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The glass of beer was like a deposed king caught by enemy soldiers; it sweated great opaque beads but still wore what remained of the foam-crown proudly. If it were human, it’d have proudly declared to still being the sovereign, then would have been whisked away and thrown into some deep, dark cell, never to see the light of day again.
That’s what Claire had planned. Instead, she flicked the New York Sour’s rim, watching as the ripples licked at the ice cubes before the drink’s surface stilled once more. The date was not going as planned; in fact it was not going at all, for the other party was a no show thus far, although only ten minutes passed since the official start. And she got to the bar early. Still, a heads-up would have been nice.
A black leather jacket blocked out her view on her right and the bar chair groaned.
Her heart fluttered, but then she saw the eyes; greyish blue, peering out from under shaggy, strawberry blonde hair. Lines around his eyes, but not pronounced enough. Everything was just a tiny bit wrong. She turned her head away, disappointment souring her mouth.
Go away. Not in the mood.
Not-Leon didn’t seem to get the message. If anything, it encouraged him to lean in closer, at a distance she reserved for family and friends. “Hey there.”
“Sorry, I don’t think we know each other.” She kept her face blank as she moved back. She was too old to care about appearances.
“Woah!” The man gave a short laugh, holding a hand up. “Didn’t mean no harm; we just thought it’s sad to see such a pretty lady sitting here all alone.” He nodded towards a couch stuffed full of people. A woman in a pink sweater waved at them with enthusiasm. “We thought you might want to join.”
Did she seem desperate or easy? Or probably easy pickings. They seemed to be about the same age, but no doubt he thought that ‘at her age’, she would be grateful for the attention. And truth be told, a long time ago she’d have taken him up on the offer, but that was the Claire everyone warned to take care. Nineteen years old and stupid, chugging vodka to impress some jock, running from the cops after skinny dipping in some rich guy’s pool on a dare (Chris never found out about that one). Riding a motorbike through a storm. That Claire walked into Raccoon City and never came out. Silver linings, or whatever. She didn’t miss those times.
Not-Leon was still looking at her, expecting an answer, so she pointed at the glasses. “Thanks, but I’m good.”
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find us.”
“I’m sure I won’t.” Her lips pulled upwards with practiced fluidity. She often used the expression while negotiating with unsavory politicians. “Enjoy your night.”
“You too.” He stood up with what he must have meant to be a mysterious smile. She had more than enough experience with the kind. At least the many late-night parties were good for that, if nothing else (is it a late-night party, if it ends at six in the morning… three days later?).
Once he got to his table, the man looked back and winked at her. A pretty blonde laughed and swatted him on the shoulder.
She flicked the glass again. The cubes bobbed, as if saying yes, he is late. Isn’t that just rude?
Don’t leave me hanging, Leon.
Anger bubbled in her. Twenty minutes late, and not even a text? But maybe she was being unfair. Leon never hurt her on purpose, not unless he thought it served the greater good, whatever he thought that might be. Her not dying, for one. Yes, if they wanted this to continue, they’d need to have a long talk about autonomy. But for that, he’d have to show up.
People’s voices rippled around her, the beat of the music thrumming in her stomach. She could just call It quits now. That’s what she did with any other guy, why would she make an exception for him? Because he saved her life at least three times? Being a good person didn't mean…
“Jesus Christ, what’s with his eye?”
“Have you never seen…”
Her brain picked up just enough of the conversation to pull the breaks on the runaway train of her thoughts. She turned, hoping to catch more, but the people already drifted away. No matter. She already saw the man in question, dressed in a blue biker jacket, jeans, and boots, hurrying towards her. Everything was the right shade, except for the dark-blue bruise under his right eye, with hints of purple-green at the edges.
Leon waved the approaching bartender away then sat down, unbothered by the man’s expression of displeasure. “You started without me?”
“I’m not the one who’s late,” she said taking a sip from her beer at last; no foam remained, but at least it was still cold.
