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Claire had seen Leon drunk, plenty of times. At her house or in DC, perhaps irresponsibly of them they spent a lot of their spare time drinking. Leon drunk was much like Leon sober was—dry, a bit hard to read, and maybe a bit horny.
At least that’s what Claire had thought. They were in the city, and as a deviation from their standard norm of her getting shitfaced and him getting them home from the LIRR station on Long Island, tonight Claire had said she hadn’t felt much like drinking and that Leon could be the irresponsible one if he wanted to. He’d demurred and told her she could get drunk if she wanted, he would be responsible, he would get them home.
That had been untold beers and countless shots ago, and Leon had gone from dry, unreadable situationship partner to unhinged frat boy with a soft spot for women, children, and pets someone had let snort Pixie Stix. Claire knew she herself was prone to being a little unhinged once she got enough liquor in her and usually it was Leon shepherding her through it, putting up with her grab-assery and whining with amused patience.
Tonight, she’d told Leon he could cut loose. Claire wondered if she knew what she’d gotten herself in for. Leon was like a large, unfairly ripped, inebriated toddler she had to keep steering out of situations. He was blissfully ignorant to his own mess. Claire wondered what shape he was going to wake up in tomorrow morning.
“I mean, he kind of…like, said we were dating,” her coworker Jemima was relating to Leon, phone in her other hand. “Like, I don’t know. But then I won’t hear from him for like two weeks and I don’t—“
“Lame,” Leon said loudly and emphatically, taking a drink from what was easily beer number eleven. He towered over Jemima, narrowing his eyes down at her. “Tell him to commit and figure his shit out or he gets no more pussy.”
“Jesus, Leon,” Claire chortled, while Jemima looked sheepish and cowed. Jemima was a pretty mild person. Claire envisioned her telling a dude he no longer had access to her pussy was last on the list of things Jemima would ever do or was capable of.
“Jesus what?” Leon said in offense, whipping his head around to look at Claire. “Listen. I mean—dudes used to be, like, crying in the rain for pussy,” he said, and Claire was looking up at him in skeptical amusement. “Like every R&B song ever is basically like girl I’m sorry I will die for you please bring the pussy back. Phones have ruined it. The fucking internet ruined it. Now Jemima’s getting jerked around and dude is being a fuckass and—“
“This would be kind of sweet if you weren’t describing it like a linebacker frat boy,” Claire informed him. “Jemima, seriously, it’s been you and that phone all night. Guy wouldn’t come out to meet us and he never does. All you ever do is complain about him. C’mon. Put your phone away and forget it.”
“I mean, it’s—he’s—“ Jemima began, and Leon whipped his head back to look at her unsteadily.
“I am going to throw your phone to some rats on a subway platform,” Leon informed her. “Tell him he can jerk off. Access to pussy denied.” Leon looked intent suddenly, reaching up, and diminutive Jemima angled away from him, cradling her phone. “Let me tell him. I’ll be the gatekeeper. None shall pass. No one is getting pussy tonight.”
“No one?” Claire asked in amusement, arching an eyebrow at him.
“Nobody,” Leon replied loudly and emphatically, into Claire’s face and she leaned back some with a squinting smirk. “That’s it. Nobody deserves it. Everyone’s a fuckass. Jerking off for everyone.”
“I’m holding you to that later,” Claire replied.
“Everyone,” Leon said, looking off into the distance somewhere. “Tell him to apologize,” he said, looking back down at Jemima.
“I mean, sometimes he does,” she began, meekly. “That’s why it’s so confusing—like half the time he’s perfectly fine, and the other—“
“Jemima I’m gonna fucking murder him,” Leon said. “You’re too nice. You deserve better. Your pussy—“
“Leon would you stop screaming at her about her pussy and what she should do with her pussy?” Claire chortled, shoving at him some. “Jesus, I get you’re trying to be inspirational, but this is like if some drunk old lech was running the afterschool special.”
“I’m sorry,” Leon began, importantly and inebriatedly. “Your vagina, Jemima. Lock it down.” He looked over at Claire. “At least I’m not calling it her cunt,” he said, and Claire looked exasperated, and Jemima turned bright red. “I guess most women hate that? I mean, you don’t seem to care, but I once said cunt in front of my mother and she—“
“Leon shut the fuck up,” Claire said, and he obediently stopped mid-sentence and instead took a drink of his beer. She looked back over at Jemima. “Jemima, just…stop texting him. Ignore him. It’s not worth your time.”
“Why’s everyone look so serious over here?” Calvin asked, weaving through the crowd to them, beer in hand.
“Jemima needs to stop letting lame dudes fuck,” Leon replied loudly, and once again Jemima was red and Claire looked like she was going to put Leon’s head through a wall.
“Hmm, yeah, maybe,” Cavin acquiesced, looking at their petite coworker. “Is it still that same guy?”
“Yes,” Jemima said miserably.
“Yeah I agree with him,” Calvin said, pointing at Leon around his beer. “That dude needs to get lost.”
“I need a drink,” Jemima groaned, turning away from them and heading for the bar. Leon made a noise.
“Hey! You’re not buying your own fucking drink,” he called after her. “Get back here, sad girl,” he said, setting off after Jemima. Claire and Calvin watched them go, and Calvin turned calmly to Claire.
“Well, I guess if you get enough alcohol in your enigmatic G-man shadow of a dude he turns into an excitable 15 year old bro,” Calvin said, and Claire let her shoulders slump.
“Don’t remind me,” she said. “I have to go home with him. He means well.”
“He’s kind of like a drunk, protective big brother with terrible language,” Calvin said. “Maybe we should get that douche Jemima’s been seeing here. I think Leon would probably fold him into a pretzel.”
“That’s the last thing we need,” Claire said. “Leon all drunk and trying to beat ass. C’mon. Let’s go see what they’re doing. I think if Leon mentions what to do with her pussy to her one more time Jemima’s going to burst into flames.”
…………………………………………………………….
“Holy shit you’re blind,” Leon announced loudly, looking around the room in amazement. Claire’s glasses were perched on his face, because 2.5 seconds ago he had swiped them off hers unceremoniously.
“You think?” Claire asked, reaching up for her glasses. “Leon, give me those back before you break them.”
“Baby I don’t think you should be operating a motor vehicle,” Leon said, evading her reaching hand, looking down at the floor with wide eyes. “Like this is bad.”
