamed at him: wrong height, wrong jawline, eyes too dark, mouth painted with cheap gloss that smelled faintly synthetic.

None of it mattered.

His mind had already started rewriting her.

Pale hair. That matched. That was enough.

He reached out, fingers sliding into the strands, curling, testing. Silky. Strong.

For a heartbeat, he saw the Doctor instead: hair loose from the bun she wore for work, falling around her face, catching the light of a Rhodes Island hallway. Her lips bare and soft, gloss wiped away but not forgotten.

He tightened his grip.

“¿Algún límite?” the girl asked, voice steady. “¿Algo que no te guste?”

◊Any limits? Anything you don’t like?◊

He almost said kindness.

Instead, he gave her the version of himself this place expected. The wild dog they knew. The one whose reputation had made the bartender arch an eyebrow and send him to stall three without questions.

“Me gustan los ruidos,” he said. “Mientras más fuerte, mejor.”

◊I like noise. The louder, the better.◊

She tilted her head. “Eso no es un límite,” she said.

◊That’s not a limit.◊

“Eso es un aviso,” he replied.

◊It’s a warning.◊

He saw the flicker in her eyes then: calculation, wariness, the little internal check that all professionals did, am I charging enough for this? Did the front desk give me hazard pay?

She nodded once. “Está bien,” she said. “Pero pagas extra si rompes algo.”

◊Fine. But you pay extra if you break anything.◊

He almost asked Like what? The furniture or you? He bit that one back. Some lines even he didn’t cross out loud.

He dropped the last of his restraint with the robe she shrugged off.

He’d done this enough times that the motions were muscle memory. Hands where they needed to be, grip adjusted automatically when she gasped too much or más, enough to keep within the unspoken rules of the place: no lasting marks where they’d startle the next client, nothing that required a medic.

But his mind wasn’t there.

Every time his fingers tangled in her hair, he imagined a different texture, a different weight. He hauled her head back, wrenching a strangled noise from her, and the thought was, It shouldn't feel this loose, this cheap. The Doctor’s hair would smell like burnt ozone and antiseptic, and the strands would be thick, resisting the pull. Every time she arched under him, he saw a different face; every smear of her gloss on his skin became that soft, subtle shine he’d rubbed off someone else’s mouth that morning. He tasted the saccharine cherry on her breath, and it was a poison, chasing away the faint, coppery tang of the Doctor’s stress-sweat he was trying to recall.

She was loud. He’d asked for that. The club’s walls soaked it up without judgment. Someone in the neighboring stall laughed breathlessly; someone else cursed.
He preferred it this way. The volume filled the holes in his head where other thoughts tried to live. He drove into her with a violent, graceless impact, wanting the sharp, tearing gasp he felt rather than heard, a sound that cut through the noise. It wasn't about pleasure. It was about breaking something that wasn't already shattered.

She said his name once, early on, Ernesto, but it sounded wrong, so he told her to stop.

“Dime lo que sea,” he said, breath harsh, fingers biting into her thigh. “Pero no me llames así.”

◊Call me anything. Just don’t call me that.◊

She obliged. Switched to mi amor, to perro, to wordless sounds that didn’t belong to anyone off this mattress. He gripped her chin, forcing her face up, ignoring the way her eyes watered. The whore’s frantic, painted gaze was all wrong. He needed to see the Doctor's eyes, those eyes that never flinched from the rot and the consequence. He slapped her thigh, a stinging, ugly noise. “Look at me, you damn thing,” he grated, a low, vicious sound that barely cleared his throat. He needed her to be the mirror reflecting the real object of his sickness.

He behaved exactly like the wild dog they’d warned her about. Not thoughtless; never that. You didn’t survive Dossoles long by turning your brain off entirely. But reckless enough. Hungry enough. The rough canvas of the mattress scraped his knees. He reached down and ground her hips into his own, a brutal, punishing friction, trying to scrape off the layers of her cheap perfume and find the clean, desperate fear underneath.

He slammed into her one more time, hard enough to rattle the thin headboard. He leaned close to her ear, his voice a ragged whisper in Spanish, intended solely for the tired face he saw behind his eyelids.

“Dime que lo quieres, perra,” he snarled, digging his fingers into her hip bone, “dime que esto es lo único bueno que mereces.”

◊Tell me you want it, bitch; tell me this is the only good thing you deserve.◊

She whimpered, and the sound was lost. He didn’t care what she said. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead into her clammy shoulder, and imagined the Doctor’s quiet dignity buckling.

“¿Qué pasa, Doctor?” he panted, each word a punch. “¿Tan importante eres ahora? Eres carne, nada más. Una boca abierta, un coño sucio. ¿Dónde está tu moral ahora, eh? Dime dónde está.”

◊What’s wrong, Doctor? Are you so important now? You are flesh, nothing more. An open mouth, a dirty cunt. Where is your morality now, huh? Tell me where it is.◊

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Doctor’s: tired, steady, refusing to spark anger at him even when he pressed. He imagined their hands, not yielding, but pushing back, steadying his own madness. He imagined the quiet disgust in their voice. It wasn't sex he was after; it was that raw, exposed moment of moral failure, and he was forcing this girl to play the part of the horrified witness.

He chased that, too. That absence. That refusal to break.

By the time it was over, truly over, not the first time he thought it might be and pushed past it out of something ugly and stubborn, his throat was raw and his body ached in ways that didn’t feel like release so much as impact. He fell off her, lungs hitching. The girl was already rolling away, silent now, pulling her cheap slip down over her hips with the practiced speed of someone minimizing damage. He felt the cold, sticky dampness on his skin, sweat, cheap lubricant, the sickeningly sweet taste of her gloss still on his tongue. He was still whole. Nothing was broken. And the ache in his muscles was the only proof that he hadn’t just been standing in an empty room, wrestling with a ghost.

The girl lay on her back, hair a tangled halo on the cheap sheets, chest rising and falling. She was still loud in the way of someone who knew letting sound out now made it easier to stay quiet later, when it mattered.

She turned her head, looked at him through the curtain of her hair.

“Estás loco,” she said, not quite accusing, not quite admiring.

◊You’re crazy.◊

He stared at the ceiling, sweat cooling on his skin, the room’s smell wrapping back around him.

“Eso dicen,” he said.

◊That’s what they say.◊

He sat up, muscles complaining, and reached for his clothes. His hands shook as he pulled his shirt on, not from exertion. The adrenaline had already started to drain, leaving the familiar sludge of self-disgust behind.

He dug out his wallet, peeled off more bills than strictly necessary. Laid them on the bedside table. For the noise. For the hair. For the sin of turning her into someone else in his head.

She watched him count. When he finished, she whistled softly.

“Así sí te creo lo del barco,” she said. “Te pagan bien para venir a ensuciarte acá.”

◊Now I believe the thing about the ship. They pay you well to come get dirty here.◊

He barked a humorless laugh. “No se ensucia lo que ya está hecho mierda,” he said.

◊You can’t dirty what’s already fucked.◊

She shrugged, unconvinced. “Como quieras,” she said. “La próxima vez pide a otra. No me gustan los perros que se creen fantasmas.”

◊Suit yourself. Next time ask for someone else. I don’t like dogs who think they’re ghosts.◊

He didn’t promise there wouldn’t be a next time. He didn’t promise there would.

“Que tengas buena noche,” he said instead, and the words tasted rancid in his mouth.

◊Have a good night.◊

She snorted. “Nadie la tiene aquí,” she said. “Sólo noches pagadas.”

◊Nobody has a good night here. Just paid ones.◊

He left.

The hallway felt narrower on the way out, the red light more accusing. The music from the main room hit him like a wave when he opened the door. People laughed, drank, leaned into each other. The bartender glanced up, saw his face, and didn’t comment. Just raised the bottle in silent question.

Ernesto shook his head. His mouth tasted like chemicals and someone else’s lipstick. He didn’t trust himself with more alcohol on top of that.

Outside, the air was no cleaner, but it was less crowded. He stepped onto the street and rolled his shoulders, as if he could shed the club like a skin.

He couldn’t, of course.

He knew exactly how tomorrow, or whatever you called the next chunk of hours, would start.

The Doctor would knock. Or he’d see her in the hallway, or the clinic, or over a breakfast he wouldn’t taste. She’d look at his face, tilt her head the way she did, and say something like, “You look exhausted. Did you sleep at all?”

Worry in her voice. Always worry.

And he’d smile. Wag his tail. Crack a joke about uncomfortable mattresses or noisy neighbors.

A good dog, coming back to heel after running feral all night.

He hated himself for it.

Dossoles breathed around him. The leash he’d tried to chew through with drink and skin and noise and someone else’s hair settled back into place around his throat as if it had never left.

Chapter Text

The inn room was dark when he slipped the keycard in.

The lock clicked, the little red light blinking green once, and the door gave way with a soft sigh. The only illumination came from the streetlamp outside, a thin strip leaking around the edge of the curtain.

Rafaela was a mound under her blanket, breathing slow, back turned toward his bed. The fan pushed heavy air around in tired circles.

