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Another Boardwalk Empire ficathon fill that I'm posting here 'cause it's too long for comments.
Prompt: Jimmy/Richard, AU where Richard didn't accept Jimmy's downward spiral in "To the Lost."
Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death
He knows Jimmy's not dead, because Gillian is too pragmatic to have left out a little piece of information like that when she telephoned. Still, when he turns a corner in the Commodore's labyrinthine hallways and enters the parlor, he feels the world tilt and sway around him. Only for a moment, but it's enough to break through the careful maze of defenses that he's built up around such thoughts these last few months. He looks at the body collapsed on the floor, cheek pale, fingers bloodstained and splayed and the idea of Jimmy dead becomes real for the first time.
He recites the names of his favorite guns in his head as he bandages the wound, to keep his thoughts from straying and his hands still. He continues to do so until Jimmy, propped up in a chair, finally stirs.
He rubs one hand, wet with his friend's blood, against his aching temple. "Jimmy--" He cuts his gaze to the side, where the former king of Atlantic City lies in a bloody heap. Whatever this is, it isn't working, he thinks but cannot bring himself to say.
"It's okay," Jimmy slurs. "It's okay. I gotta plan. I'll fix it." His head hangs over to one side, so far that his neck looks broken. "I'm tired, Rich."
"You rest," Richard says. "I'll take care of the mess."
When he is done, he washes his hands, very carefully, until the old man's blood is gone. Sits on the sofa, like a sentry. Gillian comes downstairs, her throat still puffy with bruises that powder doesn't quite hide, and she eyes Richard suspiciously. She thought he'd be gone by now. He isn't going anywhere.
"I need to talk to my son," she says pointedly.
"He's tired," Richard replies. He's tired too, and his voice grates more than usual. "And he's drunk. He needs to sleep."
"This isn't your concern." Her tone could cut glass and he feels cold. He doesn't have a response, so he just stares back, and for the first time he sees she is afraid.
---
Not long before dawn, he loads Jimmy into the car and drives him back to the Darmody house. He leaves his friend to sleep on the couch while he takes care of the other bloodstain, takes the phone off the hook when Gillian begins to call, then makes Jimmy coffee and eggs.
"I'm glad you did it," Richard says, lingering in the kitchen doorway and sipping his own coffee through a straw--they always kept a few for him, in a drawer by the icebox. Jimmy looks up questioningly, a little addled still from bloodloss and hangover. "Your father."
"Yeah?" Jimmy lights a cigarette and bows his head over his cup. "I didn't mean to. I mean, I did, but--"
"I know." Things happen sometimes, in the trenches. "It's still for the best. He was never going to let you be--your own man."
Jimmy expels smoke in a long stream. "I'm still not sure who that is." Flicks ash onto the table carelessly, and somehow the small gesture makes Angela's death unspeakably real.
"I know. But it's not up to anyone else." Richard always chooses his words carefully--no use wasting what little he can coax out--but he is especially cautious now. Jimmy needs one person in his life who isn't telling him what to do, and even commenting on what's been happening these past few weeks feels like a betrayal. Richard has no head for strategy himself--he's a weapon, to be pointed one direction or another--and any advice he could offer would be an insult.
But he can't bear it any longer, this awful inertia. Can't bear to watch Jimmy tripping and falling on his own sword, again and again and again.
"You don't want anyone--forcing your hand. But that doesn't have to mean--doing nothing."
Jimmy winces at the sunlight streaming through the windows and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Since when are you the guy with the big ideas?"
Richard doesn't answer. Just pours more coffee. They watch the waves for awhile.
---
"He's never going to forgive you."
He doesn't expect a response--not a real one--but after a measured pause, Jimmy speaks. "Maybe not." He takes a deep drag on his cigarette. "It is what it is, though. Maybe it's just best to let things run their course."
