Than the Sun

Leon Solis. 50. Republican. Senior Senator from Florida. Former NASA astronaut, former presidential opponent.  “Go blow your secretary in the john. But call me. We'll do dinner.” {Primary blog}

[joedamatojr]

leonsolis‌:

Leon turned the key in the ignition just as Joe pulled the door closed after him. They shot out of the street before the neighbours could finish gawking.

”And I didn’t want to know what you look like in those shorts,” said Leon, laughing as they turned the corner, “but here we are. Knowledge is a curse.” He plucked a tissue out of the box he kept on the dash for the express purpose of guys like Joe. “And no tomato stains in my car. It’s a rental, and I don’t want the guy at the agency thinking we stabbed someone unsavvy.”

Baffled, Joe throws his free hand up in the air and looks down at himself as if to say ‘What the fuck is wrong with my shorts?!’ but then remembers Leon wears flip flops so he shrugs it off. 

“I’m sure you’re used to getting stains in rentals.” Begrudgingly accepting the tissue, a laugh escapes him as he recalls The Motel Morning, as well as his conversation with Hans. “Turn left–” Joe says mid-slurp of the tomato, directing him towards a nearby grocery store to pick up more. Thanks for the tissue, Leon. “So, is it your wife? Is she finally divorcing you? Because if we’re going to La Tomatina the fuck out of someone, I’d prefer to wear sunglasses.”

[leonsolis]

Left—?

Leon’s head whipped around in surprise. What did Joe know about where they were going? But he obligingly took the turn, winding up smack-bang outside the most wholesome grocery store he’d ever seen. He bet the place put out pale-pink striped awnings during Valentine’s Day and non-denominational reindeer outside during the holidays.

”Language,” he chided half-heartedly, climbing out of the car. “I bet neighbourhood kids come to buy gum here unsupervised.” He shot Joe a mock-glare over the roof of the car, and added, “You can’t go polluting their ears with the d-word.”

[minervamaxwell]

leonsolis·:

When at work, it was practically obligatory for Leon to laugh at jokes about the First Family. And also Oliver Zafar, the Bush family, and oh yeah, Monica Lewinsky. It came with the territory; personal feelings not to be taken into account. What Elise didn’t know didn’t hurt her.

“Oh, the problem was always in my sights,” said Leon with an airy wave of his hand. Toeing a chair away from Minerva’s desk, he dropped into it, his easy smile not wavering as he regarded her. She reminded him of a school principal (he just couldn’t imagine why), the way her expression promised he was on a short leash. He wondered idly if this was how she flirted with the judge’s favour in open court: humouring opposing counsel until it was time to bring down the guillotine.

”What’s new,” he went on, “is the level of dedication you’re putting into this, including the conscription of both local and federal law enforcement into the fight. You know—“ His grin got only bigger— “the typically forgotten victims of gun violence. I’ll bet you dinner at Art Smith’s restaurant that they’re feeling as vindicated as the current administration.”

A purse of her lips; the level of her dedication? That wasn’t new. What was new was that for the first time in a while, the people with the power to make real changes had decided to actually stick their neck out and do it. They had decided that enough was enough ━ perhaps a few incidents too late, perhaps it shouldn’t have taken such a shattering example ━ but they had. Minerva intended to be vocally supportive of it: the coming together in pursuit of ethical justice.

“If I may, I think what’s new is the bureaucracy putting dedication into this. I serve at the pleasure of the President.” Theresa had been too indecisive for all of Minerva’s adoration. The question of what to do about violent crime had been the only thing they disagreed on. And disagreed on to the point of Minerva cracking a phone book in half in the Oval Office (it was then and there that Wright decided on her nomination). A laughable irritation at being appointed to the Cabinet: you can make all the noise you want, but you can’t really do anything. In fact, all you can really do is maintain order and hit them right between the eyes with your frankness (fortunately, she had no problem doing either). 