“I am just fine to operate a motor vehicle as long as I have the glasses on,” Claire replied patiently, reaching for them again. Leon once again ducked out of her way. “Leon—give me those things back before you break them—I only have one pair and they cost nine million dollars—“
“I will buy you more glasses,” he said. “What kind of glasses do you want?” He looked down at her and she took the opportunity to pull her glasses off his face, slipping them back onto hers. “I think you should get some of the kind librarians have. But like old librarians. With a chain and all. Y’know, like the chain that hangs from the glasses, like down—“
She looked at him with a smile. “Old people glasses? Like readers? Progressives? I don’t need those, my eyes aren’t bad enough. Like—“
“No,” Leon said in frustration. “Like—“ He brought his hands up, one of them holding a half-full pint of beer. Claire had lost track of what number he was on. He traced shapes around his eyes. “Like the ones—they’re shaped like—“ And he continued to make vague shapes around his eyes.
“Aviators?” Claire tried, watching him in amused confusion. “Horn-rimmed? Like the ones—“
“That’s it,” he said, pointing at her. “Like big ones. With rhinestones. Like neon green or something.”
Claire laughed a little. “I am ridiculous enough already, without huge horn-rimmed glasses taking up half my face with like—“
“Noooo,” Leon interjected, pleadingly. “It would be so hot. Like, huge, hot, librarian glasses. Pencil skirt. You could—“
She cocked her head at him. “Uh oh. Here it comes. You have some kind of weird thing for librarians, don’t you?” She smiled. “I wanted to be a librarian, you know. But I think I’ve told you that.”
“Do it,” he enthused. “It’s not too late. Like, giant glasses and pencil skirts and little sweaters and—“
“You are being a perv,” Claire said, arching her eyebrow at him. “We’re in public and you’re airing your sexual fantasies.”
“Man I don’t give a fuck,” Leon said uncaringly, shrugging wildly. He took a drink of his beer. “The Catholic schoolgirl is played out. That’s all I saw for four years. They make the skirts be long. It’s not exciting. Like the skirt had to be to their knees or they got sent home. You couldn’t even—“
“So you’re telling me,” Claire said, leaning against the bar knowingly, by her beer she’d been nursing for about 45 minutes, “if I put on a plaid skirt and some knee-highs and a little blouse you wouldn’t immediately be like—“
“Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa. Whoa,” Leon said seriously, holding his hand out at her, looking like they were about to discuss the heat death of the universe even as he looked slightly unsteady on his feet. “Listen. Is this like a hypothetical or do we actually have the skirt and the knee-highs?”
Claire looked back at him evenly and shrugged. “I’ve got some socks that go up to mid-thigh,” she replied, calmly.
“Alright well where are those?” Leon asked importantly. “What other sexy shit are you hiding from me? I feel betrayed. I need to see these socks.”
“Look, the socks are practical,” Claire countered. “I wear them under jeans in the winter. They keep my legs warm. They’re just some thigh-high socks. They’re not like lacy or—“
“Stop it, I’m gonna get a boner,” Leon replied direly. “I don’t care if they’re, like, plaid and polka-dotted. You own thigh-high socks and you’ve been hiding them from me.”
“No offense but periodically you look at me in nasty old sleep pants and oversized shirts and your dick still gets hard, so,” she said, putting her hand up in the air. “It doesn’t take much.”
“Listen,” Leon said direly, then furrowed his brow at her. “Fuck.”
“What?” she asked, picking up her beer and taking a sip.
“Kinda hard,” he replied. “Thought of socks too much. Gotta think of—hockey records. Litanies. Sister Daniels, who looked like Yoda and hit me with yard sticks.”
She gazed at him evenly. “Put that thing away, brother. Don’t be walking around here scaring people with what’s in your pants.”
“You brought up the socks! You brought up you being in a little plaid skirt and—“
“You started going on about hot librarians!” she countered. “You started this. If you can’t take the heat, stay out of the kitchen.”
“It’s not my fault you’re hot,” he said, reaching over and putting his hand on her ass and pulling her towards him. “It’s not my fault—“
“Look, maybe grabbing my ass and pulling me against said kinda hard dick is not the way to make dick not be hard,” she said, looking up at him bemusedly, and he looked conflicted and lost. “Hey. Are you listening? Do not—do not press that thing on me,” she said, pushing at him some.
“Will you put on the socks?” he asked pleadingly.
“You need to stop thinking about the socks before we have a problem that lands you on a sex offender registry,” she said, squirming in his grasp. “Leon. Are you listening? Get that thing under control or I’m dunking you in ice water when we get home. I’ll squirt you with a spray bottle like a misbehaving cat.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and looked like he was concentrating intensely. “I greet thee, Mary, daughter of God the father. I greet thee, Mary, mother of the son of God. I greet thee—“
“You are too many complexes for me to deal with,” Claire said, wriggling out of his grasp and away from his cock half hard in his pants. “Freud would have a field day with you. You’re—“
“—Virgin full of meekness and humility,” Leon went on loudly over her, eyes still squeezed shut. “Of whom the King of Heaven willed to be born—“
“Listen, you have fun with that,” Claire said, picking up her beer. “I’m gonna skate.” She began to walk away and left Leon to have his drunken, aroused, lapsed-Catholic moment.
……………………………………………………..
At this point in the evening it was like herding cats. Everyone was drunk, except Claire.
She kind of regretted her decision to be the responsible one and let Leon go off on a tear. It could have been her walking unsteadily down a NYC street, talking too loud. But no, she’d decided to skip out. She was now paying for that decision.
“I’m hungry,” Leon announced loudly from in front of her.
“Ooh, me too,” Jemima piped up.
“Guys, if we miss this next train, we have to wait an hour for the next one to Long Island,” Claire said from behind them, direly. “You two are not gonna make it. You need bed. You need—“
“I need a fucking hot dog,” Leon said. “I need…I need food from a cart. I’m going to die.”
“You are not,” Claire said. “There’s food at home.”
“Lame,” Leon once again announced loudly. Jemima’s phone pinged in her pocket and she dug it out, looking at it too closely as she stumbled down the street. “Who’s that?” Leon asked of her insistently.
“It’s Dave,” she replied, distractedly. “He’s—“
Leon turned his head and bit into his lower lip for emphasis, really savoring the sound he was about to produce. “Fuck that guy,” he said at a volume loud enough to echo. “Tell him—“
“If I don’t go over there,” she began, “he’s probably just going to have some other girl over and—“
“Good I hope he gets herpes,” Leon practically bellowed, leaning over to Jemima unsteadily as he walked. “Herpes, Jemima!”
