Boardwalk Empire Fic: "Sanctuary" (Jimmy/Richard)-R 1/3
Title: Sanctuary
Fandom: Boardwalk Empire
Word Count: 6,675
Rating: R for language and future violence. Will be NC-17 eventually in future parts
Characters/Pairings: Jimmy/Richard with appearances of Nucky, Margaret, Angela, Nan and the children.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything BE wise.
Summary: Takes place directly after the events of episode 12: "A Return to Normalcy".
Switches back and forth from Jimmy and Richard's POV.
Nan Britton, President Harding's mistress, has gone missing-having fled with Margaret's children. Nucky sends his two hitmen on a mission to find them and bring them back.
This story chronicles the two ex soldiers working alongside each other intimately, getting to know each other and seeking refuge in the other as they struggle to escape their pasts, map their futures and search for the woman but both of them secretly hoping they don't find her and that the seach and working together can continue forever.
Slow building Jimmy/Richard because I love buildup, angst and "non easy relationships".
A/N: Although I did do some research I am not a history buff and I applogize for any inaccuracies! I know that Nan Britton didn't historically "kidnap" any children but she was obsessed with Warren Harding and even in the show they showcase her as being a bit "unstable". I took some liberties on that which fan fiction is in general so...*shrugs*
The title of this part comes from the song: "Terrible Love" by The National.
Please don't forget to comment! I beg you! I need to know if you want more/want me to continue/did them good enough justice, etc! Thanks so much! :)
Sanctuary
Part 1: "It Takes an Ocean Not to Break"
“You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:
from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater.”
-“The Wild Iris” by Louise Gluck
Jimmy walks the ocean like it’s an old friend. The last shard of daylight is fading, black ocean like glass. He inhales smoke, the only thing he can do right. He can’t do right by anybody. Everywhere he turns there are roadblocks. Ash falls to earth, mingles with sand to be washed away with the tide. He wanted a do over, a restart. He wanted to be taken in with the tide too, to be swept up, have something decent again. He doesn’t have anything.
He inhales deeply, a shaky breath, trembling fingers and gulls are lazily drifting. He can’t go home. He doesn’t think he knows where that is anymore. He has no idea where his loyalties lie. The conversation between his father and Sheriff Thompson roll around in his head like heavy rocks. Not like sand, like Angela that slips through his fingers.
He closes his eyes and his fingers flex, feeling her phantom hair, the long, soft tendrils she used to have, now swept away just like the black tide. He throws his cigarette angrily to the beach, shoes shucking and sinking, slight chill working in his skin. He works the dying beach trying to drown out his thoughts.
He’s not going home to her. Not like this. Maybe never. Not after they talked and she threw it back in his face. They were both unfaithful, living in fantasy worlds; he wanted a fresh start with her, to be a good father to their son and try to make it work. He skips a rock out to black waves and squints. He can’t even see where the rocks lands. It’s all too obscure.
He’s still drunk. Too many ghosts in his head, too many words he needs to drown out, brain stretched out like its taffy they sell on the boardwalk, rolling around and around on metal pins, being impossibly pulled in too many directions. Have the tide take them all away. He’s following his feet, back to somewhere or nowhere where he can just be. Somewhere he can just be quiet, still as a field in dawn, like the battlefield before the first shot is fired and talk if he feels like anything can come out.
Mrs. Schroeder’s house, Nucky’s place really, doesn’t seem far if you’re half in the bag but every foot fall and breath feels like a curse and there are brambles and thorns in his head, sand sticking to his shoes, suit, everywhere and he laughs. He stumbles up the couple steps and sits down hard on the porch step, new cigarette lit. He decides he’ll watch the sun come up or pass out, whichever comes first.
He smokes and watches the moon glint off the rows of houses for a while and he feels a presence at his back. Three years in the war, been back for months and he’s still hypersensitive to people’s presences even when he’s pissed drunk and wallowing but he’s still mildly impressed at how silently he slipped onto the porch like grass swaying or leaves rustling. There but just barely. Richard also has his hand inside his jacket Jimmy knows without seeing him, feeling his new Colt M1903 that was tucked away inside-the same gun Jimmy used. Jimmy had helped him get the gun. It was actually one of the better moments in his life over the past few weeks. He didn’t have to think, didn’t have to strategize, pretend or worry he would end up with a knife in his back hypothetical or otherwise when they were doing something ordinary or mundane together. He didn’t have to think with Richard. He didn’t have to be anything.
Despite the new prize he kept close Richard was attached to his Enfield M1917 rifle with the scope. Jimmy could see Richard sleeping with it under his pillow he was so attached to the damn thing. The thought made him smile a little before he took another drag, inhaling deeply, smoke staining his lungs. He feels Richard shift a little on the wooden porch, like a moth’s wing or smoke itself, a silent but deadly sentry standing guard.
“Do you want to sit?” He actually isn’t turned off by the idea of his company, knowing he can choose to stay quiet if he wants to. Jimmy’s eyes sweep the deserted roads, the silent houses, the empty vacuum of darkness, watching smoke curl impossibly upwards.
He hears wood creak and feels Richard’s solid presence next to him a heartbeat later on the porch step. Richard’s a man of few words and Jimmy likes this very much about the other man. He’s not sure if it’s because half his mouth is ruined or he’s just that way but Jimmy realizes he doesn’t care. In the political world he was swept up in all the big wigs ever did was talk. Jimmy was tired of talking. They sit in silence for a while and Jimmy feels he’s cut through some of the tangles and snarls that were twisting his brain earlier-his mother, his father and Sheriff Thompson’s conspiracies to take over Atlantic City, Nucky and Angela, the men he’s killed and still needs to kill. It’s all still there but it’s quieted now. Alcohol and the silent world helping but something else too…
“Did you come here for protection? Hunh.” Jimmy’s used to his guttural, gruff voice and noises the other man makes from deep in the back of his throat like a nervous tick or the over exertion of his damaged windpipe and vocal chords-all things familiar and predictable but he isn’t used to him trying to crack jokes. Jimmy eyes him for the first time that evening. Richard’s face, at least the one half, is impassive as always-like showing too much emotion would give away that not all of his face is a mask. Jimmy can’t really judge him for that. He’s been told he has a stony face and cold eyes himself and he doesn’t laugh enough. After the war, after what he saw and did he didn’t have much to smile about.
Jimmy squints at the sharpshooter hitman sitting next to him, the man he roped into his madness. Now they’re both pathetic fools being played by Nucky Thompson-the ringmaster pulling all the strings. Richard turns to him and meets his gaze head on, one eye looking over him curiously, glasses reflecting moonlight and smoke.
“I guess I kind of did. Protection from myself,” Jimmy shakes his head a little in disgust, pinching at his tired, bleary eyes. He doesn’t want to talk about it. “I claim sanctuary,” Jimmy laughs a little, looking away.
“We know what sanctuary is for men like us. Hmm. It isn’t here.”
He sees Richard pull out his Colt from inside his jacket from the corner of his eye, a kerchief a heartbeat later. Jimmy flicks his cigarette to the ground and eyes the other man as he holds the gun with precious and precise care like it’s his child, rubbing at it fondly with the kerchief to clean it. “This is our sanctuary,” he swipes his thumb over the barrel protectively looking out to the silent streets. His masked side is closest to Jimmy. As many times as he’s seen him wear it, almost feeling he’s completely immune to it, he still can’t help but think of different metaphors and similes to describe it-his Princeton days coming back to him.
Jimmy thinks he looks like a department store mannequin or Pinocchio in the moonlight, a figure made out of and carved from mans image and likeness, a figure running his fingers over his precious treasure just like the Tom Swift novel Richard gave him when they first met at the Vet hospital. But Richard doesn’t have a Geppetto, a woodcarver or smith-he’s his own man-offering up his protection and “sanctuary”. Jimmy bites his tongue from the oncoming laugh that threatens to spill out, the whiskey really doing wonders on his already fucked up brain.
He smells burning leaves, the stale salt air and Richard’s aftershave. The night is getting colder but he’s content with sitting on the porch like he’s a stranger. He’s at peace with it.
“Ms. Britton and the children aren’t here,” he’s not really asking a question but somehow he knows it’s true. Just a gut feeling he has.
