Chapter Text
“Do you blame yourself?”
Leon is pulled back abruptly from wherever he was previously. The clinician sits in front of him with her glasses on the tip of her nose. She’s staring at him, waiting for an answer, eyebrows are furrowed and she’s leaning toward him in her chair. The therapist has her hands clasped together and they rest easily on her knees, her shoulders relaxed. She’s confident, but not cocky. He’s good at reading people, it’s one of the few things hypervigilance is good for.
“What?”
The therapist sits back in her seat, pushing her glasses up and readjusting the pillow behind her back. Leon had heard the question but did not fully comprehend it at that moment. The therapist had usually been good at respecting his silence, but today it seemed like she was intending to take some risks. A knot has already formed in his lower back that stretched up into his shoulders and neck. Leon adjusts himself on the couch to relieve some of the pressure on the muscles.
“Everything that’s happened to you. Your service, the lives you’ve lost, the people you couldn’t save. Do you blame yourself?”
Leon’s stomach twists around itself and his back muscles tighten exponentially. He can feel the way his teeth grind incessantly against each other, most likely causing irreversible damage to his enamel. This particular question stabs him in the gut like a knife, worse than a knife somehow. He’s been stabbed before, multiple times actually, and he would have much preferred to have been stabbed than have this particular question asked. Of course he blames himself, so much death and destruction was his fault. Leon was responsible for all of those people and those people are dead or so beyond traumatized because of his actions. He frequently runs each memory like simulations, Racoon City, Operation Javier, Spain, New York City. He plays them back in his head like a tape recorder. Rewind, play, rewind, play, analyzing every detail, every mistake, every word and how the situation might have played out differently if he acted in a way that he now deemed more appropriate. Rewind, play, rewind, play.
“I’m not answering that question.”
Plain, dry, flat, matter of fact. Leon leans back and averts eye contact, sweeping his hair out of his face. He looks out the window and hates that it’s sunny. Leon has been asked- no forced- by his agency to begin receiving therapy from the lady in the pencil skirt in front of him in her generic office with her generic name. He wished the weather better matched his mood, but this was just one of many things in his life that he had no control over.
Maybe if it was rainy, the kind of rain that came down in sheets and made noon look like midnight, he’d be able to justify his shit mood. Leon can feel his therapist take a deep breath from across him. The therapist adjusts herself and he notices that she was playing with the rings on her fingers. Leon scanned her from the corner of his eye. None of her rings looked like traditional wedding or engagement rings, though who’s to say her taste in jewelry matches the status quo. Leon finally gets the memo and realizes that she’s trying to ground herself. He’s seen a million therapists do this before in sessions with him. Leon is more than aware that he’s a pain in their asses.
“Look, I know you’re hesitant to talk about-”
She pauses. He knows she’s trying to be sensitive but Leon wishes she would simply rip the bandaid off. Leon looks around the room during her temporary speaking hiatus. It's one of those offices that is pretending to be comfy. It has a couch for him and a chair for his therapist, pictures hang on the wall of people who he can assume are family members of the woman in front of him. The walls are a muted buttery yellow. Leon can't say the color is doing any favors to help smooth out the therapist's words. Behind the therapist is a collection of books on a built in shelf. Family Systems Therapy, Group Therapy Tactics, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Treatment Workbook, Treating Generalized Anxiety, and the works go on. Leon knows this is the therapist's toolbox and none of these tools have ever been tested on, much less designed for, an alcoholic agent who has dealt with years worth of bioterror, death, and destruction.
“About your story-”
He interjected. He has to. Everyone thinks his story is special because he lived. Leon’s story isn’t his at all. The real stories to tell were the men, women, and children who were six feet under because he wasn’t able to save them. Leon lives with this shame every single day. He was "recruited" to save lives, that was his mission. It's why he joined the police force in the first place. Yet he is here, reminiscing on the people he couldn't save, feeling guilty about his ratio of saved vs killed in action.
“Not my story to tell.”
