SPRING
The first time they meet, it's at one of Jimmy's strategic liquor-soaked parties in Babette's VIP lounge.
He sits at his usual spot on an abandoned sofa, stiff and uncomfortable amongst the overheated crowd. One of the men (probably Bader, the pompous bastard) is wearing too much cologne; it's mixing badly with the cigar smoke and is giving him a headache. He sips his drink and scans the room again. Jimmy is holding court in the high-backed chair to the left side of the room, and gives Richard a small nod before returning to his conversation with Doyle and Capone.
Fortunately he's not required to mingle; Jimmy brings him along just to get him out of the house, and because he's got a talent for observation. There isn't much that slips Richard's notice. Right now, though, he just wishes he could go home, except Jimmy's still here. And he can't leave unless Jimmy does.
"Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?" He looks up to find a woman standing next to him, indicating the empty space on the sofa.
She is beautiful.
"No ma'am." He has to pause, to get rid of the damned click that comes with the severely damaged vocal cords he was cursed with. "Have a seat."
She smiles gratefully and sinks into the cushion. He shifts to make more room despite already being pressed up against the arm of the sofa, trying not to stare at the way her dark hair contrasts with the faded pink of the upholstery.
"Thank you so much. It's a bit warm in here; I just needed a rest for a minute." Her words are lightly accented; Southern, he thinks. A little bit French.
"Yes. It's all the people. And the…cigars." She grins at him again and throws back her scotch. He returns the smile shyly before scanning the room again. Jimmy is smirking at him from his perch. Richard narrows his good eye at him before returning his attention to the woman.
"Can I ask your name?" She shifts her glass from her right hand to her left, so she can shake his hand. A small drop of condensation slides down the crystal and splashes onto her bottle-green dress. Richard can't help thinking about the ocean in the summer; it's the exact same color, the beads on the bodice glittering like the sun on the waves.
"Of course. Marie Rivette, from New Orleans. Pleasure to meet you." He takes her hand and shakes it gently.
"Richard Harrow, Wisconsin." She nods thoughtfully and settles further into the sofa, turning so that she's facing him.
"So who are you here with, Richard?" He nods towards Jimmy, who is now angrily debating some point or another with Lansky and Luciano.
"Jimmy Darmody. My friend." There's a moment of awkward silence; she's waiting for him to elaborate, he's trying to find a way to politely change the subject. He doesn't discuss business with civilians. "Are you here with someone, or…"
She shakes her head, tucking a wisp of escaped hair behind her ear. Richard's mesmerized by the brush of her fingertips down her neck.
"Just a few of the girls. Elizabeth heard I wasn't doing anything tonight and invited me along." Richard seeks Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye; if he remembers correctly, she's the redheaded whore wearing the purple dress tonight, the one who's been the mayor's favorite for the past few weeks. Sure enough, she's got her long legs swung up in his lap, her dress pushed up well over her knees.
"Do you work…with her?" It takes Marie a few seconds to decipher what he's asking, her blue eyes widening slightly with the realization. He feels strangely guilty when she frowns and pulls back from him slightly.
"Oh, no, nothing like that. I'm a secretary for one of the shipping firms. Elizabeth and I live in the same building, we're neighbors." He stares at his feet, burning with embarrassment for having asked.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude." Silence stretches painfully between them while the racket and motion of the party continues all around. Richard begins counting the beats of his heart and gets to twenty-three before she speaks again.
"It's alright." Marie sighs, looking at Elizabeth. "It doesn't bother me, you know. Her line of work, that is." He finally looks back up at her. She's smiling again.
"Why not?" Shrugging, she gestures towards the women in the room. Richard looks at them all obediently, taking in their appearances, their demeanor, their smiles. He spends a fair amount of time looking at these women during the regular parties Jimmy throws, wondering what would happen if he walked up to them and asked for what he wanted instead of Jimmy having to tell them. Tonight, though, they're no more fascinating than the pattern of the carpet.
"There isn't a lot of well-paying work out there for single women, and if it's what she needs to do to survive, who am I to judge?"
There's a sudden commotion beside them, and two of the whores –a blonde named Francine, who's taken pity on him once or twice, and a brunette that he's unfamiliar with- are trying to get Marie's attention. He bites back his irritation, smoothing his face into controlled calm.
