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Leon could deal with putting bullets in infected things. Outbreaks were a dime a dozen. He felt like that was par for the course; they didn’t really give him pause anymore. Leon found himself more annoyed and resigned that people didn’t seem to learn their lessons. There seemed to be no shortage of insane assholes in the world who thought to themselves this time it’ll be different, I can control it and then surprise surprise, there was a full on viral meltdown happening.
The government sent him to deal with these things. The government had its fingers in a lot of pies, however, and that was not all they sent him to deal with. Sometimes organizations like the CIA got in the DSO’s ear, and Leon was sent off to countries that didn’t necessarily welcome American interference to do dubious things; he was sent off to make someone pay for slighting Uncle Sam.
Those ops gave him pause. He still did them. He had no choice. But putting a bullet in a regular person as opposed to a mutated one trying to consume your flesh hit differently. In his private time, Leon called a spade a spade—it was government sanctioned murder, and he was the one pulling the trigger, driving the knife, swinging the hatchet.
20 years in and he still didn’t feel any better about it. He existed in public with blood on his hands. He felt ruined. If he still believed in Hell, he had a one-way ticket there.
The op had been quick, in and out. Barely enough time to get jet-lagged. Not even long enough to require him to eat government go pills. He was back at Andrews before he knew it, back in the offices, and then driving from DC to home, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
It was mid-morning when he entered the house. It was quiet; a check of the garage revealed Claire’s truck was missing. TerraSave had likely sent her off into DC on an errand; bothering an elected official, pow-wowing with another NGO for a collective purpose. Leon too had been sent on an errand.
His just involved killing people.
He was glad Claire was not home. He was still adjusting to not being alone after the more morally-dubious ops; he’d been the one that wanted to live with her. He’d been the one with the idea to buy the house. Now he had her and the house and sometimes he found himself trying to hide from her when returning from the field. He’d agreed to become knowable and honest to her but he still didn’t know how to express to her that he was scared that his hands were so covered in blood that he didn’t deserve any of this. He didn’t deserve her, he didn’t deserve a normal life in a suburb, he probably didn’t deserve to keep drawing breath. Just like he looked through the sight at others, there was nothing to stop someone from one day looking through the sight at him. His life was just as easy to take, and he figured he was sorely deserving of it being taken.
Sherry had run the op for him. He’d brushed her off before leaving the offices, and he’d ignored her call as he drove from DC to Middleburg.
In the absence of Claire and the self-enforced absence of Sherry’s well-meaning check-ins, Leon fell into old habits.
He started drinking. He sat on the couch and stared into space with his loud thoughts, and he drank to try to quiet them.
…………………………………………………………………….
At after 6, Leon heard the distant sound of the garage door opening on the other side of the house. Claire was back. He felt mildly better than he had a few hours ago; his head was more in shape. He was also moderately drunk. He felt vaguely like a disappointment, in many ways. Claire was too good for this; she didn’t deserve his issues, didn’t deserve him half-cocked on a couch before dinner. Leon knew better, but it had not stopped him.
The government shrink had rubber-stamped him that morning, sending him out the door. Leon was exceptionally good about not letting on about his moral quandaries at this point, 20 years in.
He heard the door to the garage open, and the noises of Claire in the kitchen. Her keys hit the kitchen counter, and she emerged on the edge of the living room. She stopped short at seeing him on the couch; standing there in a dress that looked like it belonged on a kindergarten teacher, her hair in a messy bun low against her neck. Evidently whatever TerraSave had sent her into DC to do was important; she was dressed up. She gazed at him.
“Hey,” she said. “I figured you’d be sleeping. You’re back already?”
“Yeah,” he said, folding his hands on his stomach. “In and out.”
Claire nodded, and seemed to be appraising the situation. “What time did you get home?” she asked.
“About 10:30,” he said.
She nodded again. “Have you been drinking since then?” she asked, her tone even.
“Yeah,” he said, with a gust.
Claire nodded yet again and walked into the living room slowly, then carefully perched herself on the couch cushion next to him, looking over at him. He remained gazing into space; it momentarily felt too hard to meet her eyes. “That bad, huh?” she asked, gently.
He did not reply immediately. He had a choice. He could hide it all or he could cut his gut open and let it all spill out. All the self-revulsion, all the fear, all the anger, all the everything. He didn’t know if Claire deserved to be subjected to that. She shared a bed with him, he didn’t expect her to be his full-time shrink, too. She didn’t need his damage. Nobody probably did.
“When I was 22,” he began, finally, “and still under STRATCOM, they took me out for weapons training.” He remained gazing out into space. “They handed me an M24. Used to be the standard issue sniper rifle for the military, up until the mid-2000s. Got a crash course on it. I’d never fired a sniper rifle. I wasn’t really used to sights. I laid down with that thing, scared shitless, and I put a hole in a target at 500 yards, my first time. I was shocked to shit. The instructor whooped. I remember being happy about it. Like proud. I felt like it was the academy all over again and I’d done something right. Instructor told me I was a natural, that I had eagle eyes, that he was shocked a wet-behind the ears recruit managed a kill shot from that distance on their first try.”
