Brown Bear | Rafael “Rafe” De León

Rafe wakes before the light. He always does— the war trained his body long before the farm did. One shift of wind, one crack of ice against the window, and his eyes snap open. The old farmhouse is still dark, dawn barely exists this deep into December.

The ashes in the stove glow faintly. The blizzard that tore through the valley last night has left everything quiet in that uneasy way. The world outside is just white stacked on white, snow piled high enough to swallow fences whole. The radio hums low with static, storm warnings and distant Christmas hymns slipping through the fuzz.

He pushes the blankets aside and sits up with a low groan. His joints hate the cold more every winter, but he doesn’t complain— no one’s here to hear it anyway. Just the wind threading through cracks he keeps meaning to fix.

That storm was no joke.

He rubs his thumb absently over the edge of his dog tags.

Anything out in it last night... wouldn’t’ve stood much chance. Roof held up fine... thank God. The animals’ll be restless.

He pulls on wool socks, worn pants, and a flannel shirt half buttoned before he even finds the sleeves. He lights the stove, starts the pot, and stands with his hands braced on the counter, staring out the frosted window. Everything outside is buried— fence posts, trees, the road. The shed roof looks like it might cave under the weight if he doesn’t sweep it.

His big hands wrapped around a chipped enamel mug. The smell of cinnamon and coffee float through the air. He doesn’t drink yet, just holds the heat before he sighs.

“Alright...”

He mutters to himself.

“Let’s do it.”

He shrugs into his military coat, still fitted to a younger, harder version of himself— grabs his gloves, and steps out into the cold. The wind bites instantly. Snow crunches deep under his boots, heavy enough to swallow the sound of his steps.

Snow screams under every step as he pushes into the cold. Wind cuts sharp across his face. Rafe hunches deeper into his collar.

“Carajo... still blowin’ hard even in the morning. Crazy weather.”

The farm is half asleep under a thick white blanket. Even the animals are slow to stir. He checks on the hens, then the cows, then the water pump. Everything’s stiff but alive. He works in silence, breath fogging thick in the morning air.

Too damn cold for comfort

He thinks as he finishes and turns toward the shed. The door is half buried, snow drifted against it like someone shoved a pillow up its face. He frowns.

That door wasn’t like that last night.

He remembers checking it. He always checks it... He steps closer. A faint shape in the snow catches his eye. Tracks. Not animal. Not boots he recognizes. Smaller. Sharper. Someone came through here.

His pulse tightens.

“...Qué demonios.” ("...What the hell.")

Slowly, carefully, he unhooks the latch and pushes the shed door open. It doesn’t open easy. Something is blocking it— something soft. He shoulders more weight into it until there’s just enough space to see inside.

Rafe stills instantly, body locked in caution. His hand goes to the tool rack before his mind catches up. Not a gun anymore, just a heavy wrench, but he grips it like one as his eyes familiarize itself with the darkness inside.

Then he sees her.

Curled on the floor between stacked crates and his old tools, behind sacks of grain. Half frozen. Her clothes are soaked through, skin pale from cold, body trembling in small, uneven shivers. Snow dusts her hair and lashes like she walked straight out of the storm and collapsed here. Her fingers are blue at the tips. Face blotched from crying, hiding. Terrified.

And small. Too small. Too cold.

Rafe freezes in the doorway. For one full second he doesn’t move or even breathe. His mind snaps straight back to Europe— cold bodies on colder ground, people who didn’t get found in time. His heart jerks hard in his chest.

“Dios...”

The wrench lowers.

“...Señorita?”

His voice drops, low and controlled. He crouches slowly to approach, palms open.

“Hey. Don’t— don’t be scared. You’re alright.”

He breathes, voice low and hoarse. Then he’s moving.

“You’re freezin’ how did you even get here?”

He murmurs, tone gruff but soft under the gravel.

“You stay out here, you’re gonna die miss. C’mon. Up we go.”

He kneels beside her, gloved hand hovering before settling lightly against her arm. Their skin feels ice cold. Too cold. She's conscious, but barely. Her body is shaking, eyes unfocused.

I don’t want nobody relyin’ on me... but leavin’ ’em out there ain’t somethin’ I can do.

That thought lands in his gut with a weight he hates. Whoever she's running from didn’t give her any other choice.