“No. Hmm. Ms. Britton took the children to a birthday party while, hungh, Mrs. Schroeder went to the party at Babette’s.”
It was late and no one was back yet. Jimmy thought this was a little strange but he couldn’t bring himself to care and Richard didn’t seem to either. Jimmy needed this-casual conversation and a solid presence that didn’t need anything from him.
“Nightcap?” Richard’s gruff voice half growls out, cutting through the semi darkness. His unexpected words are consumed by the night air and startles Jimmy a little. Jimmy pinches his eyes again a heartbeat later and laughs a little under his breath, liking that Richard picked up on his train of thought. He thought they both needed some company and Jimmy was more than willing to oblige and drink some of Nucky’s squirreled away liquor in the process. He gets up, making sure to keep as much weight off his bad leg as he can. It still aches horribly at times but that was the least of his worries as of late. He watches Richard rise from the porch step, tucking the Colt and kerchief back in his tweed jacket carefully.
A man with half a face and a man with only one good leg. They were quite a pair. Jimmy stupidly pauses and lets Richard lead him inside like Jimmy’s an honored guest, someone he’s been expecting. He represses a snort. He isn’t even totally welcome at his father’s estate let alone Nucky’s concubine’s shack up. He isn’t sure where he’s welcome. He’s amused and intrigued that Richard acts like the man of the house as he leads Jimmy around like he owns the place. Jimmy observes that the other man seems like he’s at almost at home, touching things fondly, treading lightly.
“Hunh. I know where he keeps it.”
“I can guess a few places.”
They’re in the warm kitchen. The house is still and quiet. He hears the clock ticking in the parlor, wind rattling the window. Jimmy removes his hat and jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. He sits at the round, worn kitchen table and watches Richard grope his hand underneath the sink, hears tape being removed, sees him fish out a bottle of bourbon. It’s the same kind of bourbon they both drank when Jimmy took Richard to the whorehouse in Chicago for the first time. Having the same drink now seems significant and fitting somehow. Jimmy shakes his head to rid himself of the ridiculous thoughts. Richard’s opening cabinets with fluid movements and ease, fishing out glasses. There almost seems to be a slight spring in his step as he darts around, his hands jittery and anxious and Jimmy almost thinks the other man must be lonely-cooped up in the house watching the Irish maiden and her children all the time. Jimmy would be driven to drink too, at least more so, if he only had the annoying woman and her children for company.
Richard pours them both generous portions with scary accuracy, something Jimmy’s been meaning to ask him about but it can wait. When they both have their drinks Richard raises his glass to Jimmy, leaning up against the sink, a ghost of a smile on half of his face.
“Here’s to finding sanctuary,” he drawls out slowly. He maneuvers the straw into his half a mouth and drinks. Jimmy raises his glass to the toast and downs his in one shot like he’s proving a point, his mind immediately reeling and the room slightly spinning as he rests the glass on the table.
They drink and talk little-Jimmy sitting and Richard leaning against the sink. When they do talk it’s about the war-their one and only safe territory they’ve charted to for conversation. Jimmy wonders if ghosts can cancel out other ghosts. The war still weighs heavily on his mind but it keeps him from thinking about the other demons that are threatening to stir up something or take over completely. He’d rather relive the past right now then try to make sense of the future.
The wind rattles the pane, the clock ticks away, echoing through the empty rooms and suddenly they have new drinks in tow and are sitting in the parlor on the sofa.
Talk, drink, smoke and he’s drifting off, being pulled underwater, under the tide that he wanted so desperately to be swept up in. The last thing he sees is Richard’s face, his true face this time twisted up in what he thinks might be a smile. And then the black glass water encompasses him. No thoughts.
* * *
He moves about in a world stranger than fiction. The books his sister insists on sending him usually get used for kindling or he donates them to orphanages, placing the packages on the front stoop in the middle of the night, knowing the children would be too afraid of his face. He doesn’t need books to be reminded that there are things out there that are unbelievable. He’s living, breathing proof. He thinks he’s grown to accept it. But it’s still hard, still challenging when he wants to speak and he doesn’t recognize his own voice and can’t formulate the words quick enough with his damaged vocal chords. It proves difficult when he thinks he’s used to seeing his face in the mirror but then someone gasps upon him entering a public place, young children snigger or avert their eyes, terrified or old people want to put their hands on his broad shoulders, shoulders of a man and not an object and bless him, say prayers for him because he’s “misfortunate”.
They stare, laugh, whisper, become squeamish, turn and run away but not him. His eye focuses on the sleeping form next to him. He’s slumped into the corner of the sofa; head lolled back slightly, some blond hair in his face, arms gone slack, his waistcoat bunched up around his middle, riding up a little. His breath is deep and even. Richard thinks he looks almost peaceful.
Sanctuary. Richard thinks. He found sanctuary from whatever was clearly troubling him earlier and maybe so have I.
Richard had thought about the man, one James Darmody, and what he stood for a lot. The man that reached in and pulled him out from drowning, the tide taking him farther and farther out until he was just a tiny speak. He thought he lost himself completely. But Jimmy was there extending his hand, anchoring him to the shore because Richard was drifting. After the war and his accident he turned away from those who knew him-not wanting their pity and sympathy. He had gotten enough of it in the hospitals, from the doctors, from the nuns, from random strangers on the street who would come up to him and say that he was “in their thoughts and prayers”, that and the difficulty to talk and reliving the details of the war made him feel he was going quite mad. His family couldn’t see him that way. So he fled New York, traveling everywhere and nowhere, trying not to be seen.
He had taken odd jobs wherever he could. Working on farms, driving and running deliveries, janitorial work at various factories but no one would hire him full time and the jobs weren’t what he wanted anyway. He felt at his new Colt in his jacket, the gun Jimmy helped him get. That was the kind of work he was always good at, what they made him good at. So he kept wandering, kept drifting. He wrote to his sister, kept a journal and wrote in that and poetry sometimes. He was always better at expressing himself in written word than spoken tongue even before his injury. He kept that to himself though. He left it as a secret for someone to uncover.
His eye roams over the sleeping form once more. The lamp’s dim light bounces shadows over his pale face. Richard can’t help but stare at his throat, so exposed and vulnerable. He knows Jimmy keeps a hidden knife in his boot. He knows also that Jimmy has used the knife to slit open one of the D’Alessio brother’s throats. Richard can’t help but notice how different Jimmy is when he’s asleep, dead to the world. He looks calm, innocent, accepting. Richard doesn’t like the feeling that he’s exposed when he’s asleep but the bourbon is working in his brain, his eyelid drooping. He removes his mask and glasses, watching a vein pulse in Jimmy’s neck. The steady beat lulls him into a steadfast sleep.
He thankfully doesn’t dream of Odette this time-a life he isn’t allowed to have. He dreams of drifting out in the ocean instead, the black waves lapping at his form, obscuring him and a pale, strong hand that reaches for him and pulls him out.
His ears prick up to loud noises and a familiar accented woman’s voice. His eye flutters open to faint morning light lazily filtering in through the curtain and he immediately ghosts his fingers around his Colt. He feels that there’s a warm touch at his knee and it makes him pause. He turns his eye to the direction of the touch and sees that Jimmy has rested his hand there, presumably at some time during the night but the other man is still fast asleep next to him. Richard doesn’t have time to decide if he likes or warrants the touch because raised voices echo closer through the house and this time the blond ex solider bolts awake, removing his hand quickly from Richard’s knee. The two men share a look. There’s defiance yet vulnerability, an almost boyish embarrassment on the other man’s face, a little color peppering his normally alabaster skin. Jimmy breaks their gaze, clears his throat, smoothes his hair back, getting up quickly and adjusts his waistcoat.
“You better put it back on before she sees you,” Jimmy’s voice is still slightly thick with sleep yet gentle as he bends down to collect their glasses from the night before and exits the room with his usual limp to the direction of the kitchen. Richard had forgotten he had taken his mask off to sleep. Sometimes he forgot he wasn’t wearing it with Jimmy since Jimmy’s eyes showed no remorse, no abhorrer or pity when he saw Richard Harrow for the man he was-the man with half a face. Richard dons his mask and glasses quickly because Jimmy is right. Although Mrs. Schroeder and the children had warmed up to him considerably they still got frightened when they saw him without it on.