“I texted you.” He frowned and fished out his phone from his pocket. The left one. The right sat in his lap, covered by a thick bandage. “Didn’t I?”
“I didn’t get anything.”
“It’s… Fuck. I never hit send. I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing and join me.” With her anger evaporating like a puddle in summer, she pushed the cocktail towards Leon. An unsent message; a non-earth-shattering human error. A sent one would have been better, but she could make-do with an apology. “Drinking alone is a lonely job, so I got a little something for you to start with. Strictly non-alcoholic.”
“I deserve the punishment, but isn’t this a bit over the top?”
“Come on.” She tapped the glass again. “I bought it especially for you. People who are late can’t be choosers.”
Leon took a tentative sip and grimaced. “Somehow it’s even worse than it looks.”
“You just don’t appreciate a good egg white in your drink.”
“You are right, I don’t.” The liquid swirled in the glass, painting his hand with a reddish tint. For a long moment he just glared at it. She had seen him look at mutants with more warmth. Just when she thought she’s gonna have to be the one who keeps the conversation going, he said, “So… What have you been up to?”
“We have known each other for fifteen years and that’s what you lead with?”
“And I haven’t been on a proper date in ten. Other than our last one.”
Her eyebrows ran upwards. “Really? Nobody since Angela?”
“Nope,” he said, raising the glass to his lips again, eyes cast down.
Jealousy rang the alarm bells; there was someone, and he wasn’t willing to share it with her. Sure, she didn’t have a right to know, and maybe he’ll tell her one day, still, the certainty of a mystery person left her feeling uneasy. Even though she didn’t have a reason to feel that way. He wouldn’t have come if they were still a thing, right?
“And that lasted what, three dates?” she asked instead, forcing her voice to remain light. If she tried to pry, he’d just deny and deflect. No. Let the sleeping dogs lie. If he didn't want to tell even her, that someone must have been truly special.
And you are not? the green-eyed monster asked with rotten panic.
“Yes. She said I was too quiet.” Leon huffed with a smile. “That she was looking for something else, after all that happened. I still get Christmas cards from her though.”
“You did save her life. But, well…” She rested her chin on her palm, scanning him from top to bottom. In theory, on the outside, he had everything he needed to be popular with either gender; lean but muscular, with a face many male models and actors would kill for, and a brooding, devil-may-care expression she knew would be very popular with many of her acquaintances. He could charm the pants off anyone, really, if he wanted to. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Charm. He had plenty, but of the nerdy (oh how she wished for one of the choppers to crash land on her so she didn't have to listen to more fun facts about Alcatraz), brotherly kind. In the city he used public transport and always waited for the light to turn to green. Conclusion: dangerously handsome, but safe and boring. Perhaps he’d have had more luck in his love life if he started with the assortment of sports bikes he had in his garage.
Although his lack of success could have had to do with the mystery person. It made sense, him unconsciously sabotaging himself by putting on an unapproachable front while holding out for them; then, if anyone broke through the shell, they were hit with ‘did you know that Josef Jakobs was the last person executed at the Tower of London?’.
Still. He was here now, with her, although even two years ago she didn’t think themselves compatible. Funny how life can prove one wrong.
She continued to look while drinking another gulp of beer. “Hm…”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just thinking about the Kennedy enigma. Once you are out of the field, you suddenly have no idea how to function around people you were ordering around ten minutes ago. I mean, remember the motel? After Raccoon?”
“Yes. You did plenty of ordering around yourself.”
“Because you started talking about police protocols to Sherry!”
“She needed a distraction.”
Fair, he had a point there. Still… “She was a twelve-year-old girl. But you distracted her alright, straight into sleep.”
“Yeah, well, it worked, didn’t it?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure there wasn’t any alcohol in that stuff?”
“There shouldn’t be.”
Leon pushed the chair back as he stood up, swaying slightly, holding onto the bar for support. His face began losing its color.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I just need some air.” His knees buckled, betraying the lie. Claire pulled her jacket on, her shoulders tensing, the same as her belly.