“Easy, easy, I got you. Won't do anything you have my word.”

He slips his arms under her, lifting her up slowly. She's feels lighter than he expected, weaker too, carefully he adjusted his hold so the strange woman won’t fall off.

The wind slaps his face as he carries her out. Her head rests against his chest, breaths shallow but still coming. Snow whips around them in frantic swirls, but Rafe moves with single minded steadiness toward the house.

Inside, the warmth hits instantly. He kicks the door shut and lowers them onto the couch near the hearth. He strips off his gloves, grabs a thick quilt from the armchair, and drapes it over her shoulders with careful precision.

“There. That’s better.”

He kneels in front of her.

“Hands near the fire, but not too close. Frostbite’ll get angry.”

He stands up to walk over to the kitchen without looking back

“Don’t thank me yet, you’re half-dead and freezin’ in my shed. Lotta questions I ain’t asked. But we’ll get to that once you can breathe.”

The fire needs to be fed, so he does that next, building it up until the room glows gold. Then he moves to the kitchen, puts water on to heat, finds the kettle he rarely uses. He glances toward the couch every few seconds before he puts the bowl of soup and warm honey tea on the end table.

“You eat?”

He asks, pretending not to see, just poking at the fire, making sure it stays alive.

“Eat. Warm up. You can tell me whatever you feel like tellin’... whenever you’re ready.”

Rafe wakes before the light. He always does— the war trained his body long before the farm did. One shift of wind, one crack of ice against the window, and his eyes snap open. The old farmhouse is still dark, dawn barely exists this deep into December.

The ashes in the stove glow faintly. The blizzard that tore through the valley last night has left everything quiet in that uneasy way. The world outside is just white stacked on white, snow piled high enough to swallow fences whole. The radio hums low with static, storm warnings and distant Christmas hymns slipping through the fuzz.

He pushes the blankets aside and sits up with a low groan. His joints hate the cold more every winter, but he doesn’t complain— no one’s here to hear it anyway. Just the wind threading through cracks he keeps meaning to fix.

That storm was no joke.

He rubs his thumb absently over the edge of his dog tags.

Anything out in it last night... wouldn’t’ve stood much chance. Roof held up fine... thank God. The animals’ll be restless.

He pulls on wool socks, worn pants, and a flannel shirt half buttoned before he even finds the sleeves. He lights the stove, starts the pot, and stands with his hands braced on the counter, staring out the frosted window. Everything outside is buried— fence posts, trees, the road. The shed roof looks like it might cave under the weight if he doesn’t sweep it.

His big hands wrapped around a chipped enamel mug. The smell of cinnamon and coffee float through the air. He doesn’t drink yet, just holds the heat before he sighs.

“Alright...”

He mutters to himself.

“Let’s do it.”

He shrugs into his military coat, still fitted to a younger, harder version of himself— grabs his gloves, and steps out into the cold. The wind bites instantly. Snow crunches deep under his boots, heavy enough to swallow the sound of his steps.

Snow screams under every step as he pushes into the cold. Wind cuts sharp across his face. Rafe hunches deeper into his collar.

“Carajo... still blowin’ hard even in the morning. Crazy weather.”

The farm is half asleep under a thick white blanket. Even the animals are slow to stir. He checks on the hens, then the cows, then the water pump. Everything’s stiff but alive. He works in silence, breath fogging thick in the morning air.

Too damn cold for comfort

He thinks as he finishes and turns toward the shed. The door is half buried, snow drifted against it like someone shoved a pillow up its face. He frowns.

That door wasn’t like that last night.

He remembers checking it. He always checks it... He steps closer. A faint shape in the snow catches his eye. Tracks. Not animal. Not boots he recognizes. Definitely not his. Someone came through here.

His pulse tightens.

“...Qué demonios.” ("...What the hell.")

Slowly, carefully, he unhooks the latch and pushes the shed door open. It doesn’t open easy. Something is blocking it— something heavy. He shoulders more weight into it until there’s just enough space to see inside.

Rafe stills instantly, body locked in caution. His hand goes to the tool rack before his mind catches up. Not a gun anymore, just a heavy wrench, but he grips it like one as his eyes familiarize itself with the darkness inside.

Then he sees him.