He pats his jacket to make sure the Colt is still there and gets up to join Jimmy in the kitchen. It’s a cluster fuck of activity and loud, raised voices and Richard regrets his decision to enter after all.
Mr. Thompson is standing close to a defiant looking Jimmy. He’s jabbing a finger in Jimmy’s face, speaking too lowly for Richard to hear, his face twisted up in a snarl. Mrs. Schroeder is pacing the kitchen, hand on her forehead
“What do you mean you haven’t seen her? Where are the children?” Mrs. Schroeder’s voice is high and shrill. She seems to be talking to no one in particular until she spies Richard in the doorway and she stops pacing immediately and turns on him.
“You! Where did they go? You were supposed to be keep watch!” She marches right up to him, shaking with anger and fright. Richard is shocked. Ms. Britton took all the children to a birthday party but he wasn’t told he was supposed to come with her nor what time they would return. When Jimmy showed up unexpectedly last night in his dashing fedora and matching suit, looking piss drunk and utterly broken on the porch it was late and Richard should have been concerned that Ms. Britton and the children weren’t back yet. He could have phoned Mr. Thompson or Mrs. Schroeder at Babette’s but the prospect of having someone around that just wanted his company was as intoxicating as the bourbon they drank. And it was Jimmy-the closest person to a friend Richard had. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Jimmy needed him last night. Needed someone to help him forget. But Jimmy helped Richard forget too. So much so he nearly forgot himself.
“I don’t know. Nungh.”
He sees Mr. Thompson react to his words, like they’ve slapped him in the face and he breaks away from Jimmy and stands by Mrs. Schroeder’s side. The two of them are a united front, both rounding on Richard.
“What do you mean you don’t know? She hasn’t come by at all?” Mr. Thompson’s narrowed intense eyes bore holes into Richard and the combined stares of the couple make him want to sink into the floor. Richard can only shake his head a little, his eye lowering.
“You didn’t phone us but you sure as fuck drank my bourbon with your friend here,” Mr. Thompson jerks an angry thumb to Jimmy, his face twisted up in a scary scowl. Jimmy is standing, back to the wall nearest the window. Morning light is in his light hair and pale face, his arms crossed, his eyes to the floor, chewing on a thumb nail. Upon hearing Mr. Thompson’s raised voice directed to Richard he propels himself off the wall, mouth a hard set line and stands by Richard’s side.
“This isn’t his fault. It was my idea to drink it. I told him you two probably wouldn’t want to be interrupted at the party and honestly we thought she would be back any time,” Jimmy’s voice is surprisingly calm considering the charged energies in the room. “If you want to be angry with someone be angry with me.”
Richard doesn’t know why Jimmy is protecting him, taking the fall but he feels grateful but also bewildered and he wants to protest. Mr. Thompson is still huffing and puffing and has his arm around a trembling Mrs. Schroeder who looks like she can’t decide if she wants to scream or cry. Jimmy and Richard share a small, knowing look. Jimmy’s hard eyes are telling Richard to stay quiet.
Mr. Thompson and Jimmy are caught in a dead lock stare a heartbeat later, eyes narrowed, lips curling into vicious snarls. “I’ll deal with you later. Right now we need to find Nan and the children. When’s the last time you saw her?” Mr. Thompson directs the question to Richard yet he’s still scowling at Jimmy.
Richard relays all that he knows-when he last saw Ms. Britton, where they went, anything that he thinks could help. Hours and many frantic phone calls later and still no one knows where Ms. Britton and the children are. Guilt, fear and remorse seep heavily into Richard but he still gets those sideways, dagger looks from Jimmy, silencing him. They all argue, point fingers, get angry, get frustrated, feel depressed and Mrs. Schroeder is besides herself. As if Mr. Thompson has exhausted all options and leads, which he has, he turns to the Irish woman, all soft eyes and gentle voice.
“You don’t know why she would be doing this do you? You’ve spent the most time with her as of late.”
Mrs. Schroeder bites her lip and lowers her eyes and the men in the room seem to pick up on her reaction and regard her curiously.
“Well. Lately she talks of Mr. Harding, President Harding now and when she would be joining him in the White House. I can’t get her to talk about anything else. After she got the ring in the Halloween cake I made she seemed more closed off, spending more and more time by herself which was a bit unusual but I didn’t think much of it.”
Mr. Thompson rolls his eyes, shaking his head. He walks away from her a little, rubbing at his face like he’s exhausted or exasperated.
“You didn’t think this was important to mention?” Richard can tell that Mr. Thompson is trying hard not to explode, stress wearing everyone’s nerves thin but his curt words still visibly sting Mrs. Schroeder none the less. She gets up from her chair and rounds on Mr. Thompson.
“She’s behaved strangely since the moment I met her, obsessed with President Harding! Don’t pin this on me. You’re the one that thought it would be a good idea for her to stay with me and the children! You try living with her. She’s insufferable at times and I try to tune her and constant mumblings about President Harding out!” They argue for a while and Richard can see the fear in both of their eyes despite their bickering. Everyone in the room is guilty of not paying close enough attention to the warning signs and now Ms. Britton was God knows where with the children.
Mr. Thompson is holding a crying Mrs. Schroeder a short time later and shoots the other two hitmen a look.
“I don’t care how you do it or how long it takes but you need to find them and bring them back. Don’t come back until you do.”
* * *
Jimmy grabs his things and leaves at once without a word getting a startled and almost curious look from Richard. He’s angry. Angry at himself for throwing caution to the wind, for focusing on himself and his needs for a change, for giving a damn and not seeing the bigger picture. He wanted the comfort of another person, wanted silent support but now everything’s gone to shit because of their stupidity and President Harding’s bat shit crazy mistress has gone missing with the Irish woman’s children.
He’s also angry at himself for not asking for a ride because the walk back to his apartment is long but it gives him a chance to blow off steam. His leg is aching horribly by the time he bursts through their apartment door. Tommy’s playing on the floor and barely reacts to the noise of his arrival like he’s oblivious to his father’s presence. But Angela isn’t and Jimmy doesn’t want to talk to her. She pauses at her easel, paintbrush in hand and Jimmy can feel her curious eyes on him as he limps around their small apartment, ruffling Tommy’s hair, throwing his jacket and hat off. He decides he needs to clean up and shave before he’s catapulted back into the unknown and terrifying.
He slams the door to the bathroom shut and undresses quickly. The water from the basin feels marvelous on his skin as he cleans himself but his mind is still racing, playing out the things that happened the night before like he’s going to the pictures-the film looping through his brain, the scenes coming alive in front of his eyes.
He fell asleep next to Richard on the sofa in the parlor, woke up with his hand on his knee protectively. Jimmy puts his face under the water trying to drown out the memory. They both were too caught up- the late night air, the warm kitchen, talk of the war and sanctuary, the bourbon, the pleasant company. And now look what happened. They had their guards down and now children were missing.
Jimmy pats his face with a towel and stares at himself in the mirror. His face isn’t as haggard and bleary looking as the previous days and he realizes it’s because he got a good night’s sleep last night even from sleeping in an awkward position. He didn’t dream about the war and the horrible things he saw when he was in the trenches. Jimmy didn’t remember dreaming at all last night and the pleasant thought stirs in his chest. He feels mystified and puzzled as he dries himself off. A light knock on the door breaks him out of his reverie. Angela pokes her head in without waiting to hear a response from Jimmy. She regards him standing in the small washroom with only a towel hung lowly on his hips, hair a mess, hanging in his eyes.
“What?” he growls out and turns back to the basin to wet his face again to shave.
He sees her in the mirror, sees her blink at him from the doorway, arms tight across her chest. He still isn’t used to her cropped locks. She looks even more like a stranger now. Jimmy applies the shaving cream and turns to her when she doesn’t answer.
“You didn’t come home last night and now you’re leaving again.” Angela has picked up on Jimmy’s habit of forming statements like a question. She looks frail and awkward as she stands, leaning up against the doorway Jimmy thinks as he smoothes the white shaving cream on his face. He turns his face back to the mirror, getting his razor.
“Yeah, I am,” he swipes the shaving cream off his face in an angry stroke from the razor.
“Where are you going?” She sounds small and weak and Jimmy doesn’t want to do this. Not now. Not ever.
After a couple more swipes from the razor he talks to her through the mirror, eyes on his face as he removes stubble from his chin.