He looks up at the clock. He has five minutes left before he can legally leave with no reprimand from the individual who signs his paychecks and the paperwork that keeps him out of a prison where his identity will easily be wiped from the face of the Earth. Leon thinks about leaving now and letting the therapist in front of him send the case notes over to his supervisor. Perhaps a nameless life in prison is better than whatever awaits him outside of this door. But he keeps his ass seated because he didn’t deserve an easy, nameless life in prison. People are dead, and it’s on him to give meaning to their deaths.
“So start with the stories you can tell.”
Leon makes the briefest of eye contact with his therapist. Her chocolatey eyes are trained intensely on him, even if he avoids looking directly at her. The therapist’s brows are still furrowed and her lips were turned into a tight frown. Her hands still rested on her knees, posture still leaned forward toward him, seeking a connection that will most likely never happen. He can tell that she does care about him. He wishes that it mattered.
“What if I can’t tell any of them yet.”
At first, he’s proud of himself. A deep part of Leon hates that she cares. It would be so much easier for him if she was like most other professionals; there for the paycheck. But she wasn’t. She wanted to get to know him and to help him process almost two decades worth of trauma. A second wave of emotion hits him after the pride. It’s self loathing. A deep loathing for the way he chose to close himself off to others. He tried to rationalize his verbal aggression. *What’s the point in fixing me if I’m going to get damaged again anyway.* Damaged goods was how he always described himself. A therapist once told him that he’s like a vase, with each piece being jagged and sharp. Without caution, someone trying to help him would get hurt and that it was on Leon to soften his edges. He had laughed at that therapist, thinking too literally about the vase on purpose. All the other therapists were one off sessions after missions that were more traumatic than usual, meaning that he could get away with being a prick. This situation was different, he’s going to be stuck with this lady for a good long while. The therapist continues.
“Then we start with what you can tell me.”
His therapist looks up and sighs. She’s clearly dejected as she shakes her head and leans back into the chair, disconnecting herself from him.
“Well, that’s all the time we have today. I have you scheduled for next week, same time. Does that work for you?”
Leon stands and scoffs.
“It’s gonna have to work for me.”
Leon’s therapist nodded knowingly, stood up, and extended a hand to shake. He shakes her hand because he’s not a monster.
“If anything comes up between now and next Saturday, call my office and we’ll get you settled sooner rather than later.”
Leon agrees, though both individuals know that he would never call for extra sessions. It was a struggle just to be here, much less take extra time to sit in this stupid office in silence. He waves as he leaves her room and walks outside into the hazy city air. It wasn’t fresh by any means. Leon had smelled much nicer air… The kind of air that is purified by northern pine trees, maples, spruce, and oak trees. He misses the purity of his rural hometown. But the city air will do after being stuck in that stuffy generically “cozy” office with his new therapist. He begins walking down his usual route, the bar downtown, and he has to stop himself because excessive drinking habits got him here in the first place. Leon stands at a crossroads- literally, it was a very busy four way intersection in Washington D.C- and know he has to decide how he should behave today.
The intersection is filled with cars whizzing by the stoplight far faster than what was legal. In a different life, Leon might have been stopped at this intersection and asked to pull over individuals who sped through redlights or took a turn on red when there was a sign clearly prohibiting that. That alternative life, where the Raccoon City incident never happened or where he never showed up in the first place, would have been much simpler.
Maybe he'd have a house, a wife, some kids, a white picket fence, and a pool. He'd purposefully cannonball right next to his little ones, ensuring they left the pool completely soaked. As Leon was waiting at the light, he imagined what little giggles and stolen kisses might have felt like. That life was so far out of reach it was almost incomprehensible. Key word being almost, considering he was still plagued by vague daydreams.
Leon could hear people talking about the bar, how excited they were to drink. Whispers of whiskeys, vodkas, rums, and scotches surround him, taunting him, reminding him that he has to be responsible and sober going forward. He so desperately wanted a drink, to feel the burn down his throat and that would precede drunken bliss. Leon didn't care to be caught at the bar again though.
Espresso will have to be a shitty substitute for vodka.