Claire was silent next to him, looking at him.
“I thought it was a fluke. It wasn’t. I could do it every time I tried, and from further away. They were impressed. I was impressed. It went on my record that I was capable with an M24. The gun’s different now, but that record followed me.” Leon swallowed. “It follows me everywhere. Now any time they need anything done with a rifle, there I am. They send me.”
Claire gazed at him. “How much of this have you had?” she asked, indicating the glass of whisky on the coffee table in front of him.
“Too much,” he said. “Not enough.”
She reached out and pushed the glass away, towards the middle of the coffee table. “Probably enough,” she said, gently. Her hand came to rest on his knee. “Wait here, for a minute.”
“Sure,” he said, evenly, still staring into space.
Claire stood and snuck past his legs, heading for the hallway and the back of the house. Leon sat there for long moments, lost in his thoughts. Claire was smart; he’d probably said enough to give her the gist. He was afraid to say more. He was afraid if he started he wouldn’t be able to stop; it’d just be every inadequacy and thought of self-loathing and burning guilt he’d ever had. It was easier to sit there and drink about it, but he owed her something. He didn’t live alone anymore. He couldn’t just drank until he passed out.
Part of him wanted to. Part of him wanted the temporary ease. Part of him wanted to forcibly forget how that rifle felt in his hands. Part of him wanted to forget how easy it was to pull the trigger.
Claire was gone for a long while. Leon looked at the glass of whisky where she’d pushed it, out of his immediate grasp. He wanted to pick it up. Claire, in her unobtrusive way, had told him to stop. Leon felt torn between obligation to Claire and the feeling inside him.
Eventually she returned, and he finally allowed himself to look up at her. She was in her robe. At some point she’d shed the dress that made her look like she was teaching the alphabet to four year olds. “C’mon,” she said, holding her hand out at him. He looked at her for a moment, then stuck his hand out and put it in hers, and when he stood his head swam with whisky. He was going to feel this tomorrow.
She led him down the hallway, back into the bedroom, and to the bathroom. He stood there blankly, with her in front of him. She’d run the bath, and it was there, full and steaming. She reached down and grabbed the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up. He raised his arms and let her pull it off him, and then she reached down and began to undo his belt, her face even.
Normally motions like this were about arousal, their hands all over each other. Arousal was so far from him at this point it felt like someone yelling through a paper towel tube at him. He stood there and complied blankly as she stripped him, stepping out of the pile of clothes at his feet. She untied her robe and let it drop, and then she climbed into the bath, settling into it against the edge, and then she beckoned him.
“Come here,” she said. Leon looked at her and then moved, stepping into the tub. He adjusted himself and sat down, and Claire parted her legs and wrapped her arms around him, drawing him back to her. He was generally too big to be the little spoon; he sank down some in her arms, against her, his legs stretching out further in the oversized tub. He did not use it often, but he’d appreciated its size when they’d looked at the house. He was used to seeing Claire practically swimming in it, full of bubbles or things that smelled like a floral arrangement. He’d cold-soaked himself in it once or twice, dumping ice into it. He shifted against her, allowing himself to be held.
Claire’s hands came up, wet from the water, and she stroked his hair back, brushing it back from his forehead. He felt water running down his neck, felt his hair growing damp. The heat of the water was causing his head to swim yet further from the alcohol in his system.
Her arms came down to wrap around him again, settling around him. He leaned back into her fully, feeling blank and somewhat intoxicated.
“Are you going to want to eat?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t think so,” Leon replied. “I think I drank my dinner.”
She hummed. “Not great. You should let me put some food in you.”
“I’m not trying to make you do anything,” he said.
“You aren’t making me do anything,” she said. “I’m trying to take care of you.”
“You don’t need to worry about it,” Leon said.
“It’s not a worry,” Claire replied. “It’s me caring. You need to eat.”
Leon sighed, and laid there in her arms. Part of his brain wanted to reject her efforts to care. He felt like he did not deserve them. It was easier to sit alone in silence and drink.
“When you picked up that rifle, at 22,” she said, her voice soft, “you didn’t know any better. You wanted to do a good job.”
“I know better now. I’ve known for a long time.”
Claire’s hand came back up to stroke at his hair. “You’ve also not had a choice, for a long time. You do what you can.”
“There’s always a choice. I can refuse. I can get shipped off to Leavenworth or somewhere like it for refusal to follow orders.” Leon looked out at the wall. “I don’t. I choose the path of least resistance. I sacrifice my morals to keep having what passes as a life. What they’ll allow.”
“It’s not much of a choice,” Claire said. “You didn’t know it would be like this, at 21.”