Anger rises in his throat and he tries to push it back down again, but he keeps seeing Jimmy's body collapsed on the floor, his shoulder oozing blood. It's selfish to feel this way, he knows. He would not have wanted Jimmy to stop him, had he been there, back in May.
But--Jimmy promised to fight for him. Jimmy has always fought for him.
"You fucked up. So you have to die. Is that it?"
Jimmy's look is dangerous, and Richard knows he's crossed a line. They speak in code, most of the time. Understanding one another without ever really voicing all those dark and rotten places under the skin.
Where were you today?
I took a walk.
I should have gone with you.
We're both back now.
He was frightened like this, the first time he killed someone, and the first time he almost died. This means admitting that he is dependent on Jimmy's survival for his own--and this is not the last time that Jimmy will be in trouble. It means admitting that he is rejoining the human race. And the human race does not particularly want him.
"You hungry? I feel like a steak. Let's--"
"No. You listen." He takes a deep, gulping breath. "I've wanted to--end it. More times than you know." He twists his fingers uneasily around the steering wheel. "But I stuck around for you. Because you needed me--" His throat constricts. "Even if it was just--for killing people."
"It was never just that, Richard." Jimmy doesn't look at him and so he knows it's true.
"I know--it's not my place. And I can't imagine what it's like. To grow up in his shadow. Or to have someone like her. And lose her." The effort of speech is making his jaw ache and seize, but he grinds his teeth hard and keeps going. He knows it's the last time he will have the courage. "Jimmy--" He fights the tears he feels pricking at the back of his throat--not so much for the sake of his pride but in dread of the horrible drowning sensation it causes in his damaged sinuses. His voice is barely intelligible; he remembers how only Emma could understand him, in the beginning, and hopes--prays--Jimmy can make sense of his guttural growl now. "I don't have anything else. Please."
Silence stretches out between them, and the stillness to which Richard always retreats becomes so profound he thinks his own heart has stopped. Until, finally, Jimmy's hand clasps him on the shoulder--brief but warm and real in a way that fights off the ghosts swarming in his head.
"Okay," he replies. "We'll figure something out."
Prompt: Jimmy/Richard, AU where Richard didn't accept Jimmy's downward spiral in "To the Lost."
Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death
He knows Jimmy's not dead, because Gillian is too pragmatic to have left out a little piece of information like that when she telephoned. Still, when he turns a corner in the Commodore's labyrinthine hallways and enters the parlor, he feels the world tilt and sway around him. Only for a moment, but it's enough to break through the careful maze of defenses that he's built up around such thoughts these last few months. He looks at the body collapsed on the floor, cheek pale, fingers bloodstained and splayed and the idea of Jimmy dead becomes real for the first time.
He recites the names of his favorite guns in his head as he bandages the wound, to keep his thoughts from straying and his hands still. He continues to do so until Jimmy, propped up in a chair, finally stirs.
He rubs one hand, wet with his friend's blood, against his aching temple. "Jimmy--" He cuts his gaze to the side, where the former king of Atlantic City lies in a bloody heap. Whatever this is, it isn't working, he thinks but cannot bring himself to say.
"It's okay," Jimmy slurs. "It's okay. I gotta plan. I'll fix it." His head hangs over to one side, so far that his neck looks broken. "I'm tired, Rich."
"You rest," Richard says. "I'll take care of the mess."
When he is done, he washes his hands, very carefully, until the old man's blood is gone. Sits on the sofa, like a sentry. Gillian comes downstairs, her throat still puffy with bruises that powder doesn't quite hide, and she eyes Richard suspiciously. She thought he'd be gone by now. He isn't going anywhere.
"I need to talk to my son," she says pointedly.
"He's tired," Richard replies. He's tired too, and his voice grates more than usual. "And he's drunk. He needs to sleep."
"This isn't your concern." Her tone could cut glass and he feels cold. He doesn't have a response, so he just stares back, and for the first time he sees she is afraid.