“Why the fuck do you even care? You’re only concerned that Nucky keeps paying me. Paying us. Well, I’m doing something for him. That’s all you need to know.” He observes her in the mirror, sees her look away, a little hurt touching her eyes. She removes herself slowly from the door frame, turns and he hears her footsteps echo away. Jimmy releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He finishes shaving, cleans up, dresses quickly and starts packing. For some reason he can’t help shake the feeling he’s going to be away for a while. He imagines the black ocean like glass carrying him far away. But this time he’s on a boat, rowing on top of the dark, glass ocean with Richard by his side and his thoughts quiet with the strange yet comforting image.
He kisses and ruffles Tommy’s hair, grabs his jacket and heads to the door without a word but not before he notices Angela leaning, half hidden behind a wall, partially obscured in shadows looking like she’s totally alone in the world. That makes two of us, he thinks before he slips out quietly, shutting the door behind.
* * *
Richard is leaning up against a car, waiting for him when Jimmy exits his apartment complex, cigarette burning in the late morning sun. Richard regards him when Jimmy approaches, bag slung over his shoulder, cigarette dangling from his lips. Jimmy’s slightly surprised to see him but hides it well. He inhales deeply, exhales through his nose, squints at the older man.
“Didn’t know you knew how to drive.”
Richard shrugs a little, looking away. He meets Jimmy’s eyes head on a heartbeat later, a little smile tugging at half his mouth.
“There’s a lot. Hmm. You don’t know about me.”
Jimmy finds it hard to contain his slight smile, tries to hide it behind his cigarette as he takes another drag. He nods to the other man, throwing his bag into the back and climbs in. Richard relays what the “plan” is, told to him by Nucky, as he drives and Jimmy quickly learns there is no actual plan as no one knows where the stupid, crazy bitch went. They’ve been sent on a wild goose chase and Jimmy can’t help but think its some master plan from Nucky again-wanting to send the two men away, get them out of his sight as he plots and schemes. Jimmy chews on his cigarette angrily, letting his head rest against the window and watches as scenery flies past him.
They drive mostly in silence. Richard drives well, exercising the same caution, precision and skill as with killing. And Richard’s right, there’s a lot that Jimmy doesn’t know about the sharpshooter assassin-his partner in war and crime.
“Why did you do it?”
They were back in the car, driving on after stopping at a few places-stores and people’s homes that they knew the mistress had been to and been acquainted with before but they got no leads. No one had seen her. They had scoured the boardwalk and hadn’t come up with anything, not a scarp or trace of her trail. It was like the woman had vanished into thin air.
Richard’s sudden question cuts through the silence and the now setting sun pouring in through the windshield. Jimmy feels his heart skip a beat at the question and he momentarily feels stunned. For a split second he isn’t sure what Richard is referring to, thinking he’s talking about why Jimmy was resting his hand on his knee. Jimmy could play dumb to the question but he realizes what Richard’s asking as more coherent thoughts enter his brain and he can breathe again. They’re going to be working alongside each other for a while and he supposes they should be honest with one another. His old habits from being a soldier come up to meet him and he thinks it may help them work better, more efficiently to find the woman and the children if they work together cooperatively as a team.
Jimmy lights a new cigarette with shaky fingers to buy himself a little more time. He looks out the window as he answers.
“Nucky already hates me anyway. We’ve been on the outs,” Jimmy fiddles with the buttons on his jacket knowing he’s circling around the question instead of answering it completely. And honestly Jimmy isn’t one hundred percent sure why he chimed in, sticking his neck out for Richard. He feels like a hypocrite. He wants to be honest with the other man but he doesn’t know how to be. He doesn’t know exactly what to say.
“Hunh. You had my back. Hmm. Would have been easier to just let it go. Let Mr. Thompson be angry with me. Hmm. It was my fault.”
Jimmy exhales, smoke and evening sun filling the car. “Everyone’s at fault. We were all blindsided but Mrs. Schroeder should have told Nucky that she’s one card short of a deck.”
Richard makes a sound of either approval or laughter and Jimmy hopes that’s the end of the discussion of why Jimmy was playing the hero.
“Thank you,” and Richard is searching Jimmy’s face as they’ve stopped to let another car pass through the otherwise deserted intersection. Jimmy squirms in his seat pretending he’s very busy with his cigarette, staring straight ahead to the horizon. “Yeah. Sure. Don’t mention it,” he feels his cheeks burn a little and he’s angry again and he isn’t sure why this time.
* * *
They stop at a hotel. It’s late and they were already too far from the boardwalk, their familiar part of New Jersey to go back and Jimmy kept complaining that they both were too tired to drive all the way back. So Richard agrees to stop at the first hotel they see.
He’s reminded of a time when Jimmy took him to the whorehouse, his temporary residence in Chicago those months ago. The hotel has the same feeling and smell-sex, cigarettes, cheap perfume, broken promises, and wasted dreams. They get a queer look from the keeper as they approach, the woman’s eyes widening and lingering on Richard’s face. Jimmy requests two rooms. The woman asks if they have a reservation and Jimmy responds more in a rude way that they do not. Richard notes the growing irritation in Jimmy’s voice as the woman checks the roster. “We’re almost fully booked. Lots of people in town celebrating President Harding’s win,” her eyes scour the paper. “Looks like I have one room left though,” her irritation matches Jimmy’s almost perfectly.
“Fine. We’ll take it,” Jimmy drums his fingers impatiently on the desk as she searches for the correct key. Richard bristles at Jimmy’s rash decision and his inability to consult with him, making the decision for both of them. They could have stayed a different hotel but as the money is being exchanged for the room Richard notices the slight slump of the other man’s shoulders, his slightly red eyes, the bags under them and the slight twitch in his cheek. He’s clearly exhausted and Richard feels his mounting irritation subside.
Jimmy grabs the key from the woman who’s shooting them hard, disapproving looks and charges off, limping down the hall. Richard picks up his bag from the floor and stupidly follows after him. He meets up to him when Jimmy is opening the door to their room.
It has one bed of course. The room is bare and stripped to the basic essentials which Richard is actually quite used to being on his own for so long and sleeping where he could if he could. He thought living with Mrs. Schroeder for the past couple months was like living in the lap of luxury with a shower, running sinks and toilet, big warm bedroom with a soft bed.
The small bed in the room takes up a lot of space. The nightstand has a chamber pot and there’s a basin with water on another low table with a mirror. Jimmy plops down his bag, unzips it and pulls out a bottle of bourbon. Richard thinks it might be the same pilfered bottle from Mr. Thompson’s secret stash but he isn’t sure. Jimmy has an odd expression on his face-somewhere between exhaustion, contenment and awkwardness.
“Nightcap?” he shoots Richard a sideways glance, a sloppy grin on his boyish face. Richard finds himself returning, or at least trying to return the smile, his lips not always cooperating with him. He figures he needs a drink though as the younger man can be totally unpredictable with his decisions and rash behavior and Richard figures they’re in more danger if Jimmy’s taking the lead-running on instinct instead of thinking sometimes. Jimmy unscrews the top taking a long drink, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve and hands the bottle to Richard. Jimmy’s eyes go wide and he realizes his mistake when Richard doesn’t take the bottle right away. “Oh shit. You need…” but Richard is unzipping his own bag and is taking out a straw. He’s gotten used to carrying one with him just in cases like this. He takes the bottle from Jimmy, their fingertips brushing lightly, sending a feeling down Richard’s spine. He puts in the straw and drinks heavily, the room feeling significantly warmer as the liquid travels down his damaged throat.
They take turns washing up, some sort of plan of action conceived in their sloshy brains. Jimmy is considerably more relaxed but still looks sleepy as they pass the bottle of bourbon back and forth. Jimmy says he’ll sleep on the floor but Richard counters it wouldn’t be good for his leg. They argue lightly, both of them sitting on the edge of the bed getting sloppy with drink. The decision is somehow made for them as Richard doesn’t remember much after them arguing and then Jimmy telling him a story about a German soldier getting caught in the barb wires, having presumably passed out and then Richard feels softness underneath him, a solid presence at his back, soft snores echoing in the dark room and he can’t bring himself to move. He removes his mask and glasses, makes sure the other man is covered underneath the blanket, places his hand on the other man’s knee, returning the protective gesture, smiles into his pillow and drifts off to sleep with him next to him.