He stepped inside and shut the door with more care than he’d used anywhere tonight. The bolt slid into place with a quiet snick.

His clothes felt wrong on his skin. Too tight, too damp, too layered with other people’s smells. Smoke. Perfume. Sweat that wasn’t only his.

He peeled his shirt off, fabric sticking, and tossed it toward the chair. It missed, landed on the floor with a wet slap instead.

Rafaela shifted. Her head lifted from the pillow, hair mussed, eyes squinting in the half-dark.

“¿En serio?” she muttered, voice thick with sleep. “Apestas.”

◊Seriously? You stink.◊

He froze for half a second, muscles caught between fight and flight.

“Duérmete,” he said, too flat to pass for teasing. “No empieces.”

◊Go back to sleep. Don’t start.◊

She pushed herself up on one elbow, blanket slipping down to her waist. In the dim light he could see the worry already starting to climb into her face, shoving the sleep away.

“¿Dónde estabas?” she asked. “Son las… no sé. Tarde. Mucho.”

◊Where were you? It’s… I don’t know. Late. Very.◊

“No es asunto tuyo,” he said, undoing his belt with hands he hoped didn’t shake. “Dije que no empezaras.”

◊None of your business. I said don’t start.◊

She wrinkled her nose. “Hueles a bar barato y a…” she gestured vaguely, searching for the word.

◊You smell like a cheap bar and… ◊

He didn’t bother answering. Pants off. Socks. The air felt cooler on his skin, but not enough. He could still feel the club on him like a second layer of grime.

He grabbed the towel from the back of the chair and his toiletry bag and headed for the bathroom.

“Ernesto,” Rafaela said, softer now. “Es tarde. La doctora-”

He shut the door before she could finish the sentence. The latch cut her voice off mid-syllable.

The bathroom light was too bright after the dark room. It flicked on with a reluctant buzz, revealing cracked tiles and a mirror that hadn’t seen a proper cleaning in a while.

He didn’t look at his reflection. He already knew what it would show: red-rimmed eyes, jaw clenched, marks on his biceps that weren’t from combat.

He tossed the towel over the rack, turned the shower handle all the way to hot, and waited.

A weak stream of water dribbled from the showerhead, coughing to life. He held his hand under it.

Cold.

“Claro,” he muttered. “Rafaela se llevó el Caribe.”

◊Of course. Rafaela took the Caribbean.◊

He stepped under anyway.

The shock of cold made his lungs seize for a second, then open on a hissed breath. He leaned his forehead against the tile, hands braced on either side, and let the water run over him in a thin, relentless line.

It wasn’t enough to drown anything. Just enough to make him feel every inch of skin he wanted to crawl out of.

He focused on practical things first. Soap. Scrub. Rinse.

Wash off the sweat. The smoke. The smell of someone else’s gloss. Scrub until his skin felt raw and new, like if he went hard enough, he could get down to whatever person the Doctor thought he was when she looked at him with that quiet, infuriating belief.

Two months ago, he’d believed in that version a little too much himself.

The memory rose without his permission, the way some bruises ache when you press them.

-----

The Rhodes Island communal bar wasn’t much to look at, just a counter, some stools, a karaoke machine someone abused on weekends, and a handful of mismatched couches that had seen better wars. But it was theirs.

No basement stairs. No red lights. No transactional edge humming under every interaction.

Just operators, medics, engineers, sitting in loose circles at the end of long shifts, trading stories, complaining about rations, daring each other into bad song choices.

He’d been there half an hour already, nursing a drink that qualified as alcohol mostly by technicality, when she came in.

The Doctor didn’t haunt the bar much. Too much work. Too many late-night charts. When she did show up, it was usually for a meeting, quick, efficient, in-and-out.

That night, she walked in without a clipboard.

She looked… lighter. Still tired, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her without some level of fatigue in the set of her shoulders, but different. A little looser at the edges.

She scanned the room, spotted him, and changed course.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked, gesturing to the stool beside his.

He blinked. “Depends,” he said. “Are you here to audit my drinking habits or to join them?”

Her mouth curved. “Kal’tsit banned me from my office for the night,” she said. “I needed somewhere else to sit and think. I thought sitting and not thinking for an hour might be… novel.”

“Doc, are you about to do something reckless, like relax?” he asked. “I’m not sure the ship’s systems are prepared for that.”

She laughed, the sound loosening something in his chest. “We’ll see if it survives,” she said, and slid onto the stool.

He watched her as she ordered, nothing dramatic, just a mixed drink with more juice than liquor, the kind of thing people chose when they wanted the idea of letting go more than the reality.

She took a sip, made a face at the sweetness, then drank again anyway.

“How was your day?” he asked.

She stared at her glass for a moment, as if counting the hours. “Long,” she said. “But normal. Normal for us, anyway.”

“Containment breaches, three simultaneous crises, a dozen people trying to die in inventive ways?” he guessed. “So, Tuesday.”

“Something like that,” she said, smiling into her drink.

They talked.

Nothing earth-shattering. Missions. Gossip. The new operators who’d come aboard with more bravado than experience. The way Midnight kept trying to start a band and how terrible that would inevitably be.

The more she drank, the more the sharp edges of her professionalism softened, but not in a sloppy way. She didn’t slur. She didn’t lean. She just… loosened.

Her hands moved more when she spoke. Her laugh came easier, curling up at the end of his dumber jokes. She let a few small confessions slip, how she hated paperwork more than any battlefield, how she still got nervous before big diplomatic meetings, how she sometimes wished she could just be the anonymous strategist in the back of the tent instead of the one everyone looked at when things went wrong.

He listened, holding his own glass between his hands, letting the buzz slide around the edges of his awareness without taking over.

There, in the low light of a safe bar, she felt both closer and further away than ever.

Closer, because this was more of her than most people got to see. Less Doctor, more woman. The way her nose scrunched when she tried a sip of his drink and decided it was disgusting. The way she tipped her head back when she laughed, throat exposed, without seeming to realize how trusting that was.

Further, because every detail he noticed underlined the gap between them.

She belonged here. Not because she fit in with the karaoke and the card games, but because this was a place built around people trying, however messily, to do better than the world they came from.

He… was here on parole, essentially. An expensive dog on a nice leash, allowed on the furniture if he didn’t bite.

She had chosen this life. He’d been shoved into it, then realized the alternative was worse and decided to pretend it had been a choice all along.

At some point, the conversation drifted to the future. It always did with her, in one way or another.

“We’ve had five requests this month from cities we’ve never worked with before,” she said, spinning the straw in her empty glass. “Places that used to pretend we didn’t exist. Or act like we were meddling.”

“That what got Kal’tsit to kick you out of your office?” he asked. “Too many invitations, not enough staff?”

She huffed a little. “Something like that,” she said. “She reminded me that I can’t teleport, and that delegation is not a dirty word. I disagreed.”

He smirked. “Of course you did.”

She glanced at him, eyes bright. “What about you?” she asked. “If you could… leave. Go anywhere. No contracts, no obligations. Where would you go?”

His first thought was away. Just… away. Second thought was back, which was worse.

Third thought surprised him: he pictured her, and wherever she was. Not a place. A person.

He took a sip instead of answering right away.

“Big question,” he said. “Cheap liquor. Dangerous combo.”

“I trust your judgment,” she said.

“That is a terrible policy,” he said automatically.

She smiled. “Answer anyway.”

He looked at her.

The ship’s light caught on her hair, a few strands escaping whatever clip she’d used to pin it back. Bare lips tonight, no gloss. Her cheeks were a little flushed from the alcohol. Her eyes were softer, pupils wide in the dim bar.

She was… lovely. In a way that had nothing to do with the way some of the operators occasionally described her when they thought he couldn’t hear. It wasn’t about her face, or her body, or any of the things people liked to quantify.

It was about the way she leaned in when he spoke, the way she’d set aside an hour of a life that never had enough hours to sit with him in a room full of other options.

That was the moment he realized two things, sharp and unwelcome.

One: he wanted her. Not just the gentle fondness he’d been filing away under gratitude and admiration. Something greedier. Messier. The kind of wanting that made your hands itch and your brain spiral.

Two: he had no honest way to get her.

Not as he was.

She was… unreachable. On a different rung of the ladder. Not because of rank or intelligence, but because of the choices she’d made and stuck to, the lines she’d drawn in herself and refused to cross.

He was a man whose instincts, in moments of stress, still pulled toward violence and self-destruction. A man whose idea of dealing with a bad night was to find the nearest basement club and ask for a new girl with hair like hers.

The only way he could see them ever standing on truly even ground was if he managed to drag her down a few levels.

It was a poisonous thought. He recognized that even as it formed. But it came anyway.

If she broke a little, if the world cracked her faith, if she started making the same stupid, ugly choices he did… then maybe he’d have a chance that didn’t feel like theft.

Maybe if she hurt herself, too, he wouldn’t feel so wrong wanting her.

He’d pushed the thought down that night, buried it under another joke.