“ ━━━ You know, my sister and brother-in-law are detectives in Los Angeles.” I can assure you no one in uniform has been forgotten. “I think I may have a message on my machine from her that stands to prove your point. That is, if you’re willing to follow through with shipping me some fried chicken and biscuits.”

She’ll deny that the soft stomach growl that follows was hers.

[leonsolis]

For a second, Leon wasn’t sure what he’d heard—the vibration of a cell phone on a table or the churn of a miniature cement mixer—and then the words fried chicken landed. He burst out laughing.

”You don’t mind Burger King, do you?” he asked, vacating the chair and crossing over to the office door. Holding it open for Minerva, he said, “I’m famished too and i trust it a lot more than the hot dog guy downstairs. If the AG of the whole damn country winds up poisoned before we’re finished talking about our mutual lifelong support for law enforcement, there’d be some stark irony right there.”

[albacruz-ing]

Leon personally sympathised with Alba’s predicament. His secretary hardly liked him a lot, and he signed her paycheques. Going around his desk, he pressed the intercom, and said, “Muffins please, Bertha. But send them ‘round with one of the visitor-friendly grunts. You’re scaring the villagers again.”

Sinking down into his chair and giving it a little swivel, he smiled expansively across at Alba. “If you’re going to insist on formalities, I personally prefer ‘Grand Poobah’ to ‘sir’. Nobody who’s ever called me ‘sir’ actually meant it.” He watched her the tap-tap-tap of her feet, at odds with the slickly confident cross of her legs. “But rumours are a much more interesting topic of conversation. What kind of rumours have you been hearing?”

“You should maybe get a new secretary, or does Bertha know where all the bodies are buried?” She smiled so he would know she was joking, but then again Alba thought all republicans were potential murders. One could never be too sure. A cocky looking intern walked in with a plate of muffins and set them on the desk, staring a bit too long at Alba as he walked out. Jesus Christ she hated republicans, someone clearly needed to knock this kid down a rung or two. Or maybe Solis needed a better grip on his staff. 

Alba laughed again, a bit less genuine sounding than she intended. ‘Grand’ and ‘Poohbah’ were two words that would never come out of her mouth. Taking on an air of polite disinterest, as though she were repeating the weather or some bit of celebrity gossip, Alba leaned forward slightly. 

“Plenty of rumors, most you’d have expected earlier in the cycle which is what makes them so interesting. A field team in Iowa? Hiring staff in New Hampshire and South Carolina? Not to mention a fairly heavy campaign war chest for someone who just won reelection.” Yes, she read campaign finance reports for fun, what of it? “But I don’t really care if you decide to run again, messy GOP primaries are amusing and this century needs a Harold Stassen. I am much more interested in talking about the rumors I’ve heard about you and DACA.” 

[leonsolis]

”You know, even the IRS doesn’t keep such a close eye on my spending,” said Leon, reaching for a muffin and managing to get it off the plate by the tips of his fingers. “Telling an incumbent senator you don’t give a rat’s ass about him or his party is no way to get him to listen to whatever you are interested in.”

His long-time support for DACA was a bipartisan miracle that could be pulled off with finagling and finesse. Alba’s steel-toed boots were clearly not up for the job.

“Or did they only teach you how to listen to gossip in charm school, and not the adult art of persuasion and negotiation?

[leonsolis]

minervamaxwell‌:

Not an everyday thing for a Republican senator to be laughing in the office of a cabinet member under a Democratic president. The corner of her raspberry mouth upturns slightly. Her eyes focus on the lines of his amused countenance before shifting to the maneuverings of his fingers.

“Your shopping list must really be trivial, then.” What was the point in a First Lady if no one could have fun at her expense? Frankly, Minerva couldn’t care less about the details of Elise Berkeley’s expenses ━━━ so long as it didn’t come from taxpayer dollars.

‘That illuminating memo’. The dots were connected now. Any semblance of this being a courtesy visit was quickly disillusioned (though from the very beginning, she assumed the lightheartedness was to be short-lived). There’s an inviting motion from her for him to be seated.