"Marie, lover! There's a party on the beach, it sounds simply divine, you have to come! We promise to have you home at a decent hour." Marie looks back at Richard apologetically, standing and straightening her dress as the two women chatter. One of them takes her hand and begins tugging her towards the door. She pulls away and turns back to him, extending her hand again.
"It was lovely talking to you, Richard. Maybe we'll see each other on the boardwalk?" He takes her hand and shakes it again, silently cursing the clicks that escape his throat before he can stop them.
"Maybe. Have fun at the party, Marie." She smiles at him, and he finds himself returning it; a genuine smile, or at least as close to one as he can manage anymore with his injuries. As she walks away he is surprised to find his heart beating faster than usual, something that only ever happens during a hit anymore.
He spends the rest of the evening determined not to look at the empty spot on the other end of the sofa.
It's almost two weeks before he sees her again.
He's walking down the boardwalk with Jimmy and Angela; they're taking Tommy out for his birthday, and invite Richard to come along. He's trailing along behind them, stopping to look in the shop windows and making sure Tommy doesn't get too far ahead while his parents are busy buying taffy and considering a wireless for the house, when Jimmy suddenly calls his name.
"Isn't that that girl from Babette's? The one you were talking to a few weeks ago?" Richard follows Jimmy's line of sight to a bench facing the beach. Angela catches them up, Tommy in her arms, wondering aloud at the situation. Jimmy grins and wraps an arm around her waist.
"Richard's sweetheart is over on that bench, but he won't go talk to her." Richard kicks at a loose board, feeling his face flush.
"She's not my…sweetheart. We met at a…party two weeks ago." Jimmy and Angela both beam at him. Tommy kicks and wails to be let down. Angela shifts him to her hip and lays a hand on Richard's shoulder, squeezing it encouragingly.
"Go on. Talk to her." She gives him a gentle push towards Marie. "There's a fair tonight, see if she wants to go."
He hesitates.
Jimmy takes him by the shoulder and steers him towards the bench. Marie's back is to him, engrossed in a notebook of some kind; she's scribbling in it furiously, stopping only to tuck loose strands of hair back to keep them out of her face. In the sunlight he can finally determine its true color; it's so dark that it's nearly black. Jimmy begins marching him forward, abandoning him halfway across the boardwalk.
"You got through the war, you can talk to a girl. Go, do it." He strolls back to where Angela is waiting for him further down the boardwalk, presumably to give Richard some privacy. Richard takes a deep breath, flexing his hands, and walks up to the bench.
"Excuse me, is anyone…sitting here?" Marie looks up, startled, before recognition sets in.
"Richard!" She springs to her feet, clutching the ledger to her chest. "How are you?"
He inclines his head, takes her gently by the elbow, and sits them both down. His heart is pounding again. He can do this, he knows; he used to be decent at it, at small talk, before the war. If only he could remember how.
"I'm fine, you?" In the bright light of day he notices details he missed in the smoky club; the exact color of her skin (a smooth, light olive), a slight gap between her front teeth, the small, nearly invisible scar through her right eyebrow. The constant, inviting tilt of her head.
"Wonderful. It's been so nice lately, I've been coming out here to write for the past couple of days. I've needed the sun after all that rain." He looks at the notebook in her hand. Its black leather cover is engraved with the initials MCR in silver. He taps it with a finger.
"MCR?" She opens the book to the flyleaf, where a name is inscribed in perfect schoolgirl copperplate.
"Marie Cleménce Rivette. My papa's Cajun, and my mama's a bit of everything. I was named for my grandmothers." Richard nods thoughtfully.
"It's…a beautiful name." She blushes prettily, and Richard feels his chest tighten almost painfully with something that feels a lot like happiness. Taking a deep breath, he soldiers on.
"My middle…name's Joseph. Kind of boring next to Marie…Cleménce Rivette, though." He winces at his pronunciation, not quite able to get his ruined mouth around the French r's. A glance at Marie tells him that she's studying him closely.
"I don't think so. It's very masculine. Very traditional. A good strong name for a good strong man." He looks at her, dumbfounded, for a moment, not entirely sure how to reply. She patiently waits him out rather than speak. Eventually he settles on a subject change.
"So what…do you write in there?" She shifts uncomfortably, her hands tightening on the book.