“I’d go wherever pays best for a washed-up ex-terrorist with a decent sword arm and terrible coping mechanisms,” he’d said, lifting his glass in a mock toast.

She’d rolled her eyes. “You’re not washed up,” she’d said. “And your coping mechanisms are… adaptable.”

“Is that a clinical term?” he’d asked.

“Yes,” she’d said, deadpan. “We teach it in med school.”

They’d laughed. The dangerous thought had slunk back to its corner, for a while.

Now, under a cold spray in a Dossoles inn bathroom, it slunk out again, dripping and ugly.

He pressed his forehead harder against the tile.

“You’re sick,” he told himself quietly, the water carrying the words away almost before they left his mouth. “Malo, malo, malo.”

◊Bad, bad, bad.◊

Wanting her was one thing. Anyone with eyes and a pulse could be forgiven for that. Wanting her broken so he didn’t feel alone, that was another.

He stayed under the water until his fingers wrinkled and the chill sank into his bones. Until his teeth almost started to chatter.

When he stepped out, the mirror threw his reflection at him anyway. He looked.

He didn’t see the wild dog from the club. He didn’t see Rhodes Island’s helpful operator, either.

He saw both, layered imperfectly. A man with a leash around his throat and the bite marks from his own teeth underneath.

He toweled off, pulled on the cleanest shirt he had left, and opened the bathroom door.

The room was still dim. Rafaela had turned onto her other side, facing the wall now. He couldn’t tell if she was really asleep or doing a convincing imitation for his benefit.

“Buenas noches,” he said quietly, because it was easier than leaving silence.

She didn’t answer. Her breathing stayed slow and even.

He lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling again. The fan clicked. The city muttered through the glass.

Two months ago, on the landship, she’d laughed with him over cheap drinks and told him she trusted his judgment, like that wasn’t a dangerous thing to say.

Tomorrow, or later today, depending on how you counted, she’d look at his face, note the shadows under his eyes, and worry.

And he’d wag his tail. Make a joke. Pretend he hadn’t spent the night trying to sand off the part of himself that wanted to drag her down just to feel less alone.

Sleep didn’t come quickly. When it did, it was shallow, crowded with echoes of the bar, the clinic, the club, and the feel of cold tile against his forehead as he tried to wash himself clean of things that didn’t come off with water.

Chapter Text

One good thing: his piss didn’t burn.

He took the first leak of the morning with more anxiety than he’d ever admit out loud, watching the bowl like it might glow. Nothing. No sting, no weird color. Just normal, boring bodily functions.

“Milagro,” he muttered, zipping up. ◊Miracle.◊

If he was extra lucky, it meant he hadn’t caught anything. Rhodes Island ran regular screenings, yeah, but that didn’t mean he wanted to give the Doctor another reason to look at him with that particular mix of worry and clinical disappointment.

When he came out of the bathroom, Rafaela’s bed was empty. The blanket was halfway folded, weapon gone from its place by the wall.

She’d left a scrap of paper on the table, her handwriting cramped and neat.

Voy a ver los murales que dijo el enlace.
No hagas tonterías.
◊I’m going to see the murals the liaison mentioned. Don’t do anything stupid.◊

He snorted and crumpled it in his fist.

“Demasiado tarde,” he told the empty room. ◊Too late.◊

He dressed mechanically, clean shirt, vest, boots. The air outside the window looked already hot, the kind of brightness that made the city’s edges blur.

He should have gone back to sleep. Should have stayed in the inn, pulled the pillow over his head, let consciousness take a break.

Instead, he headed for the door.

A good dog goes back to the clinic.

Not to help. That was the story he’d sell himself, but they both knew better. He was going back to see her. To check how much damage the night had done. To make sure the city hadn’t taken a bite while he wasn’t looking.

-----

The walk there gifted him one small puzzle to tuck away for later.

He noticed the first armband a few blocks from the inn. Red, wrapped around the upper arm of a man leaning in a doorway, smoke curling from his cigarette. The band itself was plain, no emblem, no slogan, just color.

The second was yellow, on a woman helping unload crates from a truck. She moved like someone used to being ignored until she chose not to be.

The third was blue, on a kid barely old enough to shave, posted at the corner with a clipboard he clearly resented. His eyes flicked over people like he was ticking invisible boxes.

Red. Yellow. Blue.

Three colors. No obvious pattern in who wore them. Not uniforms, exactly. Not random, either. The bands were too clean, too deliberate.

Ernesto filed it away in the mental cabinet labeled Ask the Doctor when she’s not two seconds from collapsing. She liked puzzles. Politics, too. Maybe between the two of them they could decode whatever new game Dossoles had started playing.

The clinic looked different in daylight.

Yesterday, the morning had felt like a choke point, bodies everywhere, air thick with frustration and fear. Today, as he pushed the door open, the waiting room… wasn’t.

Empty chairs. Abandoned magazines. The ugly plastic plant in the corner stood alone, no longer in danger of being knocked over by a desperate elbow.

It felt like walking into a place after a storm. Not peaceful, exactly. Just… cleared.

He heard people before he saw them. Nurses moving down the hallways, footsteps less frantic. Voices lower, no sharp edges. Somewhere, a cough. Somewhere else, laughter, tired, but real.

He snagged the first nurse he recognized from the night before, a woman with her hair scraped back and a pen stuck behind her ear.

“Disculpe,” he said. “¿Y la doctora? La nuestra. La de Rhodes Island.”

◊Excuse me. The Doctor, ours, the Rhodes Island one.◊

The nurse’s face lit, the lines of exhaustion rearranging into something like awe.

“¡Ah, la doctora!” she said. “Se quedó hasta las tantas. No la dejaron descansar nada. Nos ayudó con los casos más jodidos, organizó los turnos, nos enseñó cómo usar las cosas nuevas que trajeron-”

◊Ah, the Doctor! She stayed until so late. They didn’t let her rest at all. She helped with the worst cases, organized shifts, taught us how to use the new things you brought-◊

He nodded, impatient. “Sí, sí,” he said. “Muy impresionante. ¿Dónde está?”

◊Yeah, yeah. Very impressive. Where is she?◊

The nurse blinked at his interruption, then laughed. “En algún rincón, espero que durmiendo por fin,” she said. “La última vez que la vi estaba revisando las máquinas de los del cuarto tres. Casi se cae.”

◊In some corner, hopefully asleep at last. Last I saw, she was checking the monitors in room three. She almost fell over.◊

Another staffer chimed in as he passed, a young orderly with ink stains on his fingers.

“Esa doctora es otra cosa,” he said reverently. “No dejó que mandaran a nadie a casa sin seguro. Peleó con el jefe de área hasta que consiguió camas.”

◊That doctor is something else. She didn’t let them send anyone home without coverage. Fought the area chief until she got beds.◊

“Es una santa,” added someone else from behind the front desk. ◊A saint.◊

Ernesto let the praise wash over him, a steady stream of words he didn’t bother catching. It wasn’t that he disagreed. She had done all of that and more; he’d watched.

He just didn’t care about the commentary.

He cared where she was now.

Another nurse pointed toward the back corridor. “Si no está en las salas, debe estar en la sala de descanso,” she suggested. “O buscando café.”

◊If she’s not in the wards, she’s in the break room. Or looking for coffee.◊

Coffee. That sounded like her.

He followed the vague directions, weaving through hallways that felt one notch less suffocating than they had yesterday. Doors were closed, but behind them he heard beeping machines, low murmurs, the soft clink of equipment. Monitored patients, not abandoned ones.

He checked the staff room first. Empty, aside from a half-empty pot of something brown in the coffee machine and a couch that had seen better stuffing.

No Doctor.

He doubled back toward the vending machines. In every hospital, every clinic, there was some version of that spot, the liminal space where staff hovered between tasks, feeding sugar and caffeine into themselves like coins into a slot.

He found her there.

Not standing. Not pacing. Not writing.

Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees bent. A disposable coffee cup tilted loosely in one hand, gone cold if it had ever been hot.

Her head lolled slightly to the side, chin tipped toward her chest, eyes closed. Her hair had escaped whatever band she’d used, falling around her face. Her mouth was soft, parted just enough to let slow, steady breaths through.

She’d fallen asleep right there. Probably on the way somewhere sensible. Probably thinking she’d sit for just a second while the coffee cooled.

He stopped.

For a few seconds, he just… looked.

In sleep, she seemed smaller. Not fragile, he knew too much about how strong she was, how stubborn, but human in a way that cut through all the titles. No coat. No clipboard. Just a woman who’d emptied herself out for a building full of strangers and passed out in front of a vending machine.

The fluorescent lights made her skin look washed out. There were faint bruises under her eyes where sleeplessness had pressed its thumbs.

He felt his chest twist.

He wanted her. That much was undeniable. Not in the abstract way of last night’s club fantasies, all hair and gloss and anonymous moaning. This was uglier, somehow. Wanting her like this. Soft. Unguarded. Trusting the world enough to sleep in a corridor in Dossoles.

He also wanted to shake her.

