"Afternoon, Leon.""Hey there, Catherine."
At the doorway of the tavern where they both worked, Leon bumped into Catherine, another recent hire. She greeted him warmly, her smile bright despite the grey Vancouver sky.
They had been coworkers for a few months now and had grown comfortable around each other. Catherine, with her chestnut-brown hair pulled neatly into a ponytail and a trace of a French accent in her voice, wasn't strikingly beautiful in a showy way—but she had that quiet, natural charm that drew people in.
They stepped inside together, changed into their uniforms, and began tidying up. The afternoon hours were calm, the low hum of the radio and the scent of beer and salt air filling the space. But as the sun dipped, the place began to stir to life—dockworkers, merchants, and a few men who clearly weren't there just to drink.
The tavern was a crossroads—some decent folks, others with darker ties.
Among the latter, three men swaggered in together, all loud voices and cheap cologne. Their shirts were open at the collar, tattoos creeping up their necks, a look Leon had already come to recognize. The Fraser Union had fingers everywhere, and these men fit the mold—dockside muscle, always looking for someone smaller to push around.
Catherine walked past their table with a tray of drinks when one of them, clearly drunk, grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his lap. She let out a startled gasp, the tray clattering to the floor as beer splashed across the floorboards.
The room went quiet for a moment—but no one moved to help. A few men chuckled. The owner kept his eyes down, pretending not to notice. Leon had seen that look before: fear.
He sighed quietly, set down the glass he was drying, and walked over.
"Go to the back," he said softly, taking hold of Catherine's arm and pulling her gently free.
She gave him a grateful, shaky glance and hurried away.
The drunk turned, glaring. "What's your problem, pal? You trying to play hero?"
Leon's voice stayed calm. "This is a tavern, not a circus. You want to drink, drink. You want to fight, go outside."
The man's two friends laughed mockingly. "You hear that? The waiter thinks he's tough."
"Must be one of those army types," the first sneered. "Thinks he can throw orders around."
Leon didn't respond. He just watched, quiet, controlled. But his eyes had changed—steady, cold, focused.
That look was enough to make the lead drunk hesitate. But pride, alcohol, and the presence of his friends wouldn't let him back down. He stood abruptly, swaying slightly. "You're dead, you bastard."
He swung a wild punch.
Leon stepped in, catching the man's wrist mid-air, twisted, and slammed his palm into the man's chest. The thug stumbled back, hitting the table behind him hard enough to knock it over.
The other two moved in fast. One lunged to grab him, but Leon sidestepped and drove an elbow into his ribs—once, twice—then turned and brought a solid right hook across his jaw. The man went down hard.
The third one tried to grab a bottle from the counter, but Leon was already on him. A sharp kick sent the bottle flying, then a punch to the gut folded him over. Leon followed with a knee to the face, sending him sprawling beside his friends.
For a moment, the whole tavern froze.
Three men lay on the floor groaning, blood on their lips and beer pooling around them.
Leon stood still, breathing evenly, not a trace of triumph in his eyes—only that same cold steadiness that came from surviving things far worse than barroom fights.
The tavern owner rushed over, panic in his voice. "Leon, stop! That's enough! You'll bring the Union down on us!"
Leon turned to him, jaw tight. "Then maybe it's time someone stood up to them."
Silence fell. only the radio continued to buzz.
Catherine peeked out from the kitchen doorway, eyes wide with shock and something else—relief.
Leon straightened his shirt, tossed the bar rag onto the counter, and walked toward the door. "I'll clean up the mess later," he muttered.
He stepped outside into the cold evening air. For the first time in months, the soldier in him felt awake again.
A few steps down the street, a familiar voice called.
"Leon! Wait!"
Catherine came running, cheeks flushed. She caught up to him and handed over an envelope. "Mr. Larson asked me to give you this," she said softly. "It's your wages for the week… and, well… he said he doesn't want you back at the tavern. It's better this way."
Leon opened the envelope and counted the notes—thirty dollars, his earnings from the few days he'd worked. Small, but honest. He understood. Mr. Larson wasn't mean; he simply didn't want to risk Fraser Union attention or trouble in his establishment.
"You understand why, don't you?" Catherine added, walking shoulder to shoulder with him. "If you stayed, it wouldn't be safe. Those men… they don't let things go easily."
Leon nodded slightly, tucking the money away. "I get it," he said quietly. "It's for the best."
They moved through the busy streets together. The city smelled of coal, salt, and fresh bread from a nearby bakery. People glanced at the tall, quiet pair, assuming they were a couple, though neither was thinking that way.
"What will you do now?" Catherine asked.
"I'll find another job —I won't starve," Leon replied indifferently.
Catherine frowned. "And where will you stay tonight?"
"Anywhere. Stations, shelters, docks… it doesn't matter," he said casually.
Her eyes widened. "You can't just sleep anywhere—you'll get sick!"
After a moment of hesitation, she looked down, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "You can stay with me for a few days," she offered quietly. "My place is small… eight feet by ten. You can sleep on the floor, just until you find your own place. You must leave once you have the money for rent."
Leon stopped in surprise. She was offering him shelter, voluntarily, and her cheeks were faintly pink as she avoided his gaze.
"All right," he said finally. "I'll accept. But I won't be a burden."
"You won't," she replied quickly. "And don't misunderstand—this isn't because of guilt. I'm doing it because it's the right thing."
That night, Leon lay on a thin mattress on the floor. The wood beneath was cold, but his mind was alive, replaying the events of the day. He could hear Catherine moving softly in the small apartment, the clinks and the faint hiss of the kettle. Ordinary sounds, but somehow comforting.
"Catherine?" he whispered after a while.
"Yes?" came her sleepy reply.
"You awake?"
"No, I'm asleep," she said, though a quiet smile betrayed her.
"You talk in your sleep?"
"I'm talking in my sleep!" she protested, the whisper carrying amusement.
"Then if I sleepwalk, wake me," he teased.
She snorted softly. "Try it and I will throw you out." she muttered.
Leon chuckled softly.