“Illuminating?” Not the word she would have chosen. Maybe conspicuous, even redundant. “Due respect, Senator. I question your ability to pay attention if it took my memo to direct you.” The tone is still light, though perhaps a little exasperated. There wasn’t anything personal about it yet.

When at work, it was practically obligatory for Leon to laugh at jokes about the First Family. And also Oliver Zafar, the Bush family, and oh yeah, Monica Lewinsky. It came with the territory; personal feelings not to be taken into account. What Elise didn’t know didn’t hurt her.

“Oh, the problem was always in my sights,” said Leon with an airy wave of his hand. Toeing a chair away from Minerva’s desk, he dropped into it, his easy smile not wavering as he regarded her. She reminded him of a school principal (he just couldn’t imagine why), the way her expression promised he was on a short leash. He wondered idly if this was how she flirted with the judge’s favour in open court: humouring opposing counsel until it was time to bring down the guillotine.

”What’s new,” he went on, “is the level of dedication you’re putting into this, including the conscription of both local and federal law enforcement into the fight. You know—“ His grin got only bigger— “the typically forgotten victims of gun violence. I’ll bet you dinner at Art Smith’s restaurant that they’re feeling as vindicated as the current administration.”

[leonsolis]

presidentberkeley‌:

LEE: This makes you squeamish? Sorry, should I switch to talking about “tits” instead? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. 

LEE: Pft. No. Just the ones against you.

LEE: [delayed] Actually, let’s do that. Let me wine and dine you this week, before you announce. Won’t be able to do that for a while after you do… 

HEY JUDE: Itd be a huge relief if you talk to me about tits. Without the air quotes alright. You make me feel like an alien for appreciating the finer things in life.

HEY JUDE: And Ive seen that weather girl you dated so I know that’s just not true.

HEY JUDE: Im in for the dinner though. Sounds good. So long as I dont have to put out after.

[leonsolis]

presidentberkeley‌:

LEE: Worked for you, didn’t it?

HEY JUDE: Its too early in the day to make me this squeamish, pal. Or this jealous that I wasnt wined and dined the traditional way. Is this how you win all your elections? messing with your opponents mind?

[leonsolis]

SMS / wyatt & leon

WYATT: I know who I'm speaking to, Senator.

WYATT: I'm also aware that there have been attempts on your part to curry favor and pull money together. I assumed my well wishes were obvious.

WYATT: How does it feel to be starting at square one again?

LEON: Got me there, Wyatt. Unfortunately, good well wishes are about as impartial as your office. I appreciate you thinking of me, though.

LEON: And I wouldn't call it square one exactly. My two biggest opponents are my oldest friend and my worst enemy. I know em both better than anyone else. In the business, they call that an advantage, don't they?

[leonsolis]

The 4 P.M. Protocol || Corinne & Leon

[leonsolis]

corinnejmorris‌:

Where was her ‘that was easy’ button when she needed it. She smiled brightly in response to him and mirrored the raise of his glass. Using her white wine to wash down the meringue. She was already churning a mental shortlist as they spoke.  

She offers him a comfortingly coy smile. “Oh of course Mr.Solis, I only exercise discretion on matters as important as these,” her voice is reassuringly sweet; like honey or a hug from a mother— one that cared preferably. 

She nods in that teen-movie-dumb-blonde way as his sentence trailed off into silence. “At least a week,” she lets out an exasperated sigh. “Finding people who wanted to work with him and for him was not the easiest task, but we have a good team, a great team really,” She omits the part about fighting in the board meetings about whether they should take him on at all.

“For you I should think It’ll be a lot easier,” she adds with a sprightly laugh before taking another sip of her wine.

“I like ‘easier’,” said Leon with a broad grin. Finishing off the glass with a flourish, he set it back down on the table. “I’m very happy to pay people to make things easier. I have great faith that this list is going to be the start of a very mutually... easy road.”