“Like hell you are. What’s wrong?”
“Just dizzy. Must be the concussion.” A fine layer of perspiration covered his forehead. The black of his pupils almost ate up the blue. His hands, still holding onto the bar. were now shaking.
Claire’s eyes drifted to the glass between them.
A woman with a glass of beer and a cocktail claiming she’s waiting for someone. An overly familiar man inviting her to join his group.
She cast a look towards the table. It was empty—in fact, pretty boy and company just turned a corner and disappeared from view, probably bailing as soon as they realized that they hit the wrong target.
“No, it’s not,” she said, biting her lips. Should she go after them? No, she’d have to leave Leon, who looked about to keel over. “Someone spiked your drink. We need to get you to a hospital.”
“No!” Leon shuddered. “No hospitals. And it’s not just the sense of impending doom talking.”
“Leon…”
“No. Hospitals,” he repeated, enunciating the words slowly. “No cops either.”
“Is this a ‘manly man’ or a ‘secret agent’ thing?”
“Take your pick.” Leon wobbled back and forth, his usual grace gone. “But be quick about it.”
A flash of irritation flashed through her. No hospital, no cops; but something had to be done. They could try their luck with someone else, and she couldn’t let that happen.
“Is he alright?” the bartender asked, returning from whatever he was doing in the back.
An idea occurred to her.
“No,” she said. The man might have been in on it, but with Leon’s insistence on not doing anything a sensible person would do, she had to take her chances. Maybe he was innocent, and her suspicion unfounded. She wanted to believe the latter. ”He was drugged.”
“For real?”
“Yeah. Black jacket, blonde hair, was sitting in the back with a few others? Remember him?”
“Sure do.”
“We are going to go now, but you should call the police,” she said, ignoring Leon’s weak protest.
“Are you sure? He looks half dead already.”
“Yes. And thanks.” She turned towards the scowling Leon. “Alright, hold onto me.”
“I can walk.” He took a step forward, however, his feet, catching on the floor, once again let him down. “Right,” he said bracing against the —luckily empty—table that broke his fall. “Yeah, no, scratch that.”
“Can I help you now?” She didn’t bother to hide the edge from her voice and at least he had the good sense to look sheepish.
“Yes please.”
With one hand on his back, she steered him through the bar, wondering how he could be so much heavier than he looked. All the muscles probably. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what she would do if it was Chris she had to get out of the place.
Outside a misty spray began to fall. Leon inhaled the crispy autumn air deeply, looking more relaxed once the bar’s door closed and the roaring music dulled into faint notes.
“Can you stand on your own so that I can get us a taxi?”
“Wait.” His face scrunched up in concentration. “Unless you can stop the spinning, no.”
“Right.” She fished her phone out with her left hand, her right already complaining about holding up the man who seemed to be getting heavier by the moment. By the time the taxi rolled to a stop in front of them his eyes were glazing over.
“If he throws up, I’m charging extra,” the driver said as he helped her wrestle the barely conscious agent into the backseat. She should have said something, perhaps, but that'd have left them without a ride, and Leon was in no shape to wait for another one, proven by how quickly he was out once she pulled his head to rest on her shoulder. She wiped the sweat off his forehead. His brows furrowed and he mumbled something in a voice too low for her to hear over the noise of the engine and traffic.
Was she doing the right thing? This is what he wanted, she knew, but her gut still disagreed with the decision.
“We are here,” the driver announced.
“Hey, wakey-wakey,” she murmured and shook Leon softly. No response.
“If I gotta carry him up, I’m charging extra.”
“Thanks, we’ll manage,” she said, her voice biting. “Leon, hey?” She swatted him with a little more force and saying a little prayer. “We are home.”
His eyes fluttered open. “’sss no home,” he said, but at least he was awake.
“We have to get to my room. Leon, I can help, but I need you to walk. Can you do that?”
“For you? Anything.”
Well, that’s a confession if she ever heard one. Still, it’d have made her feel better it came out at some other time; it was hard to not feel guilty, as if she had been the one who drugged him.