He clicks the button to cross and it politely asks him to wait before walking. He stands and feels the air of cars passing by him, the artificial wind cools him somewhat. It was one of those abnormally hot days in early April. The kind that fools the entire city into thinking they were having an early spring before a large, cold storm hits and then everyone talks about how fooled they were. It happens every year, and every year Leon despises the useless repetitive talk.
He was given the order to go, and like a good soldier, Leon walked across the walkway with a crowd of other people. He scans the crowd like he usually does and assesses the individuals around him. No threats detected… like a fucking computer. He continued walking until he came to the front of the coffee shop. Except it wasn’t the coffee shop Leon remembered. The previous sign, Big Bean Cafe, had been replaced. The warm neon letters read Papa Joe’s. Leon looks into the shop and notices the “greige” aesthetic is gone. The interior looked like his grandma’s house. Leon didn’t remember much of his grandma’s home on account of the foster care system taking him so young, but he did remember little details like crochet doilies and random thrifted paintings. This is how the coffee shop looked now.
At first he felt embarrassed. Had he really been day drinking enough to not realize the cafe had been sold, bought, and renovated? Maybe this cafe will suck. He thought. If it sucked, then he didn’t have to feel bad about missing this major turning point for his neighborhood. He sighed and opened the door, a little bell chiming to let whoever was behind the counter know he was there. It was the smell that hit him first. He was immediately transported back to a much younger, much more innocent version of himself. His mom was making cookies. The kind that comes out of a tube and little him would try to snag some of the raw dough if he could. The coffee shop smelled exactly like that. He looked around and saw beanbag chairs, mismatched tables, and bulletin boards full of posters and freelance artwork. A quote on the wall behind the counter was written in some of the most beautiful calligraphy he had ever seen.
“It’s a helluva start, being able to recognize what makes you happy.” —Lucille Ball
He chuckled to himself. The quote is dated, the kind of quote that made him think of a stereotypical grandma, but it was also spunky. He liked it. He stood at the counter and looked over the options on the chalkboard wall. The coffee menu was small.
Drip Coffee - Medium, $3. Large, $4
Cold Brew - Medium, $5, Large $6.50
Espresso - $3.50
Latte (Hot or Iced) - Medium $5.50, Large $7.00
Cappuccino - $5.50
Milk Alternative - Oat, Almond
Flavors - Vanilla, Hazelnut, Pistachio
Syrups - Sea Salted Mocha (made in house), Smoked Caramel (made in house)
Seasonal Beverage - Iced Carrot Cake Latte: A beautiful blend of espresso, cinnamon, and a house made carrot cake syrup. Topped with cream cheese cold foam and sprinkled with cinnamon.
He liked that the menu was short and sweet. He sometimes gets choice paralysis when the menu was too big and then he’d always end up with black coffee anyway because why take the risk to try something new. *Story of my life.* He thought. Before he could pin an option down, a lady with her hair worn up walked out from the back. She had a pink apron on that had the same sign out front embroidered in white. She looked up, and your warm eyes met his.
“Good morning. How can I help you today?”
Loaded question. If Leon were to actually genuinely answer this question, how was he and what did he need, he'd have to pay the woman in front of him more money than what he had to offer in his wallet. What a funny question to ask, really. Because no one actually wants to know how you're doing and no one actually wants to step in and help unless they have the right licensure. Leon knows that this simply is a nicety, though he wished it wasn't the way the world set up socially acceptable exchanges. He needed something smug to say back, something to ease his own tension.
“Actually, it’s officially the afternoon.” Leon said. There was a pridefulness in his voice. You smiled. Not the kind of patronizing “please shut up and give me my tip smile” that most service workers give you. No, it was a genuine, full teeth smile.
“Guess I was just hoping to have a longer morning, ya know?” You looked out the big window behind him, admiring the way the sunshine hit the front of your store. “It’s so beautiful outside and I know this is going to be temporary… fool’s spring am I right?”
His mouth tugged upwards against his will and he let out the smallest chuckle. You knew about fool's spring, understood that this was a temporary state. This conversation was already a nice change of pace.
“You’re going to hear about how fooled we were for the next month, arn’tcha?”
You giggled and rolled your eyes, perching your hands on your hips.