And he was definitely going to have to size up his golf buddies’ lineage for a prospective son who could bump into Corinne. At the next ‘Solis for President’ fundraiser hopefully.

“You understand, of course, that my office isn’t so keen on working with someone who also works with Admiral Bell.” Leon made a deprecating gesture that suggested heavily that he could smooth over that road for Corinne. “I’ll be sure to mention that you put professionalism over the personal opinion of most of America.” 

And Bell was leading the Republicans in the poll too. Could be that was Corinne’s doing in a large part. It’d begin with a list. He looked forward to finding out.

[leonsolis]

minervamaxwell‌:

“And maybe that’s why the Hill has trouble keeping a lid on things.”

A twinkle of playfulness in the glance upwards offsets the curt reply. There, that was easy. Give her something harder like world hunger (that falls under justice, doesn’t it?). True enough that providence was a necessary air in the realm of executive clemency. Though there wasn’t anything particularly sexy about documents available under the Freedom of Information act.

Speaking of documents made available. The FBI was moving slow enough with the White House leak as is.

“(…) You’re not here to tell me that your emails have been made public, right?”

Leon laughed, like every mole toiling up the hill that was the AG’s office was diligent as beavers. He drummed his fingers on the edge of Minerva’s desk, absently lifting up a corner of a plastic file cover.

“My e-mails are always public, Ms. Maxwell,” he said. “My staff tends to make paper planes out of then. I’m here about the things you’ve made public rather. Like that illuminating memo about the state of gun violence in this country.”

[leonsolis]

tjchrch‌:

“Bought it to get married on,” came the haphazard explaination. He could muse on how the island wasn’t actual an escape from mistaken decisions but they’d only used one of the beaches for the big white affair. He could certainly find escape elsewhere on his tropical island. That or he could just do one of those ‘The Holiday’ style swaps with Branson. 

“You gotta be one of the few people I don’t have to explain that why to or I’ll go crazy.” Did he belong to a secret club of Presidential once hopefuls with Leon or was that kind of bond only reserved to those that actual took the top job? It didn’t mean they ran for the same reasons, but it should mean he understood how necessary a break from proving that point was needed.

In Leon’s defence, he’d been publicly afflicted with the election madness only once. Maybe some three people knew he was dumb enough to do it a second time. Until the news went public, he had some kind of moral high ground to stand on here.

Not by much, of course, because the 2016 primaries had no shortage of people like William Bell. Such was America—a country full of people like William Bell.

Leon shook his head, this time in genuine sympathy. He occasionally forgot that TJ was used to football stadiums and cult worship, and Sunday dinners with Michael Connelly. Godlike celebrity rather than the dog-eat-rat underhandedness of the Hill. “What I’m saying,” he said, lowering his voice, “is that you could go be lord of the island—hell, even of whatever state you pick off a map. You can leave this behind in a second.”

TJ, he thought bitterly, had nothing to prove.

“Unlike the rest of the suckers in the race, you don’t have to be president to be king.”

[leonsolis]

Only Reds Left Alive || Jo & Leon

Every statue in the Rock Creek Cemetery looked like its face was melting off. Leon averted his gaze from one particular oxidised green twelve-foot widow, and narrowly avoided walking into her friend.

“Goddamn statuary,” he grumbled to Jo Korbel. “It’s like Scooby Doo in here. Or where IT comes to lunch.” He threw a cautious glance over his shoulder, half-expecting some nutjob theatre troupe to be having full-costume midday rehearsals amid the headstones. “Your first order of business as president should be a new coat of paint for this place. Just a suggestion.”

Saying it out loud still felt unreal.

It had been maybe a week since things had fallen apart. Maybe it had been a good thing they’d kept it so tightly under wraps. He couldn’t take the pressure of anybody else knowing how close he’d been to something impossible.

Now, he was slowly adjusting to the rest of the world. Looking at the people around him and seeing them for what they were supposed to be. Removing the lens of ‘future Vice President of America’ still left his vision blurry. He’d forgotten that there was a time when he looked at Jo and saw somebody who was nearly an old friend.

