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The light bounced off the bottle of champagne as Claire brought it down on the man’s bald head in a wide arc. It shattered into countless of glittering pieces. She didn’t see them. She barely registered the cut when the neck of the bottle bit into her hand or how the soaked skirt clung to her legs, cold and sticky from the champagne.
The man crumpled to the ground, his hands clamped over his bleeding head. She didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy. This was supposed to be a happy night. Their anniversary. And it did start off pleasant enough, with Leon making jabs about her taking too long to do her makeup, although he had been the one who had hogged the shower for the better part of an hour. They had made it to the restaurant on time, despite bickering all the way. Leon had chosen French onion soup as a starter. She had gone for bruschetta. They both had had steak. The evening had been going splendidly—then the fucker lying in front of her legs had shown up, brandishing a weapon at the guests sitting at the table next to theirs’, screaming nonsense about ‘not even giving him a chance’.
She kicked him in the ribs to discourage him from getting up, then dropped knee-first onto his spine, prying off his right hand from his head and twisting it behind his back.
“Go get a zip tie or something,” she grunted at the gaping waiters, then pointed at a young woman who had already had her phone out, its camera pointed right at her. “And you, do something useful and call 911.”
The waiter reappeared with the requested zip tie at last. The man squealed like a dog with its tail stuck in the door when she brought his other arm down as well so she could fasten them together.
“Don’t let him up,” she said, although she didn’t really care if the gawkers listened to her. She had more urgent matters to attend to.
The crowd around Leon fluttered apart like frightened birds at her approach.
“Help me roll him over.” She fell to her knees, trying to get under his limp body. Two men jumped to help, and they soon wrestled Leon onto his back. When he began to cough, it was like a rock shattered into dust in her chest. “Stay with me,” she murmured, trying to find the entry wound. The bullet was supposed to hit him right in the chest, and the fabric was torn, so where was the blood?
Her hand brushed against a tiny but hard bump. Leon groaned when she pulled his suit jacket aside. The shirt underneath was unharmed, but from the jacket’s inner pocket a rectangular box clattered to the ground. One side was engraved with her flowers—the other side was bent in the middle, deformed by the bullet still firmly lodged in the lid.
Leon’s eyes fluttered open. “Oh, yeah,” he murmured in a scratchy voice. “Almost forgot.”
“What is this?”
“It’s yours. If you want it.”
“Right.” She gave a shaky laugh and grabbed Leon’s pale hand to keep her own from trembling. “But what is this?”
“Give me… A moment.” He pulled his barely cooperative arms under himself and began to push but collapsed right back down in a coughing fit. “That’s not going to happen. Guess this is how we’re doing this.”
“Doing what?” She pulled his head into her lap so he wouldn’t have to lie on the grimy floor and swept a lock of hair from the eyes that were looking at her with a strange light in them.
“The audience is unexpected, but…” Most people had the good sense to find somewhere else to look. His lips curved into a sheepish smile, which she knew was meant only for her, not for any of the remaining onlookers, as he said, “Claire Redfield, will you marry me?”
A murmur ran through the crowd, but it was only background noise to Claire.
“You’re asking me now?” She wanted it to sound more reproachful, but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling back at him.
Leon shrugged then winced. “As good a time as any. Authentically us.”
The would-be-shooter growled as another waiter sat onto his legs to keep him from squirming. “Let me go!” he yelled. “I’ll kill her! I’ll kill her!”
“See?” Leon wheezed. “Authentic.”
“I’ll give you an authentic…”
“Answer?”
“What?”
She heard the sirens now. Police and ambulance, both speeding towards the restaurant.
“Your answer? Unless you like to see me suffer physically and mentally from the uncertainty.”
“No,” she exclaimed, only realizing the unfortunate choice of words when Leon paled two shades further, his eyes going a bit glassy. “I mean yes! The answer is yes, you dummy.”
“I am the dummy? After you…” She leaned over and silenced him with a careful kiss.
“Yes,” she said, straightening up, “who jumps into the way of a bullet when they are about to propose?”