"Bad poetry, mostly. The occasional short story. Sometimes it's just whatever I'm thinking about. It's difficult for me to get through the day without spending part of it scribbling. It just feels right." She shrugs, giving him a half-smile that sends his heart fluttering. He suddenly remembers Angela's suggestion, and turns on the bench to face her.
"Look, there's a fair…on the boardwalk tonight, and…I was wondering if maybe—"
"I was actually about to ask you the same—"
"-if you don't already have plans-"
"Of course!" He freezes, face falling, and Marie laughs nervously. "I mean, of course I'd love to go with you, not 'of course I already have plans'. Seven o'clock in front of the Ritz?"
He nods silently, his throat still constricted with panic. Marie stands, gathering her things, and he stands with her automatically. She is, he notes, almost a head shorter than he is, even in her heeled shoes.
"I'll see you then," he manages to choke out.
She stands on tiptoe and pecks him on the cheek in reply before walking away.
He arrives at the Ritz fifteen minutes early out of sheer nerves. Pacing the boards, he checks his reflection in the glass again; the suit he borrowed from Jimmy is slightly too large for him, because Jimmy is broader in the shoulders, and it's the most expensive thing he's ever worn. He can't deny that he looks sharp, though; when he came out of the bedroom at the Darmody's, Jimmy had wolf-whistled and Angela had pronounced him 'completely handsome', and a trip to the mirror in the hall had led to the shock of his life.
The flower in his hand is another thing entirely. He looks at it nervously (he'd asked Angela whether he should even buy flowers at all; "Not a whole bouquet," she'd advised. "You'll get tired of carrying it. Just one should do. And not a rose, that's a bit much for a first date."), hoping Marie likes pink carnations. Hopefully the splitting stem would survive the night.
Marie arrives at 7PM on the dot. Richard sees her reflected in the window first, a blur of royal blue among the yellowed lights illuminating the south end of the boardwalk. When he turns, he can hardly believe the sight in front of him.
She is beautiful.
"You look lovely." He extends the flower to her. To his chagrin, the stem falls off as she accepts it. He swears to himself then and there that he's going to go back to that florist and put the fear of God into him when he has a chance, but he has more important things to attend to now. He watches silently, almost smiling, as she slides what's left of it into her hair, securing it with a hairpin.
"Thank you, for the flower and the compliment. You're a choice bit of calico yourself." She took his hand, twining her fingers through his. "Shall we?"
They stroll among the booths for a while, talking idly and comparing life stories. They find that in the basic respects, they're very similar; both in their twenties (he's twenty-seven, she's twenty-two), with one sibling each (an older brother, Mathieu, for her, and his twin Anna), all four of their parents passed away, both moved to Atlantic City to start over. In others, however, they differ wildly.
For instance: where he's completely indifferent to organized sport, she's wild about baseball.
They stop at a booth proclaiming that any person capable of knocking three stacked milk bottles off a small table three times in a row can win a prize. Richard has played this one before; he knows the bottles are weighted, that there's a specific spot you need to hit, that it's nearly impossible to do all three times. But Marie swears she can do it, so he puts down the nickel despite the derisive laugh of the booth's owner, and stands back as she's given her ammunition.
Three fastballs later, she hands him a small stuffed dog and explains that her brother has been teaching her to pitch since they were children. He vows to never doubt her word again.
Eventually they stumble across a shooting gallery. Richard asks her if she wants to try, and for the first time since he's met her, she hesitates.
"I've never really handled a gun before. Not even the small ones." He puts a quarter on the counter for each of them and hands her an air rifle.
"I'll show you."
He spends the next few minutes showing her where to put her hands, how to set the rifle into her shoulder, how to lean into the shot to avoid kickback. When she takes her first shot, it's with his finger over hers on the trigger, pressed up against his chest a little more than strictly necessary, with the booth owner sniggering fondly at them in the background. She misses the first few targets, but only by a bit; the next few fall with a loud clang! of metal on metal. It's not enough to win, though, and she puts the rifle back down in graceful defeat.
And then Richard picks up his rifle.