“Stop, you two, stop screaming,” Claire interjected. “Jemima, come on. Seriously? You’re concerned about rushing over to some dude’s house who’s got like five women on speed dial? Fuck it. Like, there are other men. You’re coming with us. We’re getting on the train, and we’re going back to Long Island, and you’re going home.”
“All men are like this, Claire!” Jemima burst out in frustration. “Like, every single one of them I talk to is—is—“
“I’m not like that,” Leon said, almost stumbling over his feet. “My Da would beat my ass. Gimme this thing,” he said, swiping for Jemima’s phone, and she scurried further up the sidewalk from him, out of his grasp. “I hope he gets the clap!” Leon called after her as she hunched over her phone and presumably fired off text messages. “Fuckin’—fuckin’ gonasyphaherpalaids.”
Claire began to laugh some, in spite of very much not being in control of two drunk people she had to shepherd to Penn Station somehow. “Fucking what, Leon?” she asked.
“All of them, all at once,” Leon said. “I hope that guy gets STDs not even invented yet. Fuck you, Dave!” he hollered loudly. “Jemima! Jemima, tell him no pussy. Jemima—“
“I am never letting you get drunk again,” Claire said, hurrying up next to Leon and reaching up to put her hand over his mouth. “It is close to two AM and you are screaming.”
“Somebody needs to scream,” Leon mumbled, muffled, under her hand. “I’m hungry,” he repeated, similarly muffled.
Claire let out an exasperated sigh. “If we run across a food cart between here and Penn Station, fine. But if not, no. I am not hanging out for an extra hour with you two psychos at Penn Station.”
“Hell yeah I’m getting train beers,” Leon said. Claire sighed again. She was usually the train beer person. Now it was Leon’s turn. She looked up the street at Jemima weaving around, intent on her phone.
“Jemima!” she hissed. “For real, tell him to get fucked. You’re not going over there. I’m putting my foot down. You’re getting on the fucking train and we are all going back to Long Island.”
“Fine,” Jemima called back, defeated. They made their way down the street, heading for the subway station, and when they rounded the corner, there half a block up was a Halal food cart. Leon looked over at her with the kind of joy you’d see on the face of a teenager you’d just served unlimited Pizza Rolls to.
“Hell yeah food,” he said. “Do you want food? What kind of food is it?” He looked up the street. “Jemima do you want food?”
“It’s Middle Eastern food,” Claire replied. “Like gyros and chicken and rice and shit.”
“What?” Jemima said distractedly, still intent on her phone.
“Jemima get off that phone,” Claire said pointedly.
“Jemima I’m going to commit vehicular manslaughter,” Leon said at the same time.
“Stop, you are not,” Claire said, grabbing onto Leon and steadying him as they walked. He looped his arm around her and the sway in the step of his much larger form pushed her off course momentarily. “Nobody is getting run over. Jesus, Cochise, you got it? This line is less than straight,” she said, as they weaved down the street.
“I feel great,” Leon replied. “Amazing. Never better.” He looked down at her, bleary-eyed. “You are the hottest woman I have ever seen,” he informed her.
“You are super out of control,” Claire countered. “Is this is what’s hiding inside behind all the silence?”
“I’m shy,” Leon replied.
“Not after like twenty five beers you’re not,” Claire said. “You fully inserted yourself into some strangers’ conversations tonight, like twice.”
“Ketchup belongs on hot dogs,” Leon said. “Someone had to tell that guy he was a fucking idiot. What else would you put ketchup on?”
“Lots of stuff,” Claire said. “Hamburgers, fries, eggs—“
“No,” Leon cut in emphatically, his brows lowered. “Hot dogs. Hamburgers. Fries. Tater tots. That’s it,” he said. “Not on eggs. Not on omelets. Not on hash browns. Nothing—“
“Alright, Jesus, I didn’t realize you had such strong opinions about this,” she said in amusement.
“And that’s only if you don’t have ranch,” Leon said.
“I’m not putting ranch on a hot dog,” Claire said knowingly.
“No I meant like for the fries and tater tots,” Leon said. “Ketchup is a substandard choice.”
“You know, in some places in Europe, they eat their fries with mayonnaise,” she said. “It’s probably the least healthy choice, but it’s good.”
“Fuck I love mayonnaise,” Leon said, wistfully. “Not Miracle Whip. Get the fuck out of here with that bullshit. Mayonnaise or I don’t want it.”
“Are we getting food?” Jemima asked, dropping back some, her phone back in her pocket.
“Hell yeah,” Leon said. “Get whatever you want. And beers at Penn Station.” He looked like something had just dawned on him. “Fuck are they still gonna be selling beers at Penn Station?”
“Yes,” Claire said tiredly. “Convenience stores sell alcohol 24/7. You could buy a station beer at 5 AM.”
“Hell yeah,” Leon replied enthusiastically. They were drawing up to the food cart, and they stopped in front of it, the man hanging out the window of the trailer looking at them. “Uhhh…” Leon stood there and his face went blank, and Claire rolled her eyes some.
“Just give me the money,” she said to him. “I will get you food. You’re killing brain cells standing there, I can hear them screaming in pain.” Leon dug obediently in his back pocket for his wallet, and handed it to Claire, still staring somewhat blankly. “Jemima, what do you want?”
“Chicken and rice,” Jemima replied.
“I want that too,” Leon chimed in. Claire let out a breath and stepped up to the window, to the man who looked like drunk people at his food cart were a frequent occurrence and maybe the bane of his existence.
“Can I get two of the halal chicken and rices?” Claire said, and the man nodded.
“You want both sauces?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Jemima replied.
“Uhhh…” Leon seemed like this was really taxing him.
“One of them is spicy, Leon,” Claire informed him.
“No,” he replied vehemently. “No spicy.”
“One with white sauce only,” Claire informed the man, who nodded and hollered back into the trailer, then turned back to Claire. “22 dollars,” he said, and Claire flipped open Leon’s wallet and began to thumb through it. Jesus, he just walked around with this much money on him? “Can you break a hundred?” she asked, and the man nodded. Claire pulled a hundred out and handed it to the man, and waited for the change, folding it back into Leon’s wallet.
“Didn’t you get anything?” Leon asked in confusion, as she handed his wallet back to him.