Fandom: Boardwalk Empire
Word Count: 6,675
Rating: R for language and future violence. Will be NC-17 eventually in future parts
Characters/Pairings: Jimmy/Richard with appearances of Nucky, Margaret, Angela, Nan and the children.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything BE wise.
Summary: Takes place directly after the events of episode 12: "A Return to Normalcy".
Switches back and forth from Jimmy and Richard's POV.
Nan Britton, President Harding's mistress, has gone missing-having fled with Margaret's children. Nucky sends his two hitmen on a mission to find them and bring them back.
This story chronicles the two ex soldiers working alongside each other intimately, getting to know each other and seeking refuge in the other as they struggle to escape their pasts, map their futures and search for the woman but both of them secretly hoping they don't find her and that the seach and working together can continue forever.
Slow building Jimmy/Richard because I love buildup, angst and "non easy relationships".
A/N: Although I did do some research I am not a history buff and I applogize for any inaccuracies! I know that Nan Britton didn't historically "kidnap" any children but she was obsessed with Warren Harding and even in the show they showcase her as being a bit "unstable". I took some liberties on that which fan fiction is in general so...*shrugs*
The title of this part comes from the song: "Terrible Love" by The National.
Please don't forget to comment! I beg you! I need to know if you want more/want me to continue/did them good enough justice, etc! Thanks so much! :)
Sanctuary
Part 1: "It Takes an Ocean Not to Break"
“You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:
from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater.”
-“The Wild Iris” by Louise Gluck
Jimmy walks the ocean like it’s an old friend. The last shard of daylight is fading, black ocean like glass. He inhales smoke, the only thing he can do right. He can’t do right by anybody. Everywhere he turns there are roadblocks. Ash falls to earth, mingles with sand to be washed away with the tide. He wanted a do over, a restart. He wanted to be taken in with the tide too, to be swept up, have something decent again. He doesn’t have anything.
He inhales deeply, a shaky breath, trembling fingers and gulls are lazily drifting. He can’t go home. He doesn’t think he knows where that is anymore. He has no idea where his loyalties lie. The conversation between his father and Sheriff Thompson roll around in his head like heavy rocks. Not like sand, like Angela that slips through his fingers.
He closes his eyes and his fingers flex, feeling her phantom hair, the long, soft tendrils she used to have, now swept away just like the black tide. He throws his cigarette angrily to the beach, shoes shucking and sinking, slight chill working in his skin. He works the dying beach trying to drown out his thoughts.
He’s not going home to her. Not like this. Maybe never. Not after they talked and she threw it back in his face. They were both unfaithful, living in fantasy worlds; he wanted a fresh start with her, to be a good father to their son and try to make it work. He skips a rock out to black waves and squints. He can’t even see where the rocks lands. It’s all too obscure.
He’s still drunk. Too many ghosts in his head, too many words he needs to drown out, brain stretched out like its taffy they sell on the boardwalk, rolling around and around on metal pins, being impossibly pulled in too many directions. Have the tide take them all away. He’s following his feet, back to somewhere or nowhere where he can just be. Somewhere he can just be quiet, still as a field in dawn, like the battlefield before the first shot is fired and talk if he feels like anything can come out.
Mrs. Schroeder’s house, Nucky’s place really, doesn’t seem far if you’re half in the bag but every foot fall and breath feels like a curse and there are brambles and thorns in his head, sand sticking to his shoes, suit, everywhere and he laughs. He stumbles up the couple steps and sits down hard on the porch step, new cigarette lit. He decides he’ll watch the sun come up or pass out, whichever comes first.
He smokes and watches the moon glint off the rows of houses for a while and he feels a presence at his back. Three years in the war, been back for months and he’s still hypersensitive to people’s presences even when he’s pissed drunk and wallowing but he’s still mildly impressed at how silently he slipped onto the porch like grass swaying or leaves rustling. There but just barely. Richard also has his hand inside his jacket Jimmy knows without seeing him, feeling his new Colt M1903 that was tucked away inside-the same gun Jimmy used. Jimmy had helped him get the gun. It was actually one of the better moments in his life over the past few weeks. He didn’t have to think, didn’t have to strategize, pretend or worry he would end up with a knife in his back hypothetical or otherwise when they were doing something ordinary or mundane together. He didn’t have to think with Richard. He didn’t have to be anything.
Despite the new prize he kept close Richard was attached to his Enfield M1917 rifle with the scope. Jimmy could see Richard sleeping with it under his pillow he was so attached to the damn thing. The thought made him smile a little before he took another drag, inhaling deeply, smoke staining his lungs. He feels Richard shift a little on the wooden porch, like a moth’s wing or smoke itself, a silent but deadly sentry standing guard.
“Do you want to sit?” He actually isn’t turned off by the idea of his company, knowing he can choose to stay quiet if he wants to. Jimmy’s eyes sweep the deserted roads, the silent houses, the empty vacuum of darkness, watching smoke curl impossibly upwards.
He hears wood creak and feels Richard’s solid presence next to him a heartbeat later on the porch step. Richard’s a man of few words and Jimmy likes this very much about the other man. He’s not sure if it’s because half his mouth is ruined or he’s just that way but Jimmy realizes he doesn’t care. In the political world he was swept up in all the big wigs ever did was talk. Jimmy was tired of talking. They sit in silence for a while and Jimmy feels he’s cut through some of the tangles and snarls that were twisting his brain earlier-his mother, his father and Sheriff Thompson’s conspiracies to take over Atlantic City, Nucky and Angela, the men he’s killed and still needs to kill. It’s all still there but it’s quieted now. Alcohol and the silent world helping but something else too…
“Did you come here for protection? Hunh.” Jimmy’s used to his guttural, gruff voice and noises the other man makes from deep in the back of his throat like a nervous tick or the over exertion of his damaged windpipe and vocal chords-all things familiar and predictable but he isn’t used to him trying to crack jokes. Jimmy eyes him for the first time that evening. Richard’s face, at least the one half, is impassive as always-like showing too much emotion would give away that not all of his face is a mask. Jimmy can’t really judge him for that. He’s been told he has a stony face and cold eyes himself and he doesn’t laugh enough. After the war, after what he saw and did he didn’t have much to smile about.
Jimmy squints at the sharpshooter hitman sitting next to him, the man he roped into his madness. Now they’re both pathetic fools being played by Nucky Thompson-the ringmaster pulling all the strings. Richard turns to him and meets his gaze head on, one eye looking over him curiously, glasses reflecting moonlight and smoke.
“I guess I kind of did. Protection from myself,” Jimmy shakes his head a little in disgust, pinching at his tired, bleary eyes. He doesn’t want to talk about it. “I claim sanctuary,” Jimmy laughs a little, looking away.
“We know what sanctuary is for men like us. Hmm. It isn’t here.”
He sees Richard pull out his Colt from inside his jacket from the corner of his eye, a kerchief a heartbeat later. Jimmy flicks his cigarette to the ground and eyes the other man as he holds the gun with precious and precise care like it’s his child, rubbing at it fondly with the kerchief to clean it. “This is our sanctuary,” he swipes his thumb over the barrel protectively looking out to the silent streets. His masked side is closest to Jimmy. As many times as he’s seen him wear it, almost feeling he’s completely immune to it, he still can’t help but think of different metaphors and similes to describe it-his Princeton days coming back to him.
Jimmy thinks he looks like a department store mannequin or Pinocchio in the moonlight, a figure made out of and carved from mans image and likeness, a figure running his fingers over his precious treasure just like the Tom Swift novel Richard gave him when they first met at the Vet hospital. But Richard doesn’t have a Geppetto, a woodcarver or smith-he’s his own man-offering up his protection and “sanctuary”. Jimmy bites his tongue from the oncoming laugh that threatens to spill out, the whiskey really doing wonders on his already fucked up brain.
He smells burning leaves, the stale salt air and Richard’s aftershave. The night is getting colder but he’s content with sitting on the porch like he’s a stranger. He’s at peace with it.
“Ms. Britton and the children aren’t here,” he’s not really asking a question but somehow he knows it’s true. Just a gut feeling he has.
“No. Hmm. Ms. Britton took the children to a birthday party while, hungh, Mrs. Schroeder went to the party at Babette’s.”