It's lighter than the one he's used to, his sniper rifle, but it's still a gun. He settles it, takes aim, and lets loose, the satisfying click of the trigger sending a jolt of glee up his arm as he squeezes it. It's over far too fast, but when he's done ten of the little tin targets are flattened, and even the booth man is staring at him. He turns to Marie, who is wide-eyed and thoroughly impressed. He graciously hands over the stuffed bear he's given before offering her his arm and escorting her back to the boardwalk. They settle against the railing to talk.
"That was…goodness. You're an incredible shot." Richard inclines his head in thanks. Marie is quiet a moment.
"Did you serve in the War?" He takes a deep breath and looks out over the black ocean waves, to give himself time to gather his thoughts.
"Yes, I did. It may not…surprise you, but I was a sharpshooter. I was discharged after…" he taps the left side of his face, the tin side, and she nods.
"Mathieu served too. He was a translator; he already spoke good French, and he took German and Italian in college, so they put him on the ground. He was wounded at Ypres, died a few weeks after they brought him back." She slides her hand into Richard's again, and shakes her head.
"I apologize, this isn't good conversation." Richard cups her face with his free hand, thumb gently tracing her lips, before pulling her in for a kiss.
It's all wrong. The mask gets in the way, covers half his mouth, he can't deepen it the way he wants to (needs to) because the fucking thing is just not right. He pulls back and turns away in frustration, furious with himself for trying. Marie is young and whole and perfect; she deserves someone who can kiss her properly. Someone with more than half a face.
"I'm sorry."
Marie clutches his hand and pulls him back, pressing herself close to his chest. He closes his eyes, not sure he can take what is sure to be a look of pity on her face. Instead, he feels her press a gentle kiss to his lips before whispering softly.
"It's alright."
She backs away and he opens his eyes to find her standing in front of him, smiling as if nothing had happened. He frowns, confused, as she holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers at him.
"Walk me home?"
Seven weeks later they're sitting on the stretch of beach outside the Darmody house; Jimmy's in Chicago and Angela took Tommy for a visit to her parents, meaning that it fell to Richard to watch the house. In exchange, he can use the phone occasionally (though there's nobody he'd call except Jimmy, for whom he has no telephone number), drive the car, and go to the beach as much as he likes.
Richard is very fond of the beach, especially if Marie is with him.
He's in his usual shirt and trousers, rolled up to the elbows and knees, but she's in a new swimming costume, the most daring one she could find that wouldn't get her arrested. He still wishes that she could have found it in a shade of green or purple, both colors that he's discovered are completely ravishing on her, but this style was only available in navy or red.
At least he can see her legs. The swimsuit exposes them to just above her knees, more if she sits down and the skirt gets rucked by the wind or his hands, wandering the curves of her body if they happen to be alone. It's more skin than he's ever seen exposed on a clothed woman.
Unlike his own pale complexion, Marie's skin never burns; she simply grows darker and more golden.
She's lying on the blanket beside him, facedown, asleep. He stretches out next to her, head propped on one hand, and wonders what would happen if he kissed her awake and made love to her right there. They've been going steady for four weeks now, and she confessed to him only a week ago that she was still a virgin. He wants her first time to be a bit more intimate than his had been, a businesslike fuck with a whore named Odette in Chicago, so he hasn't been pushing it.
The matter is settled when she rolls to her side and reaches for him in her sleep. He wraps an arm around her and pulls her close to give her some measure of protection from the wind, and dozes off himself.
They're in his flat a few weeks later when he removes his mask in front of her for the first time.
He picks her up at work after her shift is done (after he's done with that deal north of the city, the one that nearly went bad and ended in a shootout, but of course he's not going to tell her that) and they go to his flat so he can get changed into something suitable for dinner.
She turns and politely looks out the window while he changes as quickly as he can. They talk while he does so, about work (mostly hers) and an upcoming boxing match and the menu at the restaurant, Richard wondering if the menu has become any less difficult to pronounce.
"For me, I mean. You speak French, it'll…be nothing." Marie laughs and launches into an explanation of the differences between Cajun French and continental French, and he pulls off his undershirt.
The mask catches on the neckline and clatters to the floor before he realizes it's even gone.
It happens occasionally, and usually he would just pick it up and set it on the nightstand, but Marie is here, and the noise has startled her into turning around. He panics, barely able to form speech.