“No. I can wait until we get home,” Claire said. “You’re the one who was dying for cart food.”
Leon shrugged and wandered off, looking up and around him, and Claire watched him go out of the corner of her eye, feeling like a parent watching their accident-prone toddler bumble off. She looked over at Jemima. “Jemima, how are you getting home when we get back to Long Island?”
“Taxi,” she said. “I could walk, I live really close to the—“
“No walking,” Leon bellowed from a few feet away.
“I’m not going to!” Jemima retorted. “It’s late. I’m not trying to get, like, some weirdo popping out of the bushes and—“
“This is prime dudes in trenchcoats with dicks out time,” Leon affirmed.
“What do you know about dudes in trenchcoats with their dicks out?” Claire asked in amusement.
“They’re not allowed by schools,” Leon said. “One would probably jump on Jemima.”
“No thanks,” Jemima said. “I kind of never want to deal with dudes and their dicks ever again.”
“You have any input on that, oh wise one with a dick?” Claire asked of Leon in continued amusement.
“We kind of all need Jesus,” Leon said.
“Is that what it is?” Claire asked.
“Maybe that’s what there is left to try,” Jemima sighed. “I dunno, like, religious guys.”
“Nope, that’s all fucked out too,” Leon said. “I’m not religious anymore. But I was. I was just horny and afraid of Hell. It didn’t make it any better.”
“Great,” Jemima groused.
“Here you go,” the Halal cart man said, holding out two Styrofoam boxes from the window of the small trailer. Claire stepped forward and accepted the boxes from him, and handed Jemima’s to her, with the plastic silverware. She handed Leon’s over to him; he had ambled back over to them and once again wore the teenager-with-unlimited-Pizza-Rolls face.
“Alright, now, eat and walk,” Claire said. “We’ve got to get to Penn Station.”
The food rendered Jemima and Leon docile and obedient. Jemima’s phone continued to ping, but at this point, thankfully, she seemed to be ignoring it. Leon was eating like he’d never get to eat again. Claire led them down below ground to the subway, to the line that would eventually spit them out at Penn Station. Standing there waiting for the train, Leon brought his Styrofoam box up to his mouth and shoveled the remnants of food in with his plastic fork, then lowered the box and stood there with his mouth open, breath held, a certain kind of look on his face.
“Are you about to belch,” Claire began, “or hurl?”
Leon stood there unmoving for another moment and then let out a terrific burp, then ambled off to look for a trash can on the platform. Claire rolled her eyes and looked back to Jemima, who was still picking through her food in a more civilized manner. “Is that jackass still texting you?” Claire asked, as Jemima’s phone pinged periodically.
“I think,” Jemima said. “I told him I wasn’t coming over. I told him to lose my number. I think I pissed him off.”
“Great,” Claire said flatly. “A whiny manbaby pitching a fit because someone won’t come over and fuck him. A real winner.”
“A real man would just jerk off and pass out about it,” Leon said, drawing back up out of nowhere.
Claire looked up and over at him in amusement. “Oh, would they?” she asked.
“Hell yeah man,” Leon said. “Your hand is never gonna let you down. If you’re not a coward. Just do the job yourself.”
Jemima looked vaguely grossed-out, and Claire just rolled her eyes. “Anyway,” Jemima said, looking down at her food, “I guess he’s going to have to figure that out for himself. Or get one of the other five girls, or whatever. I’m going home. I’m going to bed.”
“Good,” Claire said, brightly. “You can be taught.”
“The only way someone is coming over to fuck that dude is if he pays them,” Leon said. “Straight to herpes town.”
Jemima giggled a little. “You’re like a slightly insane motivational boss bitch,” she informed Leon. “Someone should let you in the girls’ chat. Stop us all from making bad decisions. Pump us up.”
“Hell yeah, girl power,” Leon said bluntly, gazing off down the subway platform. “Remember. Dudes crying in the rain for pussy. A real man will do it. Claire could ask me to assassinate an elected official when I’m inside—“
“Alright already,” Claire interjected, feeling herself get mildly hot in the face. “Let’s keep the traumatizing my coworkers to a minimum.” She looked over at Jemima. “Potential oversharing aside, he’s kind of right, in a demented way. You need to stop hooking up with, like, 30 year old fuckboys.”
Jemima looked prompting, her eyebrows raised. “You know how to keep 30 year old fuckboys from finding me?”
“Guns,” Leon said, unceremoniously. “Just—just fuckin’ stab him. Lorena Bobbitt--”
“Jesus Leon, calm down,” Claire said, shoving at him some. “Jemima, you just need to learn to tell people to fuck off. Works every time.”
“Yeah that’s true,” Leon said, his face considering. “There’s nothing more satisfying than telling someone,” and here he produced the same lower-lip-bite-gleeful-enunciation face he had earlier, “fuck you.”
The sound of the subway cars approaching was heard in the distance, and Claire prayed she could hold this shitshow together on the subway. “It does work wonders,” Claire said, looking over at Jemima. “You’re too nice. They can sense it. Like blood in the water.” The subway pulled into the station, squeaking to a stop, and a moment later the doors opened, and a few people got off. “Alright, c’mon,” Claire said, putting her hands on Leon and pushing him towards the car. “Get in there.”
“Yes ma’am,” Leon said, letting her shove him. The three of them got on the subway car, and Jemima sat with her food, eating as her phone pinged in a way that suggested the mother of all manbaby meltdowns over the loss of easy pussy for the night. Claire sighed and sat down next to her, rubbing at her eyes.
Leon was standing there in front of them, next to one of the poles for people to hang onto, and he looked over at it, putting his hand on it. “Do people ever pole dance on the subway?” he asked.
“No, Leon, this is not a strip club,” Claire said tiredly.
“I mean people should,” he said. “It’d make my ride if I looked over and saw you pole dancing.”
“Leon,” Claire began, warning in her tone.
“I’m gonna pole dance,” Leon announced, and kind of spun around the pole a little bit, as scattered other people on the subway looked over at him.
“Oh my God Leon stop,” Claire said, direly. Jemima looked up and chortled at him around a mouth of food as he kind of unsteadily ground against the pole. “Leon—“
“What, am I not doing it right?” he asked, blithely. “Is it not hot?” He continued grinding against the pole.
“Where are my dollar bills?” Jemima asked in amusement.