It took three attempts, but she managed to get him standing. She counted the steps to the elevator; the only way to keep him moving without falling over. Her hands were slick with sweat by the time they made it to her door.
Leon crashed into the first available furniture—an armchair that had seen better days. His head lolled from side to side while he worked his boots off, but when she tried to peel him out of his jacket, he groaned in protest and turned away. Something white slipped onto the ground as he did so.
“Is this yours?”
“Hn?”
“This.”
“No. S gonna be yours. ‘s an apology. Doc says it m’ght help, and I… Don’t read it”
“What?”
Leon was out like a light.
She held the paper with two fingers. Leon said it’s hers—or will be.
He also told you to not read it, a sensible voice reminded her. Yet, curiosity gnawed away at her. An apology letter; she could think of a thing or two he could apologize for, but a whole letter? Why?
She had the answer to the question in her hand. She could read it, no harm no foul—she could always just deny it.
Like he denies having someone, the monster said gleefully. Perhaps he says something about them in the letter.
For six hours Leon gave no other signs of life than the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest; but at times it got so slow that she had to bend and check. He didn’t even stir when she turned the TV on, although the woman who appeared on screen was screaming her head off while a man was chasing her with a chainsaw.
She yawned, her jaws popping slightly.
Just what did they give to him? Was he ok? He should have woken up already, no? Maybe she was wrong to give in and should have insisted on a hospital.
Or at least called Rebecca. A wave of shame coursed through her; why didn’t she think of that earlier?
Just as she began to dial, hoping to catch the woman awake, Leon stirred. Complete alertness happened within seconds, dull eyes sharpening rapidly as he pawed at the front of his jacket.
“Looking for this?” she said, handing the letter back to him.
“When did you?”
“Fell out of your pocket.” The bed bounced under her slightly as she hopped back down and pulled the blankets up. “So. An apology letter.”
“You didn’t read it, did you?”
“Dear Claire,” she started, watching Leon’s eyes widen slightly, “I apologize for eating your twinkies and blaming your brother, for always using up the last of the hot water, for being territorial about my shampoo…”
“You have an absolutely lousy sense of humor,” Leon said, hiding his face in his hands.
“Yeah, I know. Consider it your penance.”
“For?”
“No hospitals?”
“Why would I need to go to a hospital?”
Claire frowned. “You don’t remember?”
Leon shook his head in affirmation. “The last thing I remember is leaving the office. Speaking of, where are we?”
She breathed out. Yes, that was in line with what she knew about party drugs; she counted herself lucky for never having been targeted. Until now.
Just when you begin to think that you are on the wrong side of thirty and safe, life comes in with a basket of lemons and takes a sledgehammer to your face.
“We are at a hotel. You were drugged.”
“Not by you, I suppose?” he asked with a tiny smile playing along his lips.
“Well, no, at least not technically. Asshole thought it’s my drink he is spiking, but it was the one I bought for you. You were really adamant about not going to a hospital, so I brought you here. I still think you should go though.”
“No need. Had worse.”
“Leon, I really think…”
“Look, being drugged without the threat of growing an extra pair of eyes or arms is actually a nice change of place. I want to savor it without a DSO representative charging in on us.” He twiddled his fingers, then added, “But thank you. For the concern. Just, let’s not do it again.”
The fight about how irresponsible he was with his health was not over, not by a long shot. It angered her and made her fearful at the same time. Neither of them lived a stress-free life, and Leon had just broken a years-long alcohol habit; who knows how long he had left if he kept being nonchalant like this? But she, too, was drained by keeping vigil over Leon, so the battle had to wait until another day.
Still, they had to discuss one more thing. Her mother always told her not to go to bed angry.
“Well, you know, cannot remember it, so we didn’t really have our second date yet. Maybe we can do that again.”
“Yeah.” He leans back in the armchair. He looked worn, even sickly in the yellow light of the lamp, though no surprises there; she’d have been surprised if he wasn’t. “I’d like that.”