“I still made the choice,” Leon said. “I still signed the paperwork.”
“You were a child,” Claire said. “Just like an 18 year old getting lied to by a recruiter. You couldn’t have known what they would do with you. They threatened you. You did what you thought you needed to do. You didn’t know what would happen.”
“I keep letting it happen,” Leon said.
“What’s the alternative?” Claire asked, turning her head towards him.
“Morality,” he replied, simply.
“I don’t find you wanting,” she murmured. “I love you.”
He shifted. “I don’t know why.”
“Because you’re wrestling with this,” she said. “Because inside you’re still the 22 year old trying to do well. Because you need to be loved.”
“I’m not sure what I need,” Leon said. “I don’t know if it’s to be loved.”
“It is,” Claire affirmed. “My answer is never going to change.”
“I am scared that if you knew what I was,” he said, finally cracking, “what I really was, the answer would change.”
“No,” Claire said. “You accepted me damaged. You accepted me ruthless. I do the same for you.”
“You’re a good person, Claire,” he said tiredly. Her arms tightened around him and she pressed her face against his.
“So are you. I’m never going to change my mind. You’re good. You’re good to me.” She kissed his temple, her lips lingering. She wasn’t going to let him wallow; she never had. Even when he was 21 and it was less complicated, back when he was just mourning the death of his old life and ruing evil in the world, she hadn’t let him wallow. Her tactics had been a bit more forceful then; at 19 she’d been more apt to snap at him that he wasn’t the only one with problems, that he wasn’t the only one whose life had been royally fucked.
Sometimes, he kind of wished she’d snap at him again. He periodically felt undeserving of the love, and more deserving of someone yelling at him to shape up and quit fucking crying.
“You deserve better, Claire,” he said, after a long moment.
“No I don’t,” she murmured back immediately. “I have exactly what I deserve.”
She wasn’t going to hear it. She was forceful and she saw things in him he didn’t see himself, things he refused to see, things he thought he’d let go of a long time ago. He no longer saw the 22 year old when he looked in the mirror. Somehow she looked at him and still saw that 22 year old, buried under the ruin of the years.
Leon shut his mouth and just let her hold him. He didn’t know what else to say. He felt vaguely ashamed. He felt like he should be better than this. He still felt like if Hell was there, he was destined for it.
They sat in the bath until the water was tepid, her hands stroking his hair, her hands kneading his shoulders, her lips soft against his face. Eventually she gently eased him forward and slipped out from behind him. She bent over and pulled the stopper for the tub, and returned with two towels. She handed him his, and wrapped hers around herself. He stood, feeling blank and drunk. She looked at him and took the towel from him, drying him off like he was an overgrown child. He felt like he should be more capable than this, but at the moment, he was not. He was drunk and feeling like he didn’t deserve to be part of society at all. When she’d finished drying him off, she disappeared to the bedroom, and then returned with a pair of his basketball shorts, laying them on the bathroom counter.
“Go get in bed,” she directed, lowly. “I’m going to find you some food.”
He did not argue with her. She quickly dried herself off and put her robe back on, leaving the bathroom. He didn’t know what her day had entailed. He knew she hated having to go to DC, hated having to dress up and deal with suits she felt like were telling her one thing out of one side of their mouth and telling someone else something out the other.
Claire was too honest and decent for most things in DC, him potentially included. And yet there she was, babying him because he’d made bad choices and suddenly the burden of them was crushing him.
He pulled on the shorts, and his bleary gaze caught his reflection in the mirror. He gazed at it for a moment, emptily.
Tomorrow he’d have to put it all back under his hat. Tomorrow he’d have to drive into DC and go into the offices in a suit and pretend like it all didn’t bother him, like he was born to kill and it didn’t give him pause. He’d be sarcastic and smug, an asshole in an expensive suit who appeared blessedly uncaring about questions of what being good and decent was.
Tonight, he was lost. Broken. Ground into dust by the turning gears of government and their expectations of him. It wasn’t just him; Claire bore faithful witness to his inability to deal with what he’d become.
She refused to run. She probably should have. He supposed he could not have blamed her if she had. She was made of stronger stuff than him; he felt like he ran every chance he got. He’d wanted her, he’d wanted the house. She refused to run, and she wasn’t going to let him either. Not how he wanted to, with alcohol, silence in the darkness, and self-loathing.
Falling apart was not a luxury he had. Tomorrow it started all over again.
He turned away from his reflection and walked out of the bathroom, feeling unsteady on his feet. Leon headed for the bed and half-laid, half-collapsed on it. He looked up at the ceiling, and waited for Claire to return.
He thought back to himself at age 22, taking that first shot, and feeling like he’d won the lottery when he exceeded everyone’s expectations. He’d been eager to please. He’d still believed in God. He’d trusted the government that owned him.
He rolled over, heavily. What was done was done. He couldn’t take it back. But God, sometimes he wished he could.