“Leon, if you don’t sit down and quit humping that thing I’m going to abandon you at Penn Station,” Claire said, watching her—her—whatever he was to her, situationship partner she was probably not-so-secretly in love with—grind against a subway pole. Sober Leon would have burst into flames. Sober Leon was too enigmatic and in control for such childish antics. Sober Leon would have hidden under a table. He did still blush from time to time, much like he had as a younger man—it was just much fewer and further between. His preferred position at get-togethers with her coworkers in the city was in a corner with beer. And there he was, probably like a 30 pack deep or whatever, gyrating suggestively against a pole.
He was going to be so dead in the morning.
“Alright,” Jemima laughed, “shake it, baby.”
“I am serious, Leon,” Claire said. “Sit down or you’re sleeping on the porch.”
“Aw,” he said, defeatedly, then plunked down next to her with his legs akimbo. “Anyway I think the subway should have pole dancing.”
“The people of NYC would probably ignore or murder a pole dancer,” Claire said. “You were just humping a pole for like a solid minute and a half and no one batted an eye.”
“I mean I could probably really get into it,” he said. “I can backflip. I can do the splits. I’m sure I could—“
“Do not start backflipping around this subway car.” Claire looked over at him. “Just…sit there.”
“Lame,” he breathed out. He looked like he realized something. “I’m still hungry.”
“We have food at home,” Claire reiterated.
“Want the rest of mine?” Jemima asked, offering up her Styrofoam box with the remnants of chicken and rice.
“Hell yeah,” Leon said brightly, reaching across Claire to grab the box. He began to shovel the food in, then paused and looked dire. “Holy shit this is spicy,” he said in loud alarm.
“Leon, shh,” Claire said in an undertone, looking over at him. “Yes. Jemima got the spicy sauce.”
“We die like men,” Leon said, then resumed shoveling the remainder of the chicken and rice into his mouth. “Oh my God this is like the fires of Hell,” he said around a mouthful of food, looking over at Jemima. “How do you eat this? I am—“
“Leon, you think bell peppers are spicy,” Claire said, but her voice had a placating tone to it. “Eat it or don’t, but do not continue to yell at a mach Jesus level on the subway about how spicy it is.”
Leon continued to fork the rest of the food into his mouth in silence, sufficiently cowed by Claire’s admonishment. Jemima made a movement like she was reaching for her phone and Claire grabbed her arm and shook her head direly, and then it was Jemima’s turn to look cowed and she put her hands back in her lap, quietly. Claire sat there between them and stared into space. It was probably going to be 3 AM by the time she and Leon got back to her house. If he did not agree to be docile and go to bed willingly, she was going to club him over the head.
Jemima got the hiccups. Leon put his arm around Claire and sat sprawled there like he’d lost feeling in his limbs. Eventually they made it to Penn Station, and Claire corralled them off the train.
“Train beers,” Leon said in determination, speeding off ahead of Claire and Jemima in the station.
“Leon, get back here,” Claire called. “We’ll get them. Just—get back here.”
Leon turned on his heel and came back to them, and they disjointedly made their way through the station. Eventually they came upon a convenience stall, and Leon gleefully pulled out his wallet, wavering. “You guys want train beers?” he asked.
“No thanks,” Claire said.
“Um—maybe one,” Jemima said.
“You’re like—you’re like train beer queen,” Leon said to Claire. “You sure you don’t want train beer?”
“I’m sure,” Claire reiterated, and then watched in alarm as Leon began to grab train beers, loading up his arm. “Leon—hold on. You do not need like six tall boys of Modelo. What are you—“
“Train beers,” he said to her emphatically and loudly, whipping around to face her, then turning back to the cooler.
“Wait I don’t want Modelo,” Jemima said. “I want—I want Heineken.”
“Alright, grab it then,” Leon said, standing there with more beer than possibly anyone ever needed for a LIRR trip.
“Leon, put some of those back,” Claire said. “You do not need that many. I’m serious. Someone is gonna hurl on this train.”
Leon looked miffed but put two of the tall boys back, and then he had four Modelos. Claire sighed. That was probably as good as it was going to get. “C’mon, put that up here,” he said to Jemima, unceremoniously dumping his cans on the counter in front of the stone-faced attendant. The attendant scanned the beers, and then looked at Leon with zero emotion.
“46.50,” the attendant informed him, and Leon looked mildly like his wallet was too advanced for him to figure out for a minute, and then pulled out three twenties, foisting them at the attendant. The attendant accepted the cash and then handed Leon his change, then began to bag the beers. Leon fought to stuff singles back into his wallet and Jemima grabbed the bag, and Claire looked at her watch.
“C’mon guys, get a move on,” she said. “If we don’t catch this train I’m not going to be responsible for my actions.”
“I’m ready for bed,” Jemima said as they bumbled through the station.
“I’m ready to drink train beer,” Leon said. Claire was afraid that something along those lines would be his response. They made their way over to wait for their train to Long Island, and as per usual for pushing 2 AM on a Saturday night, they were surrounded by the usual crowd; people who looked like they were about to drop dead or people who’d drank themselves into fits, like Leon.
“Do I have time to run to the bathroom really fast?” Jemima asked, looking at Claire like she was the guiding parent on a school fieldtrip. Claire supposed tonight, for once, she kind of was.
“Yes,” Claire said, looking at her watch again. “But make it fast.”
Jemima handed the bag of beers to Leon, who took it with reverence, and Claire watched her coworker amble off, looking for a bathroom. Claire sighed and looked over and up at Leon, who grinned deviously at her and wiggled his eyebrows some.
“Leon, we are going to bed,” Claire said simply. “You better keep that eyebrow wiggling to yourself. You are beyond shitfaced. You need sleep.”
“Aw,” Leon said in defeat, frowning. “Are you gonna put on the socks?” he pressed.
Claire just looked at him. “Leon—“
“If you put on the socks I promise I will go to bed,” he said, weaving on his feet. “I will get right in bed. I will go to bed so fast—“
“We’ll see,” Claire replied dubiously, and then they were left to standing there in silence. Time passed, Claire looked at her watch and then looked around, searching for a sign of Jemima. The train was going to be there any minute and if Jemima caused them to miss it Claire was not going to be pleasant. Jemima was often so guileless and mild it was hard to really be angry with her, but Claire would manage it. She was never agreeing to be the sober party again. It needed to go back to the natural order of things, which was Claire drinking too much in the city and Leon getting them home with her assistance. Claire would not survive another night of Leon drinking himself back to age 15.