[leonsolis]

The 4 P.M. Protocol || Corinne & Leon

[leonsolis]

corinnejmorris‌:

To win he’d have to walk the tightrope. It’s not that Corinne thought he didn’t have it in him, just that the tides were always changing. What worked once, may never work again. But for all intensive purposes  she’d have to publicly back Bell, regardless of her incognito work. 

“Well I know a few incredibly promising and smart kids at Cornell, what they lack in experience they more than make up for in innovative thinking. If you’re looking for someone with experience, I’d have to make a few calls,” she says 

She smiles politely at the waiter before they disappear into the background once more. She grabs a meringue before looking back at Leon. “If I make a few calls, I can get you a list in two days,”

Leon lifted his wineglass in a silent toast to Corinne’s meringue, taking a sip while he weighed the options. It was a no brainer. Technically, he was outsourcing a problem. He was trying out something new. There was no retainer. He wasn’t even cheating on his own communications director. There was no way Barry would be upset if Leon went back to the office and put Corinne’s agency card in the fishbowl.

“Two days is great,” he said, making the impulse decision on the spot. Aladdin’s genie had left the bottle when he confirmed her suspicions anyway. “I trust you’ll be the soul of discretion on this? I’d hate for us to find ourselves in a situation where you turning over rocks has caused information to spread…”

If letting the thought trail off made him sound like a mobster, that was something Leon couldn’t help. Another sip of wine, and he asked, gaze resting negligently almost on Corinne, “Two days is what it took with Bell? Or does it take longer, when your client’s…” He gave a wince that summed up William entirely.

[minervamaxwell]

“Trafficking convictions? This guy doesn’t need a pardon, he needs a frying pan to the side of his head.” 

On the phone: the acting Pardon Attorney. Minerva’s yet to fully appoint a new one (these things take time– well that and she doesn’t know who yet). In cooperation with the head of their Department, they were to review applications for clemency. In other words: paperwork… and more paperwork to fix the previous set of paperwork.

“A recommendation? From the attorney whose license was revoked a year later? You’re not serious.” (telephone rabble) “You’re not submitting this application to the President as is.” (more telephone rabble, this time a little indignant) “Find a recommendation from someone in Congress, or better yet, the judge. You have the Deputy’s contact if you intend to bother me with this again.”

The receiver is abruptly placed back into the set. In all fairness, she’s been at the office since 07:00 and coffee has lost its luster at half past noon. There’s a knock; turns out the executive assistant scheduled an appointment around a week ago. A side long glance at the mounting stack. What was another thousand page document needing her review? 

She motions accordingly, the door swivels open: 

“ ━━━ Look, if you’ve brought me another thing to read…”

[leonsolis]

“Now why would I impose on your literacy like that?” said Leon pleasantly, letting the Attorney-General’s door swing close behind him. It was sheer providence that the breeze didn’t knock down the papers piling up on her desk. “People on the Hill pay interns in the coin of experience to do all kinds of reading for them.”

[leonsolis]

francoisekhoo‌:

“Likewise.” Leon Solis was an interesting figure. A square-jawed astronaut, seemingly constructed by focus group to appeal to the American public, and yet (or perhaps and so), he had lost the presidency. He was a good man to know. “And do call me Françoise.” She smiled.

“Marillier or Martin?” She asked. Françoise had had an inkling, but nothing solid enough to act on, content to use more patient methods to root out the leak. “Oh, I’m not the ideal pet owner.” She turned from the Senator to the monitors. “But they can be quite useful. Scientifically.”

In Leon’s defence, all French people sounded the same, with names out of Ratatouille. The two options that Françoise provided might have been the same guy.

“Hey Felix,” he called out to the headphone-wearing man minding his own Sudoku. “What’s the name of this Jean again?”