“What are you doing?” he wanted to demand. “Falling asleep where anyone can walk by? In this city? You’re practically begging to be a cautionary tale.”

He did neither of those things.

He just stood there, jaw tight, and let the two wants fight it out under his ribs.

After a moment, he crouched down beside her.

Up close, he could see the fine lines the years had carved around her mouth. The way her lashes left faint shadows on her cheeks. A smear of ink near her thumb from some chart she’d marked up hours ago.

Her lips were bare. No gloss. Just the natural color, faintly chapped.

“Doc,” he said quietly.

No response. Her head tipped a little further to the side.

He touched her shoulder, fingers light at first. The fabric of her shirt was warm under his hand.

“Hey,” he tried again. “Dormilona. Wake up.”

Heavy lashes fluttered. Her eyes opened halfway, unfocused at first, then dragging him into view.

“Ernesto?” she murmured. Her voice was wrecked with sleep and overuse, lower than usual. “What time…?”

“Too late for you to be conscious,” he said. “Come on. You’ll get a crick in your neck like that.”

She blinked slowly, processing. Her hand tightened on the coffee cup as if realizing she was still holding it. The liquid inside had a thin film on top.

“I was just… waiting for it to cool,” she said.

“Mission accomplished,” he said. “It’s now the same temperature as your bedside manner.”

Her mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. “That bad?”

“Worse,” he said. “Up.”

He offered her his hand. She stared at it a second, then let him pull her up. She swayed once, knees threatening mutiny. He stepped in without thinking, arm going around her waist, steadying.

Her hand landed on his shoulder. She blinked up at him, pupils still slow.

“You’re here early,” she said. “Did you sleep?”

There it was.

Barely on her feet, brain half-booted, and she was still scanning him. Her eyes moved over his face, noting the shadows, the faint redness at the corners of his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. Mapping the signs of his own sleeplessness with the same attention she’d given the monitors all night.

The tension from yesterday, the argument in the hall, the way she’d stepped out from under his arm, was nowhere to be seen. Maybe exhaustion had burned it away. Maybe she just didn’t keep grudges. Maybe she didn’t have the energy to divide people into good right now and bad right now.

He hated that.

He put his mask on anyway. It slid into place with practiced ease.

“I got my beauty rest,” he said. “Can’t you tell? I’m radiant.”

She huffed. “You look like you lost a fight with a coffee machine.”

“Coffee machine’s in worse shape,” he said. “Trust me.”

Her gaze lingered a beat longer, like she didn’t entirely buy the joke but didn’t have the strength to interrogate it. She swayed again, and his grip tightened.

“Staff room,” he said. “Now. Before you decide to be noble at another vending machine.”

“I need to check on room three,” she protested, reflex more than thought. “And four. And-”

“You need horizontal,” he said flatly. “You hired me for local expertise. Local expert opinion says: if you keep walking around like this, this city will roll you up and smoke you like a cheap cigar.”

“Very vivid,” she muttered.

“Been told I have a way with words,” he said. “Come on.”

He half-led, half-herded her down the corridor. Her steps were sluggish at first, then found a rhythm, guided more by his momentum than her own intent.

“Any changes overnight?” he asked as they walked, because it was easier than letting silence sit between them.

“Vitals stabilized in the red-tagged patients,” she said, words automatic. “We had one close call around three, but the staff handled it. I just… supervised.”

He glanced at her. “You call what you did ‘supervising.’ Everyone else is using words like ‘miracle worker.’”

She made a face. “I hate that word,” she said. “It makes it sound like the work is magic and not grind.”

“Welcome to PR,” he said. “Nobody wants to hear about grind. They want a saint to point to when their conscience acts up.”

“I’m not a saint,” she said.

“Could’ve fooled the nurses,” he said. “They’re one hymn away from building you a shrine.”

Her mouth quirked. “Then I’ll use the shrine to store supplies,” she said. “At least that way it will be useful.”

“Blasphemy,” he said. “I approve.”

They reached the staff room. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, guided her inside.

The room wasn’t much, couch, a couple of chairs, a table cluttered with old mugs and newer charts. The air smelled faintly of instant noodles and exhaustion.

“Lie down,” he said.

She hesitated, looking at the couch like it was some inappropriate luxury. “Just for a few minutes,” she bargained. “I need to be up before the morning rush.”

“There is no morning rush,” he said. “You killed it. Waiting room’s empty. Everyone’s tucked into beds. You did your job. Let the city carry its own weight for an hour.”

She opened her mouth to argue. A yawn ambushed her instead. She covered it with the back of her hand, eyes watering.

He put a hand on her shoulder and applied gentle pressure. “Down, Doc,” he said. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor,” she murmured, but she let herself fold. Sat on the couch, then eased down onto her side, feet still on the floor.

He crouched, took her ankles lightly, and lifted them up onto the cushions. She didn’t protest, just blinked slow.

He grabbed a thin blanket from the back of the chair, God bless nurses who left things where exhausted people could find them, and draped it over her legs.

She watched him through half-lidded eyes. “You’re being very attentive,” she said. “Are you trying to distract me from the fact that you didn’t answer my question?”

“Which one?” he asked, straightening.

“Whether you slept,” she said.

He flashed her his best lopsided grin. “Sure I did,” he lied easily. “Like a baby. Screamed once, then passed out.”

“That’s not reassuring,” she said.

“Wasn’t meant to be,” he replied. “Go to sleep, Doc. I’ll stand guard.”

“You don’t have to,” she murmured, already halfway gone.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

Her eyes slid closed. Her breathing evened out faster than he’d expected, like her body had just been waiting for permission to shut down.

He stood there for a long moment, watching her.

The blanket barely covered her properly. Her hand had fallen against her chest, fingers curled like she’d been holding onto something and forgotten to keep the grip. A strand of hair lay across her cheek.

She looked… breakable.

Not in the stupid, romantic way. Just in the very real, very biological way that all humans were. Soft tissue. Thin skin. Bones that didn’t always set right when they broke.

Here she was, in a city that had chewed up harder people and spat them out, sleeping on a couch in a room with a door that didn’t even lock properly.

He felt a surge of something hot and acid in his throat.

Desire. Protectiveness. Frustration. Self-hatred. They tangled into a knot he couldn’t pick apart.

He should have been soothed by this. She hadn’t kept their argument, hadn’t iced him out. She cared enough to ask if he’d slept, even half-conscious. She trusted him enough to let him walk her to a couch and tuck a blanket over her without flinching.

Instead, all he could think was: There it is again. No leash tug. No smack on the nose. No, ‘What you did was wrong, don’t do it again.’

Last night, he’d gone out and rolled himself in everything she’d hate if she knew. He’d pushed at her, cornered her against a wall with words edged just enough to cut, then stormed off like a sulky teenager when she refused to break the way he wanted.

And today?

Today she’d let him guide her down a corridor, worry over his sleep, and drift off under a blanket he’d put on her.

No consequences. No punishments. No treats, either. Just… more of the same stubborn kindness.

“What the fuck am I supposed to learn from that,” he whispered, staring at her sleeping face. “How to correct myself? With what? This brain?”

His poisonous mind. His rotten little pattern recognition engine, tuned to see every kindness as weakness and every weakness as an opportunity to hurt.

A dog learns with tugged leashes and treats. Do this, good. Do that, bad. Simple. Clear.

She kept handing him the leash and then not pulling it when he misbehaved.

It made him want to bite it more.

He realized his hands had curled into fists at his sides. He unclenched them carefully.

“Idiota,” he muttered, to her, to himself, to the entire room. “Los dos.”

◊Idiots. Both of you.◊

He dragged a chair closer to the couch and sat, just long enough to convince himself she wasn’t about to roll off the edge or be interrupted by some well-meaning staffer demanding another miracle.

She didn’t move. The building breathed around them.

After a while, he stood.

He spared her one last look. Admiration. Desire. Disgust, aimed squarely at himself.

And under all of it, a twist of disappointment so deep it surprised him.

He’d wanted, on some level he’d never say out loud, to be scolded. To have someone tell him no with enough force that he couldn’t shrug it off. To be forced to reckon with himself in a way that didn’t depend on his own half-broken compass.

She wasn’t going to do it. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Duerme,” he said softly. ◊Sleep.◊

He left the staff room, closing the door until it clicked but didn’t latch fully. If someone needed her urgently, they’d still get in.

The clinic felt warmer when he stepped back into the corridor. Nurses moved with that particular morning-after energy, tired, but buoyed by the knowledge that things were, for the moment, under control.

He could’ve stayed. Hovered. Patrolled the halls, glared at anyone who looked at the staff wrong. Played the protective hound.

Instead, he headed for the exit.

For today, he’d let Dossoles have him.

There were armbands to decode. Corners to check. Old ghosts to visit. He needed distance from the sight of her asleep on that couch, from the way his own reflection had looked in the staff room window when he’d caught a glimpse.

He stepped out into the street, squinting against the light. The city met him with its usual blend of heat and noise and thinly veiled hostility.

“Vamos a ver qué tienes para mí.” he said under his breath.