It was late and no one was back yet. Jimmy thought this was a little strange but he couldn’t bring himself to care and Richard didn’t seem to either. Jimmy needed this-casual conversation and a solid presence that didn’t need anything from him.
“Nightcap?” Richard’s gruff voice half growls out, cutting through the semi darkness. His unexpected words are consumed by the night air and startles Jimmy a little. Jimmy pinches his eyes again a heartbeat later and laughs a little under his breath, liking that Richard picked up on his train of thought. He thought they both needed some company and Jimmy was more than willing to oblige and drink some of Nucky’s squirreled away liquor in the process. He gets up, making sure to keep as much weight off his bad leg as he can. It still aches horribly at times but that was the least of his worries as of late. He watches Richard rise from the porch step, tucking the Colt and kerchief back in his tweed jacket carefully.
A man with half a face and a man with only one good leg. They were quite a pair. Jimmy stupidly pauses and lets Richard lead him inside like Jimmy’s an honored guest, someone he’s been expecting. He represses a snort. He isn’t even totally welcome at his father’s estate let alone Nucky’s concubine’s shack up. He isn’t sure where he’s welcome. He’s amused and intrigued that Richard acts like the man of the house as he leads Jimmy around like he owns the place. Jimmy observes that the other man seems like he’s at almost at home, touching things fondly, treading lightly.
“Hunh. I know where he keeps it.”
“I can guess a few places.”
They’re in the warm kitchen. The house is still and quiet. He hears the clock ticking in the parlor, wind rattling the window. Jimmy removes his hat and jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. He sits at the round, worn kitchen table and watches Richard grope his hand underneath the sink, hears tape being removed, sees him fish out a bottle of bourbon. It’s the same kind of bourbon they both drank when Jimmy took Richard to the whorehouse in Chicago for the first time. Having the same drink now seems significant and fitting somehow. Jimmy shakes his head to rid himself of the ridiculous thoughts. Richard’s opening cabinets with fluid movements and ease, fishing out glasses. There almost seems to be a slight spring in his step as he darts around, his hands jittery and anxious and Jimmy almost thinks the other man must be lonely-cooped up in the house watching the Irish maiden and her children all the time. Jimmy would be driven to drink too, at least more so, if he only had the annoying woman and her children for company.
Richard pours them both generous portions with scary accuracy, something Jimmy’s been meaning to ask him about but it can wait. When they both have their drinks Richard raises his glass to Jimmy, leaning up against the sink, a ghost of a smile on half of his face.
“Here’s to finding sanctuary,” he drawls out slowly. He maneuvers the straw into his half a mouth and drinks. Jimmy raises his glass to the toast and downs his in one shot like he’s proving a point, his mind immediately reeling and the room slightly spinning as he rests the glass on the table.
They drink and talk little-Jimmy sitting and Richard leaning against the sink. When they do talk it’s about the war-their one and only safe territory they’ve charted to for conversation. Jimmy wonders if ghosts can cancel out other ghosts. The war still weighs heavily on his mind but it keeps him from thinking about the other demons that are threatening to stir up something or take over completely. He’d rather relive the past right now then try to make sense of the future.
The wind rattles the pane, the clock ticks away, echoing through the empty rooms and suddenly they have new drinks in tow and are sitting in the parlor on the sofa.
Talk, drink, smoke and he’s drifting off, being pulled underwater, under the tide that he wanted so desperately to be swept up in. The last thing he sees is Richard’s face, his true face this time twisted up in what he thinks might be a smile. And then the black glass water encompasses him. No thoughts.
* * *
He moves about in a world stranger than fiction. The books his sister insists on sending him usually get used for kindling or he donates them to orphanages, placing the packages on the front stoop in the middle of the night, knowing the children would be too afraid of his face. He doesn’t need books to be reminded that there are things out there that are unbelievable. He’s living, breathing proof. He thinks he’s grown to accept it. But it’s still hard, still challenging when he wants to speak and he doesn’t recognize his own voice and can’t formulate the words quick enough with his damaged vocal chords. It proves difficult when he thinks he’s used to seeing his face in the mirror but then someone gasps upon him entering a public place, young children snigger or avert their eyes, terrified or old people want to put their hands on his broad shoulders, shoulders of a man and not an object and bless him, say prayers for him because he’s “misfortunate”.
They stare, laugh, whisper, become squeamish, turn and run away but not him. His eye focuses on the sleeping form next to him. He’s slumped into the corner of the sofa; head lolled back slightly, some blond hair in his face, arms gone slack, his waistcoat bunched up around his middle, riding up a little. His breath is deep and even. Richard thinks he looks almost peaceful.
Sanctuary. Richard thinks. He found sanctuary from whatever was clearly troubling him earlier and maybe so have I.
Richard had thought about the man, one James Darmody, and what he stood for a lot. The man that reached in and pulled him out from drowning, the tide taking him farther and farther out until he was just a tiny speak. He thought he lost himself completely. But Jimmy was there extending his hand, anchoring him to the shore because Richard was drifting. After the war and his accident he turned away from those who knew him-not wanting their pity and sympathy. He had gotten enough of it in the hospitals, from the doctors, from the nuns, from random strangers on the street who would come up to him and say that he was “in their thoughts and prayers”, that and the difficulty to talk and reliving the details of the war made him feel he was going quite mad. His family couldn’t see him that way. So he fled New York, traveling everywhere and nowhere, trying not to be seen.
He had taken odd jobs wherever he could. Working on farms, driving and running deliveries, janitorial work at various factories but no one would hire him full time and the jobs weren’t what he wanted anyway. He felt at his new Colt in his jacket, the gun Jimmy helped him get. That was the kind of work he was always good at, what they made him good at. So he kept wandering, kept drifting. He wrote to his sister, kept a journal and wrote in that and poetry sometimes. He was always better at expressing himself in written word than spoken tongue even before his injury. He kept that to himself though. He left it as a secret for someone to uncover.
His eye roams over the sleeping form once more. The lamp’s dim light bounces shadows over his pale face. Richard can’t help but stare at his throat, so exposed and vulnerable. He knows Jimmy keeps a hidden knife in his boot. He knows also that Jimmy has used the knife to slit open one of the D’Alessio brother’s throats. Richard can’t help but notice how different Jimmy is when he’s asleep, dead to the world. He looks calm, innocent, accepting. Richard doesn’t like the feeling that he’s exposed when he’s asleep but the bourbon is working in his brain, his eyelid drooping. He removes his mask and glasses, watching a vein pulse in Jimmy’s neck. The steady beat lulls him into a steadfast sleep.
He thankfully doesn’t dream of Odette this time-a life he isn’t allowed to have. He dreams of drifting out in the ocean instead, the black waves lapping at his form, obscuring him and a pale, strong hand that reaches for him and pulls him out.
His ears prick up to loud noises and a familiar accented woman’s voice. His eye flutters open to faint morning light lazily filtering in through the curtain and he immediately ghosts his fingers around his Colt. He feels that there’s a warm touch at his knee and it makes him pause. He turns his eye to the direction of the touch and sees that Jimmy has rested his hand there, presumably at some time during the night but the other man is still fast asleep next to him. Richard doesn’t have time to decide if he likes or warrants the touch because raised voices echo closer through the house and this time the blond ex solider bolts awake, removing his hand quickly from Richard’s knee. The two men share a look. There’s defiance yet vulnerability, an almost boyish embarrassment on the other man’s face, a little color peppering his normally alabaster skin. Jimmy breaks their gaze, clears his throat, smoothes his hair back, getting up quickly and adjusts his waistcoat.
“You better put it back on before she sees you,” Jimmy’s voice is still slightly thick with sleep yet gentle as he bends down to collect their glasses from the night before and exits the room with his usual limp to the direction of the kitchen. Richard had forgotten he had taken his mask off to sleep. Sometimes he forgot he wasn’t wearing it with Jimmy since Jimmy’s eyes showed no remorse, no abhorrer or pity when he saw Richard Harrow for the man he was-the man with half a face. Richard dons his mask and glasses quickly because Jimmy is right. Although Mrs. Schroeder and the children had warmed up to him considerably they still got frightened when they saw him without it on.
He pats his jacket to make sure the Colt is still there and gets up to join Jimmy in the kitchen. It’s a cluster fuck of activity and loud, raised voices and Richard regrets his decision to enter after all.