Felix glanced archly from Françoise to Leon and back again, his expression full of suffering. “Marillier,” he said after a minute.

Leon save them all the trouble of trying to unscramble his pronunciation. “What he said. You weren’t too attached to him, were you?”

[hans-starke]

Erratic | Hans & Leon

[leonsolis]

hans-starke‌:

Slowly, Hans shakes his head. “You stubborn motherfucker.”

It must be some kind of power-trip, he guesses, dangling the information over his head like that. It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? His mind provides then, though it’s likely the alcohol. Just like you, he likes playing with his food more than he likes the taste of it.

“It’s going to get me the biggest hard-on I’ve had in a fucking year, Solis,” he scoffs, “that what you wanna hear?" 

Planting both feet firm on the ground, Hans repositions his chair so that it’s facing him straight-on, his hands on the side’s of Leon’s own seat. He tries not to think about the fact that it’s sticky.  

"I can’t go back to my boss and say Leon Solis suggested me might do a thing.” Now, be it by the Lusty Leopard’s own decision or their closeness, the music isn’t quite as distracting. There’s only Leon, and what Leon might or might not say next. “I can’t drop other options because Leon Solis said some cryptic words in a strip club.” At the prospect of it, Hans smiles a little. “Pretty please, huh? Make a guy happy.”

When Hans voluntarily put his hands on Leon’s chair (a surface Leon thanked God and Italian wool for protecting him from), things really had to be serious. I can’t drop other options, he’d said, and that really made Leon smirk.

They were positioned so close now that Hans couldn’t miss it. The ka-ching sound of cash registers ringing and dollar bills flowing. A tasteless mental image maybe, but Leon always made sure anyone on his side was well taken care of. He liked working with people who had a similar business philosophy.

He reached unseeingly for the drink on the table, holding it at knee-level for a contemplative minute. Hans had already said the magic words (well, the biggest hard-on of the year was pretty funny too) and the hesitation made no sense. There was nothing to hesitate for. This was Hans Starke. He either stabbed you in the back or he didn’t.

No point worrying about until it happened.

Leon lifted the glass in a toast. Half the words would probably be snatched away by the ambient noise, but Hans didn’t need to read lips to know what was coming next.

“I’m running for president.”

He said it simply, no fanfare, no cute way of phrasing it. The tension of the last four years had wrung it all out.

“You with me?”

[leonsolis]

The World Was Built For Two || Julian & Leon

[leonsolis]

presidentberkeley‌:

Julian wasn’t familiar with this side of the coast. Beyond rallies and other business-fueled events, he had hardly ever set foot in these sands, or detoured at all. It’s a disconcerting thought that hits, as they walk from the car to the bar with security determining their pace, wondering just how it had been for Leon, growing up under these skies — and inhabiting these skies, in due time. How ironic to think Julian had watched launches on TV like he cared, like he knew he’d meet the man behind them and nothing would ever be the same after that. 

He’d assumed the choice of place had something to do with privacy, and so Julian has to double-take at the introduction of Ramon — and double-take again, with a certain interest, at the way the Spanish name sounds on Leon’s tongue. Julian is already smiling a polite smile and nodding in greeting when Leon tells him; immediately, he stops.

“What?” The word hardly makes it out. It’s weak and a little mindless. “Shut up." 

Once there’s a trigger, the entire setting comes to life; the bar, the man behind the counter, the undeniably silly made up of their joke coming to life all over again. A politician and an astronaut walk into a bar… Julian can’t help but smile; and it’s painfully genuine, the way only Leon ever got to see. He feels silly, childish— like he isn’t fifty (fifty one in a couple hours) and the most powerful man in the world. It’s only then he realizes he has his hand around Leon’s arm; it’s not a tight grip by any means, and somehow that much more intimate in its simplicity. 

"That’s the most thoughtful thing you’ve ever done for me,” he says. “Don’t tell me you have a ring in your pocket, too." 