---
Not long before dawn, he loads Jimmy into the car and drives him back to the Darmody house. He leaves his friend to sleep on the couch while he takes care of the other bloodstain, takes the phone off the hook when Gillian begins to call, then makes Jimmy coffee and eggs.
"I'm glad you did it," Richard says, lingering in the kitchen doorway and sipping his own coffee through a straw--they always kept a few for him, in a drawer by the icebox. Jimmy looks up questioningly, a little addled still from bloodloss and hangover. "Your father."
"Yeah?" Jimmy lights a cigarette and bows his head over his cup. "I didn't mean to. I mean, I did, but--"
"I know." Things happen sometimes, in the trenches. "It's still for the best. He was never going to let you be--your own man."
Jimmy expels smoke in a long stream. "I'm still not sure who that is." Flicks ash onto the table carelessly, and somehow the small gesture makes Angela's death unspeakably real.
"I know. But it's not up to anyone else." Richard always chooses his words carefully--no use wasting what little he can coax out--but he is especially cautious now. Jimmy needs one person in his life who isn't telling him what to do, and even commenting on what's been happening these past few weeks feels like a betrayal. Richard has no head for strategy himself--he's a weapon, to be pointed one direction or another--and any advice he could offer would be an insult.
But he can't bear it any longer, this awful inertia. Can't bear to watch Jimmy tripping and falling on his own sword, again and again and again.
"You don't want anyone--forcing your hand. But that doesn't have to mean--doing nothing."
Jimmy winces at the sunlight streaming through the windows and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Since when are you the guy with the big ideas?"
Richard doesn't answer. Just pours more coffee. They watch the waves for awhile.
---
"He's never going to forgive you."
He doesn't expect a response--not a real one--but after a measured pause, Jimmy speaks. "Maybe not." He takes a deep drag on his cigarette. "It is what it is, though. Maybe it's just best to let things run their course."
Anger rises in his throat and he tries to push it back down again, but he keeps seeing Jimmy's body collapsed on the floor, his shoulder oozing blood. It's selfish to feel this way, he knows. He would not have wanted Jimmy to stop him, had he been there, back in May.
But--Jimmy promised to fight for him. Jimmy has always fought for him.
"You fucked up. So you have to die. Is that it?"
Jimmy's look is dangerous, and Richard knows he's crossed a line. They speak in code, most of the time. Understanding one another without ever really voicing all those dark and rotten places under the skin.
Where were you today?
I took a walk.
I should have gone with you.
We're both back now.
He was frightened like this, the first time he killed someone, and the first time he almost died. This means admitting that he is dependent on Jimmy's survival for his own--and this is not the last time that Jimmy will be in trouble. It means admitting that he is rejoining the human race. And the human race does not particularly want him.
"You hungry? I feel like a steak. Let's--"
"No. You listen." He takes a deep, gulping breath. "I've wanted to--end it. More times than you know." He twists his fingers uneasily around the steering wheel. "But I stuck around for you. Because you needed me--" His throat constricts. "Even if it was just--for killing people."
"It was never just that, Richard." Jimmy doesn't look at him and so he knows it's true.
"I know--it's not my place. And I can't imagine what it's like. To grow up in his shadow. Or to have someone like her. And lose her." The effort of speech is making his jaw ache and seize, but he grinds his teeth hard and keeps going. He knows it's the last time he will have the courage. "Jimmy--" He fights the tears he feels pricking at the back of his throat--not so much for the sake of his pride but in dread of the horrible drowning sensation it causes in his damaged sinuses. His voice is barely intelligible; he remembers how only Emma could understand him, in the beginning, and hopes--prays--Jimmy can make sense of his guttural growl now. "I don't have anything else. Please."
Silence stretches out between them, and the stillness to which Richard always retreats becomes so profound he thinks his own heart has stopped. Until, finally, Jimmy's hand clasps him on the shoulder--brief but warm and real in a way that fights off the ghosts swarming in his head.
"Okay," he replies. "We'll figure something out."