Claire stood on her tip-toes, craning her neck to look around, huffing. “Where is—oh Jesus,” she said, looking over and finally spotting Jemima making her way back to them.
The difference between now and about ten minutes ago is that now Jemima was in the middle of full blown drunken crying, her face red and tear-stained. Jemima shuffled up to them, heaving unevenly, hands in front of her.
“Jemima—“ Claire reached out and grabbed her shoulders. “Are you—what happened?” Claire asked.
“I went to the bathroom, and then I looked at my phone, because it wouldn’t shut up, and like—like—Dave is—“
“Oh my God, Jemima, are you crying over that asshole?” Claire asked tiredly.
Leon was suddenly too close and adamant, his face apoplectic concern. “Hey. Noooo. Jemima. No crying,” he said, soothing around the fact that his words were kind of unevenly spoken. “C’mon. Train beers?” he tried, sounding halfway like he wasn’t sure if it would help, himself. “No crying. Don’t cry.”
“He’s just so—so—“ Jemima was inconsolable. “Why are men so—“
“Noooo, Jemima,” Leon said soothingly, wrapping his arm around her. “I will murder him. I will kill him. I’m serious. I can find out where he lives. Listen—“
“Leon, no,” Claire said. “Just—don’t be looking this asshole up. Everyone, let’s just forget about Dave. Jemima, block him. Block his number. Do you hear me? Ignore this man. Forget he ever existed. What did he say to you?”
“He was saying I was pathetic, and I would be alone forever, and that I’m not even a good fuck, and—“
“Oh my God, where do you find these guys?” Claire asked in wonder. “Jemima—“
Leon was busy trying to crush Jemima into the front of him, his face unreasonably concerned. “Hey. No crying. Crying is lame. We’re not crying. We’re having train beers,” Leon said, kind of smashing Jemima’s face into his shirt. “Fuck it. Do you want me to kill him? I will—“
Claire looked at the scene in front of her, putting her hands on her hips. Under the 45 or so beers, Leon still had a relative heart of gold and the ever-present determination to try to make a situation better, even if he was going about it all wrong. Claire thought of him while sober offering to pay her bills, laying there in bed with her at night smoothing his hand over her head, thought of him listening to her rant and rave about the evils of the world and how useless she felt in the face of them. She often felt like Leon felt like he had to fix things, that if he had his way he’d just sweep every problem she ever faced right off her plate so she didn’t have to worry about it.
He was ridiculously drunk and threatening violence, but Leon was still doing what Leon did—in spite of the sarcasm, the dry wit, the one-liners, the unreadable face, he was concerned and just trying to help. He was not going to look at a crying woman in front of him and just shrug and walk away, no matter how lit he was.
“Jemima, you’re fucking up the barbecue,” Leon said, and Claire kind of knew what he meant by that but was also puzzled. “No crying. No crying at the barbecue. It’s not that—“
“But he’s right!” Jemima burst out, muffled into Leon’s shirt. “I am a loser! Like, I go home and watch Downton Abbey and, like, scrapbook and—“
“Hell yeah scrapbooking is fucking rad,” Leon said. “My sister-in-law scrapbooks and it’s like—the baddest shit—“
The train was pulling up, and Claire stood there feeling like she’d lost control of the situation a long time ago, if she’d ever had it. “Jemima, the train is here,” she said, putting her hand on her coworker’s shoulder. “We’re going home. It’s going to be okay. Stop crying.”
“It’s just going to be me and Salami forever,” Jemima sobbed, and Leon had the presence of mind to raise his head and look supremely confused.
“Like lunch meat?” he asked. “I mean hell yeah girl, salami is—“
“Salami is her cat,” Claire interjected, then began to forcibly turn both of them towards the train. “Okay. C’mon. Everyone on. The night is officially over. Jemima’s crying and Leon is drunk. C’mon.”
“I’m fine,” Leon replied.
“Sure,” Claire said doubtfully. “C’mon. Get on this fucking train. Let’s go.”
“Alright bossy pants I’m going,” Leon grumbled. “Jemima. Jemima do you want your train beer. Hey, stop crying.”
They boarded the train and Claire shepherded them towards some seats, and they all sat down. More accurately Claire sat, Jemima collapsed in a teary heap, and Leon kind of fell into his atypical of his usual posturing and somehow tightly controlled grace. Leon was rummaging through the bag and pulled out the tall boy of Heineken, cracking it open and sticking it into Jemima’s face, as if he were a parent trying to feed a finicky toddler. “Here, c’mon,” Leon said, cajolingly. “Please stop crying. Fuck Dave forever. I’ll fucking murder that guy. Drink your train beer.” Jemima did reach up with both hands and take the can from him, bringing it to her lips to take an unsteady, teary drink.
“Honestly, I think the last thing we need at this moment is more beer,” Claire said tiredly, “but sure. Go for it.” She looked at the scene in front of her for a moment, and let her shoulders slump. “Leon, I changed my mind. Gimme one of those things.”
“Atta girl,” Leon said happily, digging in the bag again and handing her a can of Modelo. “Good girl.”
Claire took the can from him and felt her cheeks turning a little pink; good girl out of Leon even when he was blind drunk still felt almost too intimate for public. She cracked it open and took a good long swallow of it.
“Fuck Dave,” Leon said to Jemima emphatically, rubbing her back while he cracked his own can of beer one-handed. Claire couldn’t manage such a feat; Leon was multi-tasking, consoling a woman and getting loaded at the same time. “Literally until the end of time. I hope he fucking dies in a fire,” Leon went on. “You and Salami forever. Salami for life.” Jemima was calming some, sniffling inelegantly, with her beer in both hands in front of her. “C’mon. Train beer,” Leon said, guiding the can back up to her face. “No crying.”
Claire leaned back in her seat. “You really do belong in the girls’ chat,” she said to Leon. “You’re unhinged, but this is the standard response to crying over a man from the girls’ chat.”
“My sister beat me if I wasn’t like emotional and shit,” Leon said. “She told me I had to be sensitive. Like in touch with my feelings and shit. But we’re not fucking crying.” Jemima looked up at him, opening her mouth, and he looked at her severely, raising a finger around his beer. “We’re not fucking crying. That shit is for losers. There’s only Salami and train beer. C’mon, Jemima.”