◊Let’s see what you’ve got for me.◊

He put his hands in his pockets, ears angled forward, tail low and calm, and started walking.

For today, he’d explore Dossoles alone.

Chapter Text

He left the safe streets behind on purpose.

The tourist belt stayed behind him with its bright signs and rigged games and overpriced drinks. Even the locals thinned out once he passed the last decent bus stop. Out here, you walked because you had nowhere better to be, or because you were going somewhere you’d rather not talk about.

He knew these streets. Not all of them, the city changed, patched itself in weird places, grew new scars, but enough. Places the liaison wouldn’t put on a brochure. Places Rafaela was too smart to wander alone.

The goal, he told himself, was simple: come back to the inn at the end of the day with something interesting to tell over dinner.

Something useful, ideally. Rhodes Island liked intel almost as much as it liked blood panels.

So he aimed for the kind of place where everyone eventually talked to one person, enough drunks, enough angry neighbors, enough tired workers, until that person’s opinion started to look suspiciously like “facts.”

Today, that person was a cigar shop.

The sign out front was older than he was, paint faded, one of the letters hanging at a tilt. The window was grimy enough to turn the street into a smudge. The door stuck for a second before he put his shoulder into it.

Inside, the air hit him like a fond slap.

Stale smoke. Tobacco and ash layered into the walls. A hint of cheap cologne and old sweat. The kind of smell that sank into your clothes and stayed for days.

He inhaled deep. It slid down his throat like silk lined with sand.

Three people.

Two men at a table near the back, cards fanned in their hands, cigarettes burning to nubs between their fingers. Smoke rose around them in lazy curtains. They glanced up when he entered, then went back to their game with the deliberate disinterest of people pretending not to clock the newcomer.

Behind the counter stood the shopkeeper, a man with a gut that had seen better health, hair slicked back with something shiny, eyes like polished stones. A yellow armband sat snug around his upper arm, bright against his worn shirt.

In the corner, a TV mounted precariously on a bracket played a soccer match on low volume, some local team replaying a loss or a win, hard to tell from the faded commentators’ voices.

Ernesto stepped up to the counter, letting his eyes adjust, letting the room take him in.

The shopkeeper gave him a once-over: blonde ears, tail, Rhodes Island vest, the faint shadow of last night’s bruises. His mouth tugged downward.

“Buenos días,” he said, dragging the words out. “Buscas algo… especial?”

◊Good morning. You looking for something… special?◊

“Tabaco y chisme,” Ernesto said, friendly. “Y no necesariamente en ese orden.”

◊Tobacco and gossip. Not necessarily in that order.◊

He flashed his Rhodes Island badge and ID, letting the logo catch the TV’s light.

“Rhodes Island,” he said. “Estamos de visita. Me mandaron a preguntar cómo anda la vida por aquí. Opiniones del pueblo, ya sabes.”

◊We’re visiting. They sent me to ask how life’s been around here. Opinions from the people, you know.◊

The shopkeeper grunted, not quite impressed. “Siempre mandan al que no va a entender,” he said. “Así si se arma, pueden decir que fue malentendido.”

◊They always send the one who won’t understand. That way, if shit goes down, they can say it was a misunderstanding.◊

“Estoy aquí porque sí entiendo,” Ernesto said mildly. “Crecí con esta peste. Nomás cambian los nombres de las facciones.”

◊I’m here because I do understand. I grew up with this plague. Only thing that changes is the faction names.◊

The man’s eyes narrowed, weighing that, trying to place him. Ernesto let the silence sit.

“¿Y qué quieres que te diga?” the shopkeeper asked finally. “¿Que todo está muy bien? ¿Que el consejo nos cuida? ¿Que las pandillas son cuentos de viejas?”

◊And what do you want me to say? That everything’s great? That the council takes care of us? That the gangs are old wives’ tales?◊

“Quiero que me digas lo que le dirías a alguien en esta mesa,” Ernesto said, nodding toward the card players. “Cuando se apagan las cámaras.”

◊I want you to tell me what you’d say to someone at that table. When the cameras are off.◊

One of the men at the table shifted, a slow tilt of his chair. His armband, blue, peeked out from under his rolled-up sleeve. The other’s bare arm flexed, no band, just an old tattoo of something that looked suspiciously like a past flag, the ink blurred with age.

The shopkeeper picked up a rag that had given up on being clean years ago and rubbed it over the counter in slow circles.

“¿La vida aquí?” he said. “Cara. Como siempre. Los ricos más lejos, los pobres más cerca. Las balas igual de rápido.”

◊Life here? Expensive. As always. The rich further away, the poor closer. Bullets just as fast.◊

“¿Y los Infe…” Ernesto caught himself, switched terms. “Los enfermos. Los que traen Originium encima. ¿Qué tan jodidos están?”

◊And the Infec… the sick. The ones with Originium on them. How screwed are they?◊

The shopkeeper snorted. “Depende de qué brazalete traigan,” he said, tapping his own yellow band with two fingers. “O si traen uno.”

◊Depends what armband they’re wearing. Or if they’re wearing one at all.◊

There it was.

Ernesto let his gaze drop deliberately to the yellow fabric. “He visto tres colores,” he said. “Rojo, amarillo, azul. Hoy. Ayer no los vi tanto. ¿Qué, se puso la ciudad en modo carnaval?”

◊I’ve seen three colors. Red, yellow, blue. Today. Yesterday, not as much. What, the city decide to throw a carnival?◊

“Algo así,” the shopkeeper said. “Programas nuevos. Iniciativas. Nombres bonitos.”

◊Something like that. New programs. Initiatives. Pretty names.◊

“¿Y este?” Ernesto tapped the air where the man’s armband sat. “¿Qué significa? ‘Yo apoyo a…’ ¿a quién?”

◊And that one? What’s it mean? “I support…” who?◊

The man’s eyes went flat. “Significa que no es tu problema, cuadrúpedo,” he said. “Tú traes otra tela puesta.” He flicked his chin at the Rhodes Island logo. “Ya es suficiente.”

◊Means it’s none of your business, quadruped. You’ve got different cloth on. That’s enough.◊

Ernesto smiled, showing teeth he didn’t entirely feel.

“Vamos, don,” he coaxed. “Ayúdame a no meter la pata. Tres colores en un barrio nunca son casualidad. ¿Patrullas ciudadanas? ¿Banditas? ¿Club de fans?”

◊Come on, man. Help me not screw up. Three colors in one neighborhood is never random. Citizen patrols? Little gangs? Fan club?◊

Behind him, one of the card players chuckled. “Mira qué curioso salió el muchacho,” he said. “Antes le ponía bombas a la gente, ahora hace encuestas.”

◊Look how curious the boy turned out. Used to plant bombs, now he does surveys.◊

Ernesto’s spine went cold for a second.

He turned his head, slow.

“¿Nos conocemos?” he asked.

◊Do we know each other?◊

The man with the blue armband tossed a card onto the table. “Te conocen la TV,” he said. “Nosotros veíamos los partidos. Y las noticias entre medio.” His gaze slid over Ernesto’s face, lingering. “Orejas de perro, mechón rubio, gritando sobre revolución. Difícil de olvidar.”

◊The TV knows you. We watched the games. And the news between them. Dog ears, blond tuft, yelling about revolution. Hard to forget.◊

The second man, no armband, thicker neck, heavier hands, took a drag of his cigarette, exhaled through his nose. “Pensé que te habías muerto,” he said. “Hubo apuestas.”

◊Thought you were dead. There were bets.◊

Ernesto shrugged, light. “Perdieron,” he said.

◊They lost.◊

The shopkeeper’s jaw worked. He flicked the ash off his cigar into a tray with more force than necessary.

“Te voy a dar una respuesta gratuita,” he said. “Porque al final, el aire es de todos. Los brazaletes son para ordenar. Para que sepamos quién barre, quién manda, quién obedece. Rojo, uno. Amarillo, otro. Azul, otro. Si tienes dos colores en la misma cuadra…” He shrugged. “Ya sabes.”

◊I’ll give you a free answer. Because air’s for everyone. The armbands are for order. So we know who sweeps, who commands, who obeys. Red, one. Yellow, another. Blue, another. If you’ve got two colors on the same block… you know.◊

“Territorios,” Ernesto said. “¿Oficiales?”

◊Territories. Official?◊

The shopkeeper’s smile was humorless. “¿Hay algo oficial en este basurero?” he asked. “Son acuerdos. Pactos. Cada color tiene su pedazo. Y tú estás metiendo la nariz donde hierven las sobras.”

◊Is anything official in this dump? They’re agreements. Pacts. Each color has its slice. And you’re sticking your nose where the leftovers boil.◊

The TV played a replayed goal. The crowd noise swelled, tinny and distant.

“Si son acuerdos, quiero saber quién acordó qué,” Ernesto said. “Nos mandaron a ‘ayudar’ sin decirnos quién lleva la cuenta de los muertos. Me gusta saber quién me va a disparar primero.”