Curled on the floor between stacked crates and his old tools, behind sacks of grain. Half frozen. His clothes are soaked through, skin pale from cold, body trembling in small, uneven shivers. Snow dusts his hair and lashes like he walked straight out of the storm and collapsed here. His hands are raw, red from the cold. His breath is shallow, barely stirring.

Rafe freezes in the doorway. For one full second he doesn’t move or even breathe. His mind snaps straight back to Europe— cold bodies on colder ground, people who didn’t get found in time. His heart jerks hard in his chest.

“Dios...”

The wrench lowers.

“Hey. Can you hear me?”

He crouches down, careful not to touch without warning.

“C’mon now, señor... stay with me. You’re freezin’ to death out here.”

Rafe lifts one hand, palm open, gentle as he can manage with fingers numb from the cold.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you. I promise you that. But you gotta come with me, you hear? You’re not gonna make it another hour in this cold.”

He kneels beside the strange man, gloved hand hovering before settling lightly against his arm. His skin feels ice cold. Too cold. He's conscious, but barely. His body is shaking, eyes unfocused.

I don’t want nobody relyin’ on me... but leavin’ ’em out there ain’t somethin’ I can do.

That thought lands in his gut with a weight he hates. Whoever they’re running from didn’t give them any other choice.

“Easy, easy, I got you. Now let’s get you inside before you turn into an icicle.”

Rafe moves slow, giving the man time to see every motion before he does it. He offers an arm. The man hesitates, flinching at some invisible memory, then finally grips Rafe’s sleeve with trembling fingers.

“Alright. Easy.”

Rafe rises with him, adjusting to take most of the weight.

“Lean on me if you need to.”

The wind slaps his face as he guides him out. Their head rests against his shoulder, breaths shallow but still coming. Snow whips around them in frantic swirls, but Rafe moves with single minded steadiness toward the house.

"You’re doin’ good. Almost there. Don’t fall asleep, kid— keep lookin’ at me. That’s it. One more step.”

Inside, the warmth hits instantly. Rafe shuts the door hard against the wind, then guides the man toward the fire. He barely lets go long enough to grab blankets from the hook by the hearth. He tosses them over the man with quick, efficient care.

“There. That’s better.”

He kneels in front of him.

“Hands near the fire, but not too close. Frostbite’ll get angry.”

He stands up to walk over to the kitchen without looking back

“Don’t thank me yet, you’re half-dead and freezin’ in my shed. Lotta questions I ain’t asked. But we’ll get to that once you can breathe.”

The fire needs to be fed, so he does that next, building it up until the room glows gold. Then he moves to the kitchen, puts water on to heat, finds the kettle he rarely uses. He glances toward the couch every few seconds before he puts the bowl of soup and warm honey tea on the end table.

“You eat?”

He asks, pretending not to see, just poking at the fire, making sure it stays alive.

“Eat. Warm up. You can tell me whatever you feel like tellin’... whenever you’re ready.”

Rafe wakes before the light. He always does— the war trained his body long before the farm did. One shift of wind, one crack of ice against the window, and his eyes snap open. The old farmhouse is still dark, dawn barely exists this deep into December.

The ashes in the stove glow faintly. The blizzard that tore through the valley last night has left everything quiet in that uneasy way. The world outside is just white stacked on white, snow piled high enough to swallow fences whole. The radio hums low with static, storm warnings and distant Christmas hymns slipping through the fuzz.

He pushes the blankets aside and sits up with a low groan. His joints hate the cold more every winter, but he doesn’t complain— no one’s here to hear it anyway. Just the wind threading through cracks he keeps meaning to fix.

That storm was no joke.

He rubs his thumb absently over the edge of his dog tags.

Anything out in it last night... wouldn’t’ve stood much chance. Roof held up fine... thank God. The animals’ll be restless.

He pulls on wool socks, worn pants, and a flannel shirt half buttoned before he even finds the sleeves. He lights the stove, starts the pot, and stands with his hands braced on the counter, staring out the frosted window. Everything outside is buried— fence posts, trees, the road. The shed roof looks like it might cave under the weight if he doesn’t sweep it.

His big hands wrapped around a chipped enamel mug. The smell of cinnamon and coffee float through the air. He doesn’t drink yet, just holds the heat before he sighs.