Claire looked over at them, a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. “This is like if a frat boy was conscripted into government service and then was asked to have an emotion, but sure,” she said. “You’re killing it. Ten out of ten protective brother vibes, just with extra…immaturity.”
“Do you want to see a picture of Salami?” Jemima sniffled.
“Hell yeah,” Leon said emphatically. “Fuckin—let’s cat it up. Show me this cat. I hope he’s fat.”
“He is kind of rotund,” Claire said in amusement.
Leon brought his can up and in Claire’s estimation, slammed half of it in a few large, violent gulps, his eyes turned to the side as Jemima pulled out her phone. “While you’ve got that out,” Claire said, “block that fuck’s number.”
“So this is Salami,” Jemima said, holding her phone over to Leon, who made a dramatic face like he was appreciating fine art, the works of the masters.
“Yes. I love it. Show me more Salami,” Leon said, again pulling from his beer. “Have you seen this?” he asked of Claire. “Show—show Claire. Look at this fucking cat.”
“I have met Salami,” Claire said, in amusement.
“Damn,” Leon said, in a vaguely lamenting way. Jemima was scrolling through her phone, sniffling gently, but the tears had dissipated. Leon looked over at her and again gently steered her can of beer towards her face.
“Leon, stop,” Claire chortled some. “You guys are drunk. She does not need help drinking her beer.”
Obediently and absently Jemima drank from her beer while scrolling on her phone, and Leon looked over at Claire direly. “Less crying. More train beer. I’m not dealing with crying. That’s not how this is going down.” He looked at her with an urging look. “You too, sweetheart. Train beer.”
Claire let out a sigh, smiling faintly, and brought her own can of beer towards her lips, taking a swig. Leon was something else, but he meant well, which was usually the case, perhaps no matter how much he tried to hide it.
……………………………………………………………
It was in fact after 3 by the time they got home. By happy coincidence, Jemima and Claire lived along the same branch of the train to Long Island, but Jemima was a few stops ahead of her. Leon drunkenly and belligerently said was not allowed Jemima to get off the train by herself, even though she’d called ahead for her taxi and it would probably be waiting there for her when she got off at her stop.
“No girls getting off the train by themselves,” Leon had said direly.
“Leon, I get off the train by myself all the time,” Claire had informed him. “At all times of night.”
“Knock it the fuck off,” he told her. “You want weirdos in trenchcoats with their dicks out? That’s how you get it.”
They all got off, and Jemima’s taxi was in fact there and drunkenly she climbed inside to go home to Salami and hopefully to block Dave forever, which led to Leon and Claire having to wait for their own taxi, which Claire called. Leon kind of fell in a bush. Claire had to keep him from wandering off into the darkness. He loudly lamented he drank all his train beers. Claire reminded him it was late and people were asleep. He suggested several times they walk to Claire’s. Claire informed him several times it was too far. He asked her again about the socks. Claire threatened to brain him. Drunkenly he kissed her, which Claire permitted there at the semi-darkened train station circa 2:45 AM, but then he started trying to grab her tits and she effectively put a stop to makeout time. Leon complained he had to piss. Claire told him to go find foliage and do what men did. He complied.
Eventually the taxi pulled up, and they rode the 25 minutes or so back to Claire’s train stop, where her vehicle was. As they climbed into that, Claire reflected on the fact that this was starting to feel like The fucking Odyssey, and for the millionth time she told herself going into the city to party was more headache than it was worth. This time her thoughts were compounded by the fact that Leon was drunkenly fucking with her stereo, bound and determined to expose them to the screaming noise he called music. Eventually he succeeded and at first turned the stereo to such a volume that Claire was concerned about her speakers blowing, and she reached out and cranked the knob down and Leon looked like he was hearing sad trombone noises in his head.
Eventually she was pulling into her driveway, the sight of her kind of lackluster porch with its yellowing light fixture never more welcome to her in all her life. Leon kind of almost fell out of the vehicle with a mumbled fuck and they went up on the porch, as Claire stuck her key in the door and Leon crowded too close to her, handsy.
“Leon, I’m serious,” she said, as he kind of grabbed at her ass. “It’s bed time.”
“It’s time for me to bury my face in your boobs,” he insisted as they went inside.
“I think not,” she said, hanging her keys on their hook near the door. “Maybe tomorrow, if you’re in any shape to do that.”
“Listen,” he said, looking over at her moving to turn on light, unsteady on his feet, “nothing will stop me.”
“You say that now,” she said knowingly. She watched him set off stumblingly past her into the house. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” he replied enigmatically.
“Leon, stay out of that Busch,” she called, listening for movement. “Leon. Get out here. Get away from the kitchen. The only thing you’re drinking is water.”
She heard silence as a response, and she put her hands on her hips, gazing into space. “Leon. I’m dead serious. Get out here.”
The sound of a can cracking was her reply. She rolled her eyes severely and let her hands drop off her hips. “Leon if that’s a beer I am dumping it out,” she said, starting off for the darkness of the kitchen.
She stalked across her small house to the darkened nook of a kitchen, and flipped on the light, and as she suspected, Leon was standing there busily pounding a beer. “Leon you have had fifty-five beers,” she said, coming over to him and reaching up for the can. He swatted her hand away and a mild slap-match ensued. “Fine!” she said, sensing she was not going to win this battle. “Finish it and come on. You’re going to bed.”
Leon finished draining the can of beer he normally complained endlessly about, and brought it down, crunching it in his hand and letting out a mild burp. Claire narrowed her eyes at him and snatched the can out of his hand and the movement seemed to cause him to sway in an unseen breeze. “Bed. Now. Get in there,” she said, and he looked sheepish and bumbled out of the kitchen, heading across the house. Claire sighed and set the can on the counter, and heard a mild crash from the other room. “Leon?” she called, half-concern, half-frustration.
“Nothing,” he called back, and then she heard his continued progress.
She flipped out the light in the kitchen and headed for the bedroom, and entered to find Leon attempting to remove his shoes while standing, one foot in the air, and immediately Claire knew this was a recipe for disaster. He wavered on his one foot dramatically and hopped once or twice and almost went down flat on his face, had it not been for Claire grabbing him and steadying him. “Sit down,” she told him, and he dropped onto the bed. She sighed for the millionth time that night and knelt down to start unlacing his boots. He kind of fumblingly reached out to smooth at her hair, as she did so.
“You’re so pretty,” he said, as if this was the first time he’d realized it.