◊If they’re agreements, I want to know who agreed to what. They sent us to “help” without telling us who’s keeping score of the dead. I like to know who’s going to shoot at me first.◊

The shopkeeper lit a fresh cigar from the butt of the old one. “Tu consejo de ciudad,” he said. “Tus militares. Tus empresarios. Los de siempre. Los brazaletes son la forma bonita de decir ‘no cruces esa calle si no traes permiso’.”

◊Your city council. Your military. Your businessmen. The usual. The armbands are the pretty way to say “don’t cross that street if you don’t have permission.”◊

“¿Y si la cruzo?” Ernesto asked.

◊And if I do?◊

The man finally looked him dead in the eye.

“Pues depende,” he said. “De qué tan rápido corras. Y de quién esté viendo.”

◊Depends. On how fast you run. And who’s watching.◊

It wasn’t nothing. It was also not enough.

Ernesto rolled his shoulders, considering how far to push.

He could leave it there. Take the hint. File away: armbands = territory, color-coded control, city’s latest attempt at managing chaos by labeling it.

He could go back to the inn with that, present it to the Doctor like a dog dropping a stick at her feet. Look what I found. Good boy, right?

Or-

He glanced again at the yellow band, at the blue, at the bare arm.

“Entonces si yo, con este logo-” he tapped the Rhodes Island insignia “-hablo con, digamos, un rojo, ¿eso es problema tuyo?”

◊So if I, with this logo, talk to, say, a red, is that your problem?◊

The shopkeeper’s lips tightened. “Mi problema,” he said slowly, “es cuando los extranjeros vienen a hacer preguntas que no van a entender y luego se van. Y los que nos quedamos aquí-” he tapped his own chest “-tenemos que pagar por las respuestas.”

◊My problem is when foreigners come asking questions they won’t understand and then leave. And those of us who stay here- we’re the ones who pay for the answers.◊

“Yo me quedé una vez,” Ernesto said, something sharp under the words. “No salió bien. Por eso pregunto.”

◊I stayed once. It went badly. That’s why I ask.◊

“Ay, miren,” said the blue armband man behind him, voice losing its lazy amusement. “El héroe arrepentido. Ahora sí le preocupa el barrio.”

◊Oh, look. The remorseful hero. Now he cares about the neighborhood.◊

Ernesto half-turned. “Me preocupa que la doctora acabe en la calle equivocada y alguien con un color distinto decida que es moneda de cambio,” he said. “Eso es todo.”

◊I care that the Doctor ends up on the wrong street and someone with a different color decides she’s currency. That’s all.◊

“That doctora,” the bare-armed man said, his voice flattening the title, “ya hizo suficiente ruido anoche. No necesita perro guardián. Y tú no necesitas saber de brazaletes. No es tu juego.”

◊That doctor already made enough noise last night. She doesn’t need a guard dog. And you don’t need to know about armbands. It’s not your game.◊

Ernesto felt the tension in the room shift.

The TV’s commentary rattled on, oblivious. One of the card players stubbed out his cigarette. The other laid his cards down, face down.

The shopkeeper took a slow draw of his cigar, then exhaled, smoke drifting toward the ceiling.

“Te voy a ser sincero, muchacho,” he said. “Tu nariz está metida en el culo equivocado. Y en esta ciudad, eso termina mal.”

◊I’ll be honest with you, boy. Your nose is up the wrong ass. And in this city, that ends badly.◊

Ernesto chuckled, low. “No sería la primera vez,” he said. “Pero ya que estamos, explícame-”

◊Wouldn’t be the first time. But since we’re here, explain-◊

He didn’t feel the first guy stand up so much as sense the space shift. The scrape of chair legs. The subtle drop in temperature when people decide a conversation is over and something else is about to start.

He turned.

The left hook came out of nowhere, fast and mean. Fist, not open hand. It caught him square on the jaw.

Stars burst behind his eyes. His head snapped sideways. The world tilted.

He staggered back into the counter, shoulder slamming the wood. The shop’s cigars shivered in their boxes.

For a heartbeat, everything went very clear.

He tasted blood, metallic and hot, in the corner of his mouth. His ears rang. The dog in him wanted to bare its teeth.

“You cabrón,” he said, voice thickening.

◊You asshole.◊

The man with the blue armband rolled his wrist, knuckles reddened. “Te lo advertimos,” he said. “Hora de irte.”

◊We warned you. Time to go.◊

The second man, no band, thicker shoulders, stood now too, chair pushed back. He was already moving, not toward the door, but toward Ernesto, cutting off the usual exit route.

No time to reach for his sword.

He felt the comforting weight of the weapon at his hip, the familiar path his hand wanted to take. But the room was small, cramped. Drawing a blade in here meant escalation that even he knew was stupid: three against one, close quarters, nowhere to swing, too much to nick that wasn’t supposed to bleed.

Besides, pulling steel for the first punch in a cigar shop was a good way to turn “local tension” into “Rhodes Island incident.”

So he did it the old way.

He pushed off the counter and drove his shoulder into the blue-band man’s chest, knocking him back into the table. Cards scattered. An ashtray tipped, sending embers skittering.

The bare-armed guy moved in, fast for his size, grabbing for Ernesto’s vest. Ernesto twisted, brought his elbow up and back, felt the satisfying thunk of bone meeting ribs.

The shopkeeper shouted something about the merchandise. The TV blared a commentator yelling “¡GOOOOOL!” at the worst possible soundtrack moment.

The blue-band man recovered faster than Ernesto liked. He grabbed a bottle from the table, cheap liquor, half-full, and swung.

Ernesto ducked, mostly. The bottle connected with his shoulder instead of his head, shattering. Liquid and glass sprayed.

Pain flared white-hot down his arm. He hissed, blinked through the sting.

“¡Fuera!” the shopkeeper barked, voice gone hard. “Saquen a ese perro de aquí. No quiero muertos en mi piso.”

◊Out! Get that dog out of here. I don’t want corpses on my floor.◊

Dog. Always dog.

The bare-armed man lunged again, this time low, trying to drive Ernesto toward the door. Ernesto planted his feet, shifted his weight, let the momentum carry them both sideways instead. They crashed into a rack of cheap lighters and cigar cutters. Plastic and metal clattered.

Blue Armband came in from the other side. Ernesto’s focus splintered. He got one fist up, blocked another shot toward his jaw, but a punch to his gut slipped past his guard. Air whooshed out of him.

He doubled over, saw the floor rushing up. Boots. Cigarette ash. A card with a queen of hearts, face up.

For a second, the old pattern begged him to show up. The mean, ruthless part. The Ernesto who’d learned to turn bar fights into statements, who’d break a man’s fingers and use him as a message. He could feel the calculation spool up: where the nearest hard edge was, which throat to drive into it, how much force to break bone vs. just bruise it.

He shoved it down.

Not because he’d grown a conscience overnight. Because he saw the chain reaction: three injured men in a small shop tied to whichever color ran this block, Rhodes Island’s name in the retelling, maybe the Doctor’s, too.

He took another hit instead. This one clipped his temple, sending a wash of static across his vision.

He swung back. His fist connected with somebody’s jaw, he didn’t bother identifying whose. A grunt of pain. The satisfying feel of impact.

“¡Ya, ya!” the shopkeeper snapped. “No me lo maten, carajo. Sáquenlo y ya.”

◊Enough! Don’t kill him, for fuck’s sake. Just throw him out.◊

Something like agreement passed between the two men. Hands grabbed his vest, his arm. He yanked, but his balance was off. The door loomed.

They drove him into it hard enough to make it swing open. Sunlight stabbed his eyes. Street noise rushed in.

One more punch for the road, right to the ribs this time. A parting gift.

Then they shoved.

His boots skidded on the threshold. Then he was out, stumbling onto the sidewalk. The door banged shut behind him. The lock clicked.

He caught himself on the wall, one hand splayed flat against hot concrete. His jaw throbbed, his shoulder screamed, his ribs ached like something had rattled loose.

He spat. A pink streak hit the street, bright against the dust.

Behind the grimy glass, he could see shapes moving. Someone righted the table. The TV kept playing the match, uncaring.

He laughed once, short and breathless.

“Algo para la cena,” he muttered, touching his swelling jaw with ginger fingers. “Misión cumplida.”

◊Something for dinner. Mission accomplished.◊

He straightened slowly, rolling his sore shoulder, testing his ribs with cautious fingers. Nothing broken. Not badly, anyway.

He glanced down the street. A man with a red armband stood at the far corner, pretending not to watch. A woman with a yellow band walked past on the opposite side, eyes flicking from his face to the cigar shop, filing the information somewhere he didn’t want to think about.

Armbands. Colors. Territory.

He’d stuck his nose where three different asses overlapped. They’d slapped it.

Fine.

He could work with that.

He took a breath, let it out slow. The pain settled into a dull throb, the kind he could tuck away under jokes and flirty comments by the time he made it back to the inn.

The Doctor would see the bruises anyway. She always did.

She’d worry, probably. Ask what happened. Maybe scold him gently about picking fights with locals.