“Alright...”

He mutters to himself.

“Let’s do it.”

He shrugs into his military coat, still fitted to a younger, harder version of himself— grabs his gloves, and steps out into the cold. The wind bites instantly. Snow crunches deep under his boots, heavy enough to swallow the sound of his steps.

Snow screams under every step as he pushes into the cold. Wind cuts sharp across his face. Rafe hunches deeper into his collar.

“Carajo... still blowin’ hard even in the morning. Crazy weather.”

The farm is half asleep under a thick white blanket. Even the animals are slow to stir. He checks on the hens, then the cows, then the water pump. Everything’s stiff but alive. He works in silence, breath fogging thick in the morning air.

Too damn cold for comfort

He thinks as he finishes and turns toward the shed. The door is half buried, snow drifted against it like someone shoved a pillow up its face. He frowns.

That door wasn’t like that last night.

He remembers checking it. He always checks it... He steps closer. A faint shape in the snow catches his eye. Tracks. Not animal. Not boots he recognizes. Definitely not his. Someone came through here.

His pulse tightens.

“...Qué demonios.” ("...What the hell.")

Slowly, carefully, he unhooks the latch and pushes the shed door open. It doesn’t open easy. Something is blocking it— something solid. He shoulders more weight into it until there’s just enough space to see inside.

Rafe stills instantly, body locked in caution. His hand goes to the tool rack before his mind catches up. Not a gun anymore, just a heavy wrench, but he grips it like one as his eyes familiarize itself with the darkness inside.

Then he sees them.

Curled on the floor between stacked crates and his old tools, behind sacks of grain. Half frozen. Their clothes are soaked through, skin pale from cold, body trembling in small, uneven shivers. Snow dusts their hair and lashes like they walked straight out of the storm and collapsed here. Their fingers are blue at the tips. Face blotched from crying, hiding. Terrified.

And small. Too small. Too cold.

Rafe freezes in the doorway. For one full second he doesn’t move or even breathe. His mind snaps straight back to Europe— cold bodies on colder ground, people who didn’t get found in time. His heart jerks hard in his chest.

“Dios...”

The wrench lowers.

“...Can you hear me?”

His voice drops, low and controlled. He crouches slowly to approach, palms open.

“Hey. Don’t— don’t be scared. You’re alright.”

He breathes, voice low and hoarse. Then he’s moving.

“You’re freezin’ how did you even get here?”

He murmurs, tone gruff but soft under the gravel.

“You stay out here, you’re gonna die. C’mon. Up we go.”

He kneels beside them, gloved hand hovering before settling lightly against their arm. Their skin feels ice cold. Too cold. They’re conscious, but barely. Their body is shaking, eyes unfocused.

I don’t want nobody relyin’ on me... but leavin’ ’em out there ain’t somethin’ I can do.

That thought lands in his gut with a weight he hates. Whoever they’re running from didn’t give them any other choice.

“Easy, easy, I got you. Won't do anything you have my word.”

He slips his arms under them, lifting them up slowly. They’re lighter than he expected, weaker too, carefully he adjusted his hold so they won’t fall off.

The wind slaps his face as he carries them out. Their head rests against his chest, breaths shallow but still coming. Snow whips around them in frantic swirls, but Rafe moves with single minded steadiness toward the house.

Inside, the warmth hits instantly. He kicks the door shut and lowers them onto the couch near the hearth. He strips off his gloves, grabs a thick quilt from the armchair, and drapes it over their shoulders with careful precision.

“There. That’s better.”

He kneels in front of them.

“Hands near the fire, but not too close. Frostbite’ll get angry.”

He stands up to walk over to the kitchen without looking back.

“Don’t thank me yet, you’re half-dead and freezin’ in my shed. Lotta questions I ain’t asked. But we’ll get to that once you can breathe.”

The fire needs to be fed, so he does that next, building it up until the room glows gold. Then he moves to the kitchen, puts water on to heat, finds the kettle he rarely uses. He glances toward the couch every few seconds before he puts the bowl of soup and warm honey tea on the end table.

“You eat?”

He asks, pretending not to see, just poking at the fire, making sure it stays alive.

“Eat. Warm up. You can tell me whatever you feel like tellin’... whenever you’re ready.”