Mr. Thompson is standing close to a defiant looking Jimmy. He’s jabbing a finger in Jimmy’s face, speaking too lowly for Richard to hear, his face twisted up in a snarl. Mrs. Schroeder is pacing the kitchen, hand on her forehead
“What do you mean you haven’t seen her? Where are the children?” Mrs. Schroeder’s voice is high and shrill. She seems to be talking to no one in particular until she spies Richard in the doorway and she stops pacing immediately and turns on him.
“You! Where did they go? You were supposed to be keep watch!” She marches right up to him, shaking with anger and fright. Richard is shocked. Ms. Britton took all the children to a birthday party but he wasn’t told he was supposed to come with her nor what time they would return. When Jimmy showed up unexpectedly last night in his dashing fedora and matching suit, looking piss drunk and utterly broken on the porch it was late and Richard should have been concerned that Ms. Britton and the children weren’t back yet. He could have phoned Mr. Thompson or Mrs. Schroeder at Babette’s but the prospect of having someone around that just wanted his company was as intoxicating as the bourbon they drank. And it was Jimmy-the closest person to a friend Richard had. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Jimmy needed him last night. Needed someone to help him forget. But Jimmy helped Richard forget too. So much so he nearly forgot himself.
“I don’t know. Nungh.”
He sees Mr. Thompson react to his words, like they’ve slapped him in the face and he breaks away from Jimmy and stands by Mrs. Schroeder’s side. The two of them are a united front, both rounding on Richard.
“What do you mean you don’t know? She hasn’t come by at all?” Mr. Thompson’s narrowed intense eyes bore holes into Richard and the combined stares of the couple make him want to sink into the floor. Richard can only shake his head a little, his eye lowering.
“You didn’t phone us but you sure as fuck drank my bourbon with your friend here,” Mr. Thompson jerks an angry thumb to Jimmy, his face twisted up in a scary scowl. Jimmy is standing, back to the wall nearest the window. Morning light is in his light hair and pale face, his arms crossed, his eyes to the floor, chewing on a thumb nail. Upon hearing Mr. Thompson’s raised voice directed to Richard he propels himself off the wall, mouth a hard set line and stands by Richard’s side.
“This isn’t his fault. It was my idea to drink it. I told him you two probably wouldn’t want to be interrupted at the party and honestly we thought she would be back any time,” Jimmy’s voice is surprisingly calm considering the charged energies in the room. “If you want to be angry with someone be angry with me.”
Richard doesn’t know why Jimmy is protecting him, taking the fall but he feels grateful but also bewildered and he wants to protest. Mr. Thompson is still huffing and puffing and has his arm around a trembling Mrs. Schroeder who looks like she can’t decide if she wants to scream or cry. Jimmy and Richard share a small, knowing look. Jimmy’s hard eyes are telling Richard to stay quiet.
Mr. Thompson and Jimmy are caught in a dead lock stare a heartbeat later, eyes narrowed, lips curling into vicious snarls. “I’ll deal with you later. Right now we need to find Nan and the children. When’s the last time you saw her?” Mr. Thompson directs the question to Richard yet he’s still scowling at Jimmy.
Richard relays all that he knows-when he last saw Ms. Britton, where they went, anything that he thinks could help. Hours and many frantic phone calls later and still no one knows where Ms. Britton and the children are. Guilt, fear and remorse seep heavily into Richard but he still gets those sideways, dagger looks from Jimmy, silencing him. They all argue, point fingers, get angry, get frustrated, feel depressed and Mrs. Schroeder is besides herself. As if Mr. Thompson has exhausted all options and leads, which he has, he turns to the Irish woman, all soft eyes and gentle voice.
“You don’t know why she would be doing this do you? You’ve spent the most time with her as of late.”
Mrs. Schroeder bites her lip and lowers her eyes and the men in the room seem to pick up on her reaction and regard her curiously.
“Well. Lately she talks of Mr. Harding, President Harding now and when she would be joining him in the White House. I can’t get her to talk about anything else. After she got the ring in the Halloween cake I made she seemed more closed off, spending more and more time by herself which was a bit unusual but I didn’t think much of it.”
Mr. Thompson rolls his eyes, shaking his head. He walks away from her a little, rubbing at his face like he’s exhausted or exasperated.
“You didn’t think this was important to mention?” Richard can tell that Mr. Thompson is trying hard not to explode, stress wearing everyone’s nerves thin but his curt words still visibly sting Mrs. Schroeder none the less. She gets up from her chair and rounds on Mr. Thompson.
“She’s behaved strangely since the moment I met her, obsessed with President Harding! Don’t pin this on me. You’re the one that thought it would be a good idea for her to stay with me and the children! You try living with her. She’s insufferable at times and I try to tune her and constant mumblings about President Harding out!” They argue for a while and Richard can see the fear in both of their eyes despite their bickering. Everyone in the room is guilty of not paying close enough attention to the warning signs and now Ms. Britton was God knows where with the children.
Mr. Thompson is holding a crying Mrs. Schroeder a short time later and shoots the other two hitmen a look.
“I don’t care how you do it or how long it takes but you need to find them and bring them back. Don’t come back until you do.”
* * *
Jimmy grabs his things and leaves at once without a word getting a startled and almost curious look from Richard. He’s angry. Angry at himself for throwing caution to the wind, for focusing on himself and his needs for a change, for giving a damn and not seeing the bigger picture. He wanted the comfort of another person, wanted silent support but now everything’s gone to shit because of their stupidity and President Harding’s bat shit crazy mistress has gone missing with the Irish woman’s children.
He’s also angry at himself for not asking for a ride because the walk back to his apartment is long but it gives him a chance to blow off steam. His leg is aching horribly by the time he bursts through their apartment door. Tommy’s playing on the floor and barely reacts to the noise of his arrival like he’s oblivious to his father’s presence. But Angela isn’t and Jimmy doesn’t want to talk to her. She pauses at her easel, paintbrush in hand and Jimmy can feel her curious eyes on him as he limps around their small apartment, ruffling Tommy’s hair, throwing his jacket and hat off. He decides he needs to clean up and shave before he’s catapulted back into the unknown and terrifying.
He slams the door to the bathroom shut and undresses quickly. The water from the basin feels marvelous on his skin as he cleans himself but his mind is still racing, playing out the things that happened the night before like he’s going to the pictures-the film looping through his brain, the scenes coming alive in front of his eyes.
He fell asleep next to Richard on the sofa in the parlor, woke up with his hand on his knee protectively. Jimmy puts his face under the water trying to drown out the memory. They both were too caught up- the late night air, the warm kitchen, talk of the war and sanctuary, the bourbon, the pleasant company. And now look what happened. They had their guards down and now children were missing.
Jimmy pats his face with a towel and stares at himself in the mirror. His face isn’t as haggard and bleary looking as the previous days and he realizes it’s because he got a good night’s sleep last night even from sleeping in an awkward position. He didn’t dream about the war and the horrible things he saw when he was in the trenches. Jimmy didn’t remember dreaming at all last night and the pleasant thought stirs in his chest. He feels mystified and puzzled as he dries himself off. A light knock on the door breaks him out of his reverie. Angela pokes her head in without waiting to hear a response from Jimmy. She regards him standing in the small washroom with only a towel hung lowly on his hips, hair a mess, hanging in his eyes.
“What?” he growls out and turns back to the basin to wet his face again to shave.
He sees her in the mirror, sees her blink at him from the doorway, arms tight across her chest. He still isn’t used to her cropped locks. She looks even more like a stranger now. Jimmy applies the shaving cream and turns to her when she doesn’t answer.
“You didn’t come home last night and now you’re leaving again.” Angela has picked up on Jimmy’s habit of forming statements like a question. She looks frail and awkward as she stands, leaning up against the doorway Jimmy thinks as he smoothes the white shaving cream on his face. He turns his face back to the mirror, getting his razor.
“Yeah, I am,” he swipes the shaving cream off his face in an angry stroke from the razor.
“Where are you going?” She sounds small and weak and Jimmy doesn’t want to do this. Not now. Not ever.
After a couple more swipes from the razor he talks to her through the mirror, eyes on his face as he removes stubble from his chin.