“Thank you,” she returned, pulling his boots off. She looked up at him and pushed herself up, her hand on his knee. “You are going to be fried tomorrow.” He sat there gazing at her, blank and moonstruck, and she reached out and tugged at the bottom of his shirt. “C’mon. Arms up.” He complied like he had no control of his limbs and she tugged the shirt off his somehow cooperative yet uncooperative form. She tossed the shirt onto the floor and opened her mouth to say something, and before she could his arms were wrapping around her, pulling her close. He flopped back on the bed and took her with him, and she was kind of half-standing half-collapsed on the bed, pinned in his arms. She tutted.
“Leon,” she said in warning. “You’re too drunk for this. I fear if you try to fuck you’re going to injure yourself. Bedtime.”
His face was buried in her hair, his hands wandering over her gropingly. “No I won’t,” he assured. “I’m a pro. I have skills. I’m—“
“I do not believe you,” she said, struggling to squirm away from him. “I am putting my foot down. Not tonight,” she said, succeeding in pushing herself halfway up atop him. “Sleep. If you’re still determined to get fresh in the morning, be my guest. I’ll be kind of amazed if you can do it.”
“Boner in the morning, right away,” Leon said. “Hell I have a boner now. Hey—do we have food?”
Claire paused for a moment; true to his word, he was relatively hard in his jeans, and for the second time that night she found herself trying to evade it instead of pressing up against it in excitement. “Leon. It is nearly 4 AM. Get your dick under control, and I’ll feed you in the morning.” She squirmed. “Let me up. You need water. You need ibuprofen, or you will not survive.”
“Noooo,” he moaned, grabbing her ass and pressing her against him insistently as she struggled. “Boner time.”
“Absolutely not,” Claire maintained, pulling at his arms. “Let go or I’m gonna knee you in the nuts.”
He released his arms to flop behind him with a gust, and produced a sad puppy noise when she righted herself from him, looking down at him. “C’mon. Bedtime. Finish getting in there.”
“I’m gonna jerk off,” he announced to the ceiling.
“You are not,” she said. “Keep that thing in your pants and get in bed.” She gave him one last threatening look and then exited the room, heading to get the biggest glass of water she could and the bottle of ibuprofen. When she returned to the bedroom, Leon was sprawled inelegantly on his side, mostly on his side of the bed, still in his jeans. “Here. Drink this and take a few of these,” she said, looking at his unresponsive form. “Leon. Leon.” He produced a groggy, loud noise. “C’mon. Five seconds ago you thought you were gonna fuck. Sit up and drink this water.”
He jolted upright, then halfway through the jolt looked like he regretted the jolt, and reached over with a wince to take the glass of water from her. Obediently he began to drink it, and Claire shook ibuprofen out into her hand. “Here,” she said, handing him the pills. He clumsily tossed them into his mouth, and then looked down some.
“Oops,” he said, and Claire sighed. He hunted around him half-assedly, dangerously close to spilling the water in his hand.
“Just forget it,” she said. “As long as some of them made it into your mouth, we’re good.” He resumed drinking the water, and Claire looked away from him, unbuttoning her shorts and pulling down the zipper.
“Hell yeah,” Leon said from behind her, sounding like her taking off her shorts had—unfortunately—given him a second wind. She ignored him and stripped her shirt off, and he made an excited noise.
“Leon, lay down,” she said over her shoulder, standing there in her underwear and bra.
“No,” he said. “C’mere.”
“No,” she said. “I’m pulling the dominance card on you tonight. You’re too drunk to run the show. Lay down.” She moved over for her dresser, pulling out a pair of sleep shorts, and a ratty t-shirt. She took her bra off and ignored Leon’s pained groaning from the bed, not making eye contact while half naked, and pulled on the t-shirt, and then the shorts. She came over and got onto the bed, and Leon was reaching for her, hands pointed. “Leon. We are going to lay in this bed and go to sleep.”
“Mmmm fine,” he said quickly. “Come here. Let me put my face in your tits.”
Claire sighed heavily and laid down, and allowed Leon to curl up next to her, eagerly mashing his face to her t-shirt covered chest. “Mmmmm excellent,” he mumbled. Claire brought her hand up and threaded it through his hair, looking down at him.
“You’re a mess,” she said. “Tonight I learned if I let you drink enough you act like the sound a Kazoo makes.”
“Boobs,” he mumbled, one of his hands coming up to firmly grab hold of one. “Fuckin’ A.”
“You are going to be so sorry tomorrow,” she said in amusement.
“No I won’t,” he replied. “Gonna feel great.”
“Sure,” she said in disbelief. “Here. Let me turn out the light.” He made a noise of disgruntlement and clung to her when she tried to move, and she made a return noise of exasperation and squirmed away from him, reaching for the light and clicking it off. She returned to her original position, and Leon once again captured her and held her hostage, face in her chest. Claire laid there for a moment, gazing at the ceiling; she was used to Leon being the one flat on his back as she clung to him. This role reversal felt odd. Leon was also practically clutching at her, as opposed to how she would lightly curl along his side, and she knew eventually she was going to have to move.
“Leon?” she murmured. Silence. “Leon, hey.” More silence. He was like a clutching, drunk, feral dead weight. All of five minutes ago he’d been asking her for food and trying to stick his dick in her. Now he was dead to the world.
Claire let out a sigh and let her head drop back onto the pillow, gazing into the darkness. Now that she’d seen it once, she kind of decided way-too-drunk Leon Kennedy was more than she wanted to deal with, but who was she to deny him? He let her get silly and sloppy every time they went into the city, and dutifully he got her home and helped her get undressed and let her curl up alongside him. He tended to her in the morning when her head ached and was gentle with her.
Maybe he deserved to cut loose, too. He spent so much of his time seeming somehow repressed, holding tightly onto control, that maybe it was good for him to act like a drunk high schooler every once in a while. Claire brought her hand up and threaded it through his hair again, and he made a tiny noise in his sleep.
She was in love with this confusing, somehow tightly controlled yet trainwreck of a man. That meant loving him in all of it—even in his immature, out of control, drunken vagaries in which he got boners in a bar and screamed on the street about STDs.
Claire let out a sigh and held her head to him, and vowed to be less annoyed and snappish in the morning and more of the patient and gentle he invariably showed to her when she woke up plagued by her own bad decisions. Maybe he coddled her, but maybe he deserved to be coddled back, for once.
She closed her eyes.