He wasn’t sure which would make him angrier: if she did… or if she didn’t.

He squared his shoulders, ears tilting forward, tail giving one stiff flick.

Then he started walking, deeper into Dossoles, tasting blood and smoke and the faint, bitter satisfaction of having been reminded, in no uncertain terms, exactly whose city this still was.

Chapter Text

By the time he was halfway back to the inn, everything hurt.

His jaw pulsed in time with his heartbeat. His ribs complained with every breath. His shoulder felt like someone had taken a bat to it and then thoughtfully gone back for another swing.

He’d had worse. That didn’t make this any less annoying.

The streets blurred into each other, graffiti, peeling paint, laundry lines. People with armbands who looked once and then looked away. The sun had crawled higher, turning everything into a bright, hazy ache.

He turned the corner toward the inn and saw Rafaela coming from the other direction, and the first thing out of his mouth was a quiet, heartfelt:

“Puta madre.”

She spotted him instantly. Her eyes went wide.

“¡Ernesto!” she gasped, closing the distance at a run. “¿Qué te pasó?”

◊What happened to you?◊

He tried for a grin. It probably looked more like a grimace.

“Me abrazó una pared,” he said. “Con cariño.”

◊A wall hugged me. Tenderly.◊

She didn’t laugh. Her gaze skated over his face, split lip, swelling on his jaw, the faint smear of dried blood at his temple. Her hand hovered near his ribs, not quite touching.

“¿Quién?” she pressed. “¿Dónde?”

◊Who? Where?◊

He shifted, angling his body subtly away. “No empieces,” he said. “Fue una tontería. Ya pasó.”

◊Don’t start. It was stupid. It’s over.◊

Her mouth flattened. “No me vengas con eso,” she snapped. “Te dejaron la cara como tamal mal amarrado. ¿Cuál calle?”

◊Don’t give me that. They left your face like a badly wrapped tamale. Which street?◊

He shook his head. The motion sent a fresh throb through his skull.

“Si te digo, vas a ir,” he said. “Y si vas, terminas igual o peor. No.”

◊If I tell you, you’ll go. And if you go, you end up the same or worse. No.◊

“Soy grande,” she argued. “Puedo cuidar-”

◊I’m grown. I can take-◊

“Rafa,” he cut in, patience fraying. “No voy a darte el mapa para que te revienten la cabeza. Déjalo.”

◊I’m not giving you a map to go get your head kicked in. Drop it.◊

They stared at each other for a second. Her eyes were bright, not with tears, just anger and fear mixed until they were indistinguishable.

“Está bien,” she said finally, voice tight. “No me lo digas. Pero no vas a subir así solo.”

◊Fine. Don’t tell me. But you’re not going up like that alone.◊

She ducked under his arm before he could stop her, slinging it over her shoulders. She was smaller than him, but solid. He let some of his weight lean on her, because refusing would cost more energy than it proved.

“Vamos,” she said. “Uno, dos. Despacio.”

◊Come on. One, two. Slow.◊

He let her half-guide, half-drag him into the inn, up the stairs, down the corridor that smelled like old air and newer cleaning solution.

In the room, she helped him to sit on the edge of his bed, then stepped back, breathing a little harder.

“Voy por la doctora,” she said.

◊I’m going for the Doctor.◊

“No,” he said sharply.

She flinched. “Ernesto-”

“No,” he repeated, softer but no less firm. “No es nada. Me lavo la cara, me pongo hielo, y ya. No le avises.”

◊It’s nothing. I’ll wash my face, put some ice, done. Don’t tell her.◊

Rafaela crossed her arms. Her chin lifted.

“Te odia la mitad de esta ciudad,” she said. “La otra mitad quiere usarte. La única persona que parece estar de tu lado y no quieres que sepa que te partieron la trompa.” She shook her head. “No seas imbécil.”

◊Half this city hates you. The other half wants to use you. The only person who seems to be on your side and you don’t want her to know you got your face rearranged. Don’t be an idiot.◊

She stared at him one second more. Then she turned on her heel and headed for the door.

“Rafa,” he warned.

“Cállate,” she shot back, without heat this time. “No tardo.”

◊Shut up. I’ll be right back.◊

The door closed behind her.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. For a moment, he considered bolting, to the bathroom, to the balcony, anywhere that wasn’t the bed where she’d inevitably tell the Doctor to come find him.

His body vetoed the idea. His ribs said sit your ass down.

He sighed, kicked off his boots, and shuffled to the tiny bathroom.

The mirror was no kinder than the one last night. The burgeoning bruise along his jaw was already turning the faint muddy purple of future ugliness. There was a split at the corner of his mouth, and a swelling near his eyebrow where the bottle had grazed him.

He splashed water on his face, dabbed away dried blood, hissed when it stung. He rummaged in the small first-aid kit he kept in his bag, fishing out antiseptic wipes and butterfly bandages. He knew how to patch himself up; you didn’t grow up here without learning.

He’d just finished taping the shallow cut at his brow when there was a soft knock.

He caught his own eye in the mirror, saw the reflexive tightening of his jaw, the way his ears twitched, and schooled his features into something approximating casual.

“Adelante,” he called.

◊Come in.◊

The door opened.

She looked… wrecked.

Not in the dramatic, blood-and-dirt way. Just… tired. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot that had clearly not been her first attempt. There were shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday morning. Her coat was off, sleeves rolled up, the collar of her shirt askew like she’d thrown it back on in a hurry.

And still, she’d come running.

“Ernesto,” she said, one glance sweeping him from head to toe. “Rafaela said you were hurt.”

He shrugged, winced. “Define ‘hurt’,” he said. “The other guy probably looks worse.”

Her mouth thinned. “Sit,” she said, nodding toward the bed.

He thought about arguing on principle. The look in her eyes changed his mind.

He sat.

She crossed the room in a few steps, dropping a small medical pouch on the mattress beside him. No white coat, no formal exam space. Just her, the kit, and him.

She took his chin gently between her fingers, turning his head to better see the bruises. Her touch was light, but even that made the ache flare.

“Does this hurt?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Good,” she murmured. “That means you can still feel things.”

He snorted.

Her thumb brushed near the split in his lip. “Your jaw might be fractured,” she said. “We’ll need to get proper imaging to be sure. For now, try not to chew anything harder than soup.”

“No more cigars at breakfast,” he said. “Tragedy.”

She ignored that. “Any dizziness? Blurred vision?”

“Only when I stood up too fast,” he said. “And when that idiot’s fist came out of nowhere.”

Her gaze sharpened. “You were jumped?” she asked. “What happened?”

He shrugged, as much as his ribs allowed. “Asked the wrong questions in the wrong store,” he said. “They didn’t like my curiosity.”

Concern pinched the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He blinked. “For what?”

“That you were hurt,” she said simply. “That someone thought that was an acceptable way to end a conversation with you. I should have made it clearer to our liaison that Rhodes Island operators are not expendable.”

He stared at her.

“You’re apologizing,” he said slowly, “because I annoyed strangers in a cigar shop until they punched me.”

“I’m apologizing,” she said, “because you’re here on my mission, under my supervision, and you got injured. That matters to me.”

His jaw clenched. “You’re not responsible for every stupid choice I make,” he said. “Trust me, that’s a full-time job even for me.”

“I know I can’t control you,” she said. “I still worry. I still feel responsible. Those aren’t rational feelings, but they’re mine.”

She opened the kit, pulling out a cold pack and a small vial of something. “Tilt your head,” she instructed.

He did. She dabbed something cool and stinging on the cut near his brow, then pressed the cold pack gently against his jaw, guiding his hand to hold it there.

“I’ll talk to the people at the clinic,” she said. “See if we can quietly identify who’s responsible for this. Not to escalate, just to… set some boundaries. If they think they can take swings at Rhodes Island staff without consequence-”

He laughed, sharp. “You’re going to go talk to them?”

“If it’s appropriate, yes,” she said.

“That’s adorable,” he said. “And fucking insane.”

Her eyes flashed. “Is it?” she asked. “Ernesto, you’re here in good faith. You’re working. You’re helping. You’re not a punching bag.”

“Tell that to my face,” he said, tapping the swelling.

“I am,” she retorted.

He wanted to be angry.

At the guys in the shop. At Rafaela for fetching her. At the city for being itself. But right there, in that moment, most of that heat was aimed squarely at the woman sitting on his bed, carefully tending the mess he’d walked himself into.

She was too calm. Too gentle. Too infuriatingly forgiving.

“I’m sorry you got jumped,” she said softly. “You didn’t deserve that.”

He almost flinched.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “But thanks.”

She frowned. “I disagree,” she said. “Strongly.”

“Shocking,” he said. “Doctor thinks people don’t deserve bad things. Film at eleven.”

She huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh, might have been exasperation. “I don’t think that,” she said. “I think people do bad things to each other, and sometimes they justify it by saying the other person ‘deserved’ it. I try not to participate in that logic.”

“Even when the ‘other person’ is me,” he said.

“Especially then,” she said quietly.

He stared at her.