“Why the fuck do you even care? You’re only concerned that Nucky keeps paying me. Paying us. Well, I’m doing something for him. That’s all you need to know.” He observes her in the mirror, sees her look away, a little hurt touching her eyes. She removes herself slowly from the door frame, turns and he hears her footsteps echo away. Jimmy releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He finishes shaving, cleans up, dresses quickly and starts packing. For some reason he can’t help shake the feeling he’s going to be away for a while. He imagines the black ocean like glass carrying him far away. But this time he’s on a boat, rowing on top of the dark, glass ocean with Richard by his side and his thoughts quiet with the strange yet comforting image.
He kisses and ruffles Tommy’s hair, grabs his jacket and heads to the door without a word but not before he notices Angela leaning, half hidden behind a wall, partially obscured in shadows looking like she’s totally alone in the world. That makes two of us, he thinks before he slips out quietly, shutting the door behind.
* * *
Richard is leaning up against a car, waiting for him when Jimmy exits his apartment complex, cigarette burning in the late morning sun. Richard regards him when Jimmy approaches, bag slung over his shoulder, cigarette dangling from his lips. Jimmy’s slightly surprised to see him but hides it well. He inhales deeply, exhales through his nose, squints at the older man.
“Didn’t know you knew how to drive.”
Richard shrugs a little, looking away. He meets Jimmy’s eyes head on a heartbeat later, a little smile tugging at half his mouth.
“There’s a lot. Hmm. You don’t know about me.”
Jimmy finds it hard to contain his slight smile, tries to hide it behind his cigarette as he takes another drag. He nods to the other man, throwing his bag into the back and climbs in. Richard relays what the “plan” is, told to him by Nucky, as he drives and Jimmy quickly learns there is no actual plan as no one knows where the stupid, crazy bitch went. They’ve been sent on a wild goose chase and Jimmy can’t help but think its some master plan from Nucky again-wanting to send the two men away, get them out of his sight as he plots and schemes. Jimmy chews on his cigarette angrily, letting his head rest against the window and watches as scenery flies past him.
They drive mostly in silence. Richard drives well, exercising the same caution, precision and skill as with killing. And Richard’s right, there’s a lot that Jimmy doesn’t know about the sharpshooter assassin-his partner in war and crime.
“Why did you do it?”
They were back in the car, driving on after stopping at a few places-stores and people’s homes that they knew the mistress had been to and been acquainted with before but they got no leads. No one had seen her. They had scoured the boardwalk and hadn’t come up with anything, not a scarp or trace of her trail. It was like the woman had vanished into thin air.
Richard’s sudden question cuts through the silence and the now setting sun pouring in through the windshield. Jimmy feels his heart skip a beat at the question and he momentarily feels stunned. For a split second he isn’t sure what Richard is referring to, thinking he’s talking about why Jimmy was resting his hand on his knee. Jimmy could play dumb to the question but he realizes what Richard’s asking as more coherent thoughts enter his brain and he can breathe again. They’re going to be working alongside each other for a while and he supposes they should be honest with one another. His old habits from being a soldier come up to meet him and he thinks it may help them work better, more efficiently to find the woman and the children if they work together cooperatively as a team.
Jimmy lights a new cigarette with shaky fingers to buy himself a little more time. He looks out the window as he answers.
“Nucky already hates me anyway. We’ve been on the outs,” Jimmy fiddles with the buttons on his jacket knowing he’s circling around the question instead of answering it completely. And honestly Jimmy isn’t one hundred percent sure why he chimed in, sticking his neck out for Richard. He feels like a hypocrite. He wants to be honest with the other man but he doesn’t know how to be. He doesn’t know exactly what to say.
“Hunh. You had my back. Hmm. Would have been easier to just let it go. Let Mr. Thompson be angry with me. Hmm. It was my fault.”
Jimmy exhales, smoke and evening sun filling the car. “Everyone’s at fault. We were all blindsided but Mrs. Schroeder should have told Nucky that she’s one card short of a deck.”
Richard makes a sound of either approval or laughter and Jimmy hopes that’s the end of the discussion of why Jimmy was playing the hero.
“Thank you,” and Richard is searching Jimmy’s face as they’ve stopped to let another car pass through the otherwise deserted intersection. Jimmy squirms in his seat pretending he’s very busy with his cigarette, staring straight ahead to the horizon. “Yeah. Sure. Don’t mention it,” he feels his cheeks burn a little and he’s angry again and he isn’t sure why this time.
* * *
They stop at a hotel. It’s late and they were already too far from the boardwalk, their familiar part of New Jersey to go back and Jimmy kept complaining that they both were too tired to drive all the way back. So Richard agrees to stop at the first hotel they see.
He’s reminded of a time when Jimmy took him to the whorehouse, his temporary residence in Chicago those months ago. The hotel has the same feeling and smell-sex, cigarettes, cheap perfume, broken promises, and wasted dreams. They get a queer look from the keeper as they approach, the woman’s eyes widening and lingering on Richard’s face. Jimmy requests two rooms. The woman asks if they have a reservation and Jimmy responds more in a rude way that they do not. Richard notes the growing irritation in Jimmy’s voice as the woman checks the roster. “We’re almost fully booked. Lots of people in town celebrating President Harding’s win,” her eyes scour the paper. “Looks like I have one room left though,” her irritation matches Jimmy’s almost perfectly.
“Fine. We’ll take it,” Jimmy drums his fingers impatiently on the desk as she searches for the correct key. Richard bristles at Jimmy’s rash decision and his inability to consult with him, making the decision for both of them. They could have stayed a different hotel but as the money is being exchanged for the room Richard notices the slight slump of the other man’s shoulders, his slightly red eyes, the bags under them and the slight twitch in his cheek. He’s clearly exhausted and Richard feels his mounting irritation subside.
Jimmy grabs the key from the woman who’s shooting them hard, disapproving looks and charges off, limping down the hall. Richard picks up his bag from the floor and stupidly follows after him. He meets up to him when Jimmy is opening the door to their room.
It has one bed of course. The room is bare and stripped to the basic essentials which Richard is actually quite used to being on his own for so long and sleeping where he could if he could. He thought living with Mrs. Schroeder for the past couple months was like living in the lap of luxury with a shower, running sinks and toilet, big warm bedroom with a soft bed.
The small bed in the room takes up a lot of space. The nightstand has a chamber pot and there’s a basin with water on another low table with a mirror. Jimmy plops down his bag, unzips it and pulls out a bottle of bourbon. Richard thinks it might be the same pilfered bottle from Mr. Thompson’s secret stash but he isn’t sure. Jimmy has an odd expression on his face-somewhere between exhaustion, contenment and awkwardness.
“Nightcap?” he shoots Richard a sideways glance, a sloppy grin on his boyish face. Richard finds himself returning, or at least trying to return the smile, his lips not always cooperating with him. He figures he needs a drink though as the younger man can be totally unpredictable with his decisions and rash behavior and Richard figures they’re in more danger if Jimmy’s taking the lead-running on instinct instead of thinking sometimes. Jimmy unscrews the top taking a long drink, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve and hands the bottle to Richard. Jimmy’s eyes go wide and he realizes his mistake when Richard doesn’t take the bottle right away. “Oh shit. You need…” but Richard is unzipping his own bag and is taking out a straw. He’s gotten used to carrying one with him just in cases like this. He takes the bottle from Jimmy, their fingertips brushing lightly, sending a feeling down Richard’s spine. He puts in the straw and drinks heavily, the room feeling significantly warmer as the liquid travels down his damaged throat.
They take turns washing up, some sort of plan of action conceived in their sloshy brains. Jimmy is considerably more relaxed but still looks sleepy as they pass the bottle of bourbon back and forth. Jimmy says he’ll sleep on the floor but Richard counters it wouldn’t be good for his leg. They argue lightly, both of them sitting on the edge of the bed getting sloppy with drink. The decision is somehow made for them as Richard doesn’t remember much after them arguing and then Jimmy telling him a story about a German soldier getting caught in the barb wires, having presumably passed out and then Richard feels softness underneath him, a solid presence at his back, soft snores echoing in the dark room and he can’t bring himself to move. He removes his mask and glasses, makes sure the other man is covered underneath the blanket, places his hand on the other man’s knee, returning the protective gesture, smiles into his pillow and drifts off to sleep with him next to him.