Of all the reactions Leon had expected, shut up hadn’t been in the scope of his imagination. Shut up, he could picture himself saying in the re-telling of this story, maybe one day when all their kids were old enough. That’s what he says to me on his birthday. He tells me to shut up.

History had better validate his decision to pick this over Berkeley-Solis 2020.

Laughing, he looped his arm more firmly through Julian’s and nudged him deeper into the surf shack. Thank God Julian had remembered, or was at least pretending to. Leon had replayed the night over and over again in his head so many times that this was finally proof he hadn’t made it up. Thoughtful was the gifts that Julian got. And obscenely expensive. Leon’s taste ran to the bitingly personal—Castro’s favourite cigars for the new Vice President, treason-shaped cuff links for Christmas, and a living reminder of all their history for Julian’s birthday.

Across the floor, Ramon gave a brief what-up-man nod at the president of the United States. Paying for first class airfare was going to get Leon only so much apparently. Pulling out a chair at the nearest table, he sprawled down into it. They weren’t staying long, but he wanted to soak in the boozy fumes of the place while they could. Not that it was what was making him light-headed.

“What’re you even going to do with my ring?” asked Leon, genuinely puzzled. “Never wear it like I got nowhere to wear your watch to? Glenmorangie for me, Ramon,” he added, “‘cause it’s a big night.”

He turned back to Julian, and it was kind of hard to not. To not keep turning his head, to not keep his eyes on the way Julian was looking at him now. Men in deserts could walk miles without water for something like that.

“What will you have, Mr. President?” It was a name Leon rarely used without irony or a reminder that it was a wedge between them. This time, it rang of nothing but good humour. “It’s all on me tonight.”

[sybilbuchanan]

Clinically Cynical | Sybil & Leon

[leonsolis]

sybilbuchanan‌:

At Leon’s too-obvious show of self-restraint, Sybil laughs. “Not quite the chaise lounge, eh?”

She does her best to keep the notebook out of his sight herself, flipping the cover shut whenever she isn’t using it. Leon talks — but as with most of her politician patients, the words hardly mean something. This isn’t a press release, she’s had to remind him in the past. It’s fine for you to say the wrong thing. 

Or, really, anything. 

Just give something.

“Oh, it is?” Sybil asks, her features shifting that into mock excitement. “I’m so happy for him. Does he want vinyl or hardwood?” The expression drops quick. “Anything…” Relevant? “About yourself individually?” She gestures around the air with her pen, as though motioning to the blank space he could easily fill up. “How’s sobriety? Your wife, Donna?”

“Don’t you know sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?” grumbled Leon good-naturedly at Sybil’s less than enthusiastic reception of Oliver’s interior decor. ‘Relevant’ and ‘personal’ were the two things he was the bad at. It was why Dr. Lipchitz had strongly recommended a referral to his colleague in the first place.

Tapping his call number against his knee, he couldn’t help craning his neck to examine the room. Emptier than usual was still not empty. On the other hand, Donna had threatened to follow through on the divorce if he continued to dodge Sybil’s scheduling assistant. Maybe the guy on the radio was right. You never know you love the chaise lounge when you let her go.

With the creak of old bones, the number on the screen flipped to 187. Leon blinked because the neon numbers were becoming burnt into his vision.

“Sobriety’s not working out so good,” he said finally. “So well,” he corrected on reflex. In all the wrong ways, Sybil Buchanan reminded him of Julian: the permanently polished exterior of a Ming dynasty vase on display. “In fact, it’s safe to say it’s no longer on the horizon.”

His reluctance to say it surprised even him. Amazing that the failure grated even when he hadn’t put any real commitment into in the first place.

“Of course,” he went on, “it’d surprise nobody. Except my wife. My wife is pissed. But it sure validates the decision to not shout it from the rooftops that I was quitting the bottle in the first place.” He tore his gaze away from where it slowly, unconsciously, become fixed on the unchanging number board. This time, he made himself actually look Sybil in the eye. “What do they call that in the trade, Doc? An addictive personality?”