“Me. You. Chris, Sherry, Jill, not sure about Jake…” She kissed him again, letting herself sink deeper into it this time. A stupid, content smile spread across his face, but it was wiped away by a pained grimace in a flash. “Okay, yes.” He began to cough, which shook his whole frame and left him wheezing. “Maybe I am a dummy. Steaks and bullets do not mix.”
Claire bit her lip, torn between worry and the need to further scold the man. This was how he had always lived his life—he wouldn’t start changing now. And honestly, she didn’t want him to. She wanted him to be just a little more careful, though.
She was condemned to silence, however, when someone cleared her throat behind them. “Miss? Could you let us through?” The woman looked at the two of them with amusement and a hint of annoyance. “Is he the one who was shot?”
“Yes, but not really,” Leon mumbled, trying to shrink back on himself.
“I can see that,” she said, joining them on the floor. “You’re rather vigorous for having been shot just a little while ago, Sir. I’ll undo your shirt now, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ve had worse,” he said, even as the woman’s practiced fingers peeled his shirt aside, revealing the already forming bruise. Claire had to bite her lip to keep herself from laughing as he kept insisting, “I swear, it looks worse than it feels.”
“I’m sure,” the woman said. “I’m going to check you over quickly. So, what happened?”
“He did get shot,” Claire said then showed her the box. “But this caught the bullet.”
“See? Saved by the power of love, yada-yada, I’m ok. Ow!”
“Uh-hu.” The woman stood up, a contemplative expression on her face. “I’d still like to take you in to check that everything is really ok. We don’t want to risk a blood clot.”
“I am not dying of a blood clot,” Leon groaned, trying to redo his shirt with his shaking hands.
Claire had to agree with him on this one. The man had been thrown, hit, and shot on a monthly basis for many years now. He even admitted to trying some rather peculiar dishes (if blue rare snake could be called a dish), and he was still kicking—and complaining. A lot, especially when it came to medical check-ups. Still, she said, “Leon, I think you should go.”
Leon looked at her as if she’d confessed to eating babies for breakfast. “But…”
“Please.” She saw his internal turmoil in his eyes, caused by the clash of his loathing of hospitals and his need to please her. Perhaps it was wrong to use it like this, but after all, this was for his own good, was it not? “I’ll follow with the car,” she offered.
“After you are done giving your statement,” a voice on her right said, making Claire jump a little. She had almost forgotten the cops were here as well. Two colleagues of the one who snuck up on were preoccupied by trying to get the assailant—who all but turned into a puddle on the floor—to cooperate, and three more were already interviewing the man’s target and some other witnesses. “And I’ll need his, too, before you go.”
“After,” the paramedic said, bristling a little.
“If he’s not in immediate danger…”
Leon’s hand slipped into his pocket and threw a leather-bound ID case at him. “After.”
The cop opened it with an annoyed frown which soon melted into surprise, then shock. He coughed as he handed the case to Claire. “After.”
“Her statement can also wait.”
The cop’s jaw worked soundlessly. Claire thought he might pop a vein when he forced out, “All right.”
“Did you just pull rank?” she whispered.
“Maybe,” he said, unflustered.
“So, if you don’t want me to report this abuse of power, about the hospital…”
“Yes, damn it, woman, I’ll go.” Leon sighed, but she knew he was just acknowledging his defeat. “But only this once.”
“Sure. This once.”
“And you’ll stay with me,” he said, not quite a statement, but not a question. A plea.
There was something heartwarming about the way Leon came to trust her. Not that he didn’t before, but now he was upfront about his needs with her, when in the past he had brushed her concerns aside with a reassuring smile and tried to deal with every issue on his own. He had gone on and on, carrying everything within himself—the hurt, the anger, the grief—, until one day neither of them could take it anymore ,and they had had their biggest fight to date. He’d stormed out, and Claire had also left, not being able to stay a moment longer in the painfully quiet apartment with her swirling thoughts. He’d found her at a playground. By accident, or so he had claimed. They had spent the majority of the night on the swings talking, at last, and she had moved in two weeks later.
She squeezed Leon’s hand as the paramedic got a hand under his other arm to help him stand up. “Where else would I go?”