“Absolutely I am. What can I getcha today?”
Then something strange happened. Instead of asking for the black coffee, the safe option, he asked something truly and totally bizarre.
“What do you recommend?”
He hadn’t processed the words until they escaped his lips. He was in complete and total shock, though he refused to show this feeling on his face. Never in a million years would he have ever pinned himself as the kind of guy who asks for a stranger’s opinion on well… anything. You answered before he had time to retract his question.
“Iced carrot cake latte without a doubt. I just made a batch of syrup and cold foam this morning so everything is wicked fresh. Whole milk ok?”
He nodded and the woman in front of him got to work. You moved with military level precision. He respects that kind of work ethic. Leon poured every piece of himself into his career, even though he didn’t have a choice for employment. This woman in front of him seemed to mirror that mentality, just within the setting of a cafe. A familiar robust, nutty, and dark smell filled the air around him. The gentle clinking of ice against a plastic cup signaled that his drink was almost ready. The woman turned around and handed him what he believed to be a work of art. The cold foam sat on top of the coffee, slowly beginning to melt itself into the brew. The woman handed him a cookie too. His brow knitted in confusion.
“That’ll be $6.50. The cookie is on the house since it’s your first time here.”
Alarm bells signaled in his head. He immediately felt watched, which was one of his least favorite feelings. She must’ve noticed this because she responded to his thoughts immediately.
“Relax! I just opened today so everyone here is going to be new. I’m testing a new recipe so I didn’t want to charge for this.”
His shoulders relaxed and he took the drink and handed the woman two ones and a five. He took a bite out of the cookie while you were getting change for him and it was amazing. It was respectfully classic while also elevating itself somehow.
“Ya know, it’s bad business practice to be handing out cookies this delicious for free. You’re setting a precedent and I’m gonna come back asking for more free things.”
He leaned himself against the counter, propping himself up with his elbow, waving the cookie as he spoke. The woman handed fifty cents back and laughed. You allowed your fingers to touch the palm of his free hands as you dropped the change, allowing for an exchange of bodily heat from one person to the other. Leon didn't admit it to himself but it felt good to touch another person.
“Squatters rights I guess. I’m glad you like the cookie, though. It’s my Papa’s recipe. He’d be happy to know his legacy lives on.”
You smiled wide, your teeth showing again, your eyes obscured by your cheek bones elevated in genuine happiness. The woman in front of him was so authentic. Living in Washington D.C meant running into people who were seeking something from others. Lobbyists, celebrities, you name it.
These individuals always carried around a certain mask that ensured they only showed the best version of themselves. It was important to their jobs, of course, so he couldn’t blame them for that. Leon just wished he could find more people like… he didn’t know your name. And for the first time in a long time he asked that ice breaking questions that gate kept the potential for something more than just a barista customer relationship.
“It’s funny… I know your Papa’s name but not yours.”
You state your name and Leon reminds himself to remember it. You bounce the question back at him.
“Leon”
“Well Leon, thanks for popping in and supporting my first day of business. I hope the latte treats you well.”
The two waved goodbye and he began to walk toward his apartment. As he stepped back into the busy streets of D.C, he couldn’t help but enjoy the sunshine. A warmth enveloped him and for the first time in a long time, he felt able to appreciate fools spring.
Leon could feel the way in which the rays of light warmed his dark leather jacket. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, taking full advantage of the good weather early April has in store for them. Pink buds filled the air with a delicate floral smell that reminded him that true spring was right around the corner. A robin’s song echoes into the air, a love song for another lonely robin who might be willing to come together to create a temporary home and family for the summer.
He continued his walk back to his apartment, taking his usual route. He sipped the latte and damn… he thought. It was delicious. The cinnamon was warm and spicy, there were hints of vanilla and the tangy cream cheese cold foam just tied the whole ordeal together. She wasn’t wrong, this latte was amazing. He pulled out his phone and put a new event in the calendar. 5:00 PM, next Saturday, Papa Joe’s, try something new. He slipped his phone in his jacket pocket, sat on a bench, and decided to enjoy the sunshine.