She wasn’t mad. Not even a little. No edge in her voice. No What were you thinking? No You’re making this harder for all of us, Salas.

Just concern. Apology. That stubborn, steady care that wrapped around him like gauze, whether he wanted it or not.

It scraped something raw inside him.

“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” he said abruptly.

She blinked. “I’m not the one who picked a fight in a cigar shop.”

“I’m not talking about that,” he said. “I’m talking about you walking around with that face-” he gestured at her expression, at the way she looked at him “-like I’m… worth this.”

She tilted her head. “You are,” she said.

He laughed, harsh. “You’re on my last nerve, Doc,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “You’re on mine, too. It doesn’t change anything.”

She shifted on the bed, closer, so she could reach the bruise on his ribs. Her fingers moved to the hem of his shirt.

“May I?” she asked.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he said, reflexively, the joke automatic.

She gave him a look that was half fond, half really?, and lifted the fabric carefully, exposing mottled skin already darkening.

Her hand was warm. The cool gel she spread on the bruise made him hiss between his teeth.

“Breathe,” she reminded.

He did. In. Out. Her hand moved in small, efficient motions, never lingering longer than necessary.

He watched her face while she worked. The focus. The way her mouth tightened when she found a particularly nasty spot. The way her brow furrowed when he flinched.

He wanted, violently, to see something else there.

Annoyance. Anger. Disgust. Anything that matched the way he felt about himself, a scowl, a sneer, a flinch of You’ve gone too far this time.

Instead, all he got was that same damn mixture: concern and a hint of guilt, like his bruises were somehow her failure.

“Stop it,” he said, before he could stop himself.

She looked up, startled. “Stop… what?”

“Looking at me like that,” he said. “Like I’m… breakable.”

“You are breakable,” she said. “You’re injured. You’re tired. You’re-”

He grabbed her wrist.

Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make her hand still on his side.

Her skin was warm under his fingers. Thinner than he remembered. He could feel her pulse, a quick, steady beat.

“Ernesto,” she said, voice dropping.

He didn’t know why he did it.

That was a lie. He knew exactly why. Because he was tired and hurting and furious and sick of her looking at him with that unshakable care. Because last night’s ghosts were still clinging to his skin. Because some rotten part of him wanted to see how far her compassion would stretch before it snapped.

He guided her hand down.

Slowly. Giving her time to pull away. To say no. To slap him. Anything.

She didn’t. Shock froze her for a heartbeat, muscles going tense. Her eyes widened. He watched the comprehension bleed into her features, that moment when she realized the kind of wound he wanted treated, and it was a heady, ugly high. It was exactly the look he had paid for a dozen times, but on her, the Doctor, it was worth more than gold.

He brought her hand to his lap.

To the heavy, ugly mix of pain and leftover adrenaline and something else he didn’t want to name. It wasn't a clean, contained hardness, but a thick, pulsating heat, half-erection, half-spasm, already pushing against the rough seams of his field trousers. It was crude, demanding, and utterly exposed. He felt the coarse fabric of his pants, soaked in places with antiseptic and dried grime, as a barrier only barely containing the mess.

Her palm rested there, fingers slack, caught between his grip and the weight of him.

He knew exactly how disgusting this was. The thought flashed: This is it, the one I jerked off to in the quiet moments, the fantasy where she finally drops the mask and acknowledges the animal I am. He could practically smell the sickly sweet memory of the whore's room lingering on his skin from the night before, and the urge to rub that filth all over her pristine hands was overwhelming. He found a strange, compelling pleasure in the squalor of his own desire.

He did it anyway.

“Take my mind off the pain,” he said, voice low, too calm. He felt his breath catch, a wet, rattling sound. “You fix the things that break, don’t you? Well, I’m broken here. Fix it.”

The word came out wrong. Not title, not joke. Plea and provocation in one.

She stared at him, stunned, color draining from her face. He watched her gaze drop to the swollen, demanding outline beneath her palm, then snap back up to his eyes, searching for a flicker of shame or apology. He gave her neither. He only twisted his lips into a smirk that felt greasy and wrong.

She didn’t snatch her hand back.

Her wrist stayed in his hold, tendons taut under his fingers. Her palm was warm against him, even through fabric, even through all the numbness he’d tried to wrap himself in since last night. He felt her fingers twitch, a minuscule movement, a horrified acknowledgement of the hot mass pressed into her.

He shifted, just enough. Rolled into that warmth. He gave a low, rough groan that had nothing to do with his bullet wound. It was pure, selfish, corrupted satisfaction. The thought was sharp and self-loathing: I knew you wouldn’t pull away. You’re a doctor. You touch the disgusting things others won’t. You're touching the most disgusting thing you've ever found in Dossoles.

Her breath hitched. Not arousal. Shock. Or perhaps, he thought with a vicious spike of triumph, it was a beginning. The first crack in her unyielding professional facade.

“Ernesto,” she said again, and this time his name sounded like a warning and a question both.

He watched her, eyes searching. Waiting for the flinch. The anger. The slap.

She didn’t give him any of those.

Instead, she did the worst possible thing.

She asked, quietly, “Are you really in pain?”

Something in him recoiled. The simple, horrifying clarity of her question gutted him worse than any slug round.

Because she meant it. She was asking if he was hurt enough that this made sense in her world. If this was, somehow, another form of treatment she could rationalize. If yes from him meant she should… help.

He realized, in a flash of horrified clarity, that if he said yes, if he lied at the right angle, she might actually try. He saw the scene unfold in his mind, sickeningly vivid. Her hand would start moving, slow and hesitant at first, through the coarse fabric. He imagined the precise heat of her skin working his cock, imagining her precise, technical gaze, treating his desperate filth like a malfunctioning piece of machinery. He imagined the way her lips would press into a thin, focused line of professional diligence, her eyes fixed on some middle distance, determined to finish the task quickly and cleanly.

He imagined his own groan, not of release, but of corrupted triumph, as he watched her good, kind hands work his fevered, filthy flesh. Just tell her it’s a nervous tic, a trauma response, a seizure, the voice in his head urged, slick and demanding. It’s an easy lie. She'll believe you. You'll finally have her hands on you, not for desire, but for disgust, which is even better...

Not because she wanted to. Not because she saw him that way. But because he was in pain, and she fixed things. That’s what she did. That’s who she was. She wouldn't be looking at him, the perro who wanted to drag her down. She would be looking at the wound. And her touch wouldn't be a moment of shared, dirty sin, but a clinical, compassionate intervention. It would be an act of profound, nauseating goodness aimed at relieving his suffering.

It hit him like a punch to the gut. The vulgar fantasy, the one he'd spent hours engineering in his head, crashed down into a pile of pathetic, soiled rags. He realized his perfect degradation required her to remain clean, making his demand an act of pure, selfish violation. He felt his face grow hot with a shame far worse than any physical pain.

He let go of her wrist as if it burned. His hand flew away, leaving a cold, sticky emptiness where her warmth had been.

He forced himself to lean back, away. To put inches and air between them.

“I’m…” He swallowed. His throat felt raw. “I’m just bone tired,” he said. “Forget it.”

Her eyes searched his face, trying to untangle the knot of need and self-loathing he’d just shoved in front of her.

“Ernesto-” she began.

He cut her off, flopping backward onto the bed, turning onto his side to face the wall. His ribs protested the movement; he ignored them.

“I want to sleep,” he said. “That’s all. You did your job. You… fixed what you could. Go rest.”

Silence stretched.

He could feel her gaze on his back, between his shoulder blades, like a weight. The room seemed to shrink around them, filled with things unsaid.

After a long moment, the mattress shifted as she stood.

Her footsteps crossed the room, soft. The medical kit zipper rasped quietly as she closed it.

She paused at the door.

“Ernesto,” she said, one last time.

He didn’t turn. “Mm?”

“You are in pain,” she said. “More than you admit. Not just from this.” A beat. “You don’t have to weaponize that against yourself. Or against me.”

The words landed somewhere he didn’t want to feel.

He stared at the wall. “Go sleep, Doc,” he said, voice flat. “You’re no good to anyone if you fall over.”

He heard her exhale. Not a sigh. Something smaller.

The door opened with a soft creak. Closed with a softer click.

He lay there, staring at the cheap paint, every muscle wound tight.

The ghost of her hand on his crotch was still there. Warmth, weight, the memory of how close he’d come to dragging her down into his mess just because he couldn’t stand to sit in it alone.

He wanted to punch something. The wall. His own face. Anything.

His hand curled into a fist, knuckles pressing into the mattress instead.

“Cobarde,” he whispered to himself. ◊Coward.◊

Not because he hadn’t gone through with it. Because he’d tried at all. Because he’d used her worry as leverage. Because part of him had genuinely thought, for one ugly second, that if she gave in, he’d feel better.

He didn’t drive his fist through the wall. If he did, she’d just come back to patch that up, too.

Instead he lay there, eyes open, body screaming for rest and mind refusing to quiet, with the echo of her question, Are you really in pain?, lodged under his skin like shrapnel.