"No! Don't-" Richard dives for the floor, trying simultaneously to cover his face and grab for the thing, but it's too late; she's already seen him. Snatching the mask from where it lies on the ground, he turns around and puts it on with shaky hands. Surely this was it. She wouldn't want to be with him now that she'd seen what he really was.
"Richard?" He tensed as he heard her take a tentative step towards him.
"If you want to leave, I wouldn't…blame you. No hard feelings." He flinches slightly as she touches his bare shoulder, the warmth of it feeling as though she were branding his skin.
"Are you okay?"
It's only then that he can bring himself to look at her. There's no horror or disgust in her eyes, no pity, only concern and sadness. He releases a shuddering breath that he was unaware that he was holding and drops his head onto her shoulder. She weaves her fingers into his hair, rubbing soothing patterns into his scalp. They stay like that for what seems like hours; her holding him, him just trying to breathe.
She finally leads him to the bed where they can both sit down, facing each other. She pushes his hair back from his face before rubbing a thumb over the cheekbone of the mask.
"Can I?" He nods and leans forward so she can unhook the glasses from his ears, pulling the tin away from his face. He has to fight the mighty urge to cover his face with his hands.
They sit quietly for several minutes as she looks at him. She examines his face as if trying to memorize it, in case he decides to hide it away again. It's not the cool, appraising eye Angela had used while sketching him; Marie is looking at him hungrily, trying to devour any detail she can find. Even more self-conscious under her scrutiny, he concentrates his attention on the beauty mark at her throat, the one he's been longing to kiss for weeks.
He's thinking about it so hard that she has to ask her question twice.
"How did it happen?" He blinks for a few seconds as it replays in his head, his heart speeding up at the memory.
"I'd rather not-" He can't get the rest of the words out as he chokes up. She cups his cheek, nodding in understanding. He can't help but lean into the touch; it still surprises him sometimes after so many years of loneliness that someone would want to touch him.
"Does it hurt?" He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck to relieve the tension knotted there.
"Sometimes. Mostly just itches. Especially with…the mask on." They both look at the hated thing, abandoned on the bed. Something twists unpleasantly inside him at the sight of his own face staring back at him, and he turns it over to face the quilt. Marie takes his hand and quietly kisses it. He regards her silently for a moment.
"Why aren't you…"Horrified? Completely disgusted? "…afraid of me?"
Marie's face falls, and Richard wants to gather her up in his arms and kiss her as best he can until she's smiling again. He squeezes her hands gently, one rough thumb tracing light circles on her palm. She has to take a deep breath before she can speak.
"When Mathieu came back, he was badly burned from head to toe. I don't know how; they never told us, and he wouldn't talk about it. He looked nothing like himself; if I hadn't heard him speak, if he hadn't known things that I had only ever told him, I would never have recognized him." She lets go of his hand to wipe away an escaped tear.
"It was hard to look at, especially because it was my own brother, and he was in so much pain. He eventually killed himself because he was hurting so much." Richard wraps an arm around her then, pulling her into his lap and settling her against his chest. Neither of them cries.
The finally break apart, and Richard finishes getting dressed while Marie touches up her rouge in his tiny mirror. He smiles a little bit; it's almost domestic. He's sitting on the bed to put on his shoes when she finally turns back to him.
"You don't have to wear it, Richard. When it's just us, I mean. It's uncomfortable for you to wear and seeing you without it doesn't bother me." He stares at her in shock, shoes completely forgotten.
"Are you sure? Because it's…not a problem. I'm used to it." He stands and walks to her, mask in hand, unsure if he's heard her correctly. She gently tugs the mask from his hands, stands on tiptoe, and kisses him full on the mouth.
The world stops.
They're both panting and leaning into each other fiercely when they finally surface for air, reluctantly separating and disentangling from each other. The need in the room is palpable, but now isn't the time; they're both still too raw, too vulnerable. Any more touch than is absolutely necessary might shatter them both.
Marie hands him the mask and watches him put it on before adjusting his tie for him. He can feel her hands through the layers of his clothing.
"I mean it, Richard. If you want to take it off when we're alone, do. There's no reason why you should be uncomfortable on my behalf."
Richard just stands there, far too emotional to speak. After a minute he manages to get his shoes on and ushers her out the door, where the car is waiting to take them to the restaurant.
It takes him a few weeks to realize that she really does mean it. It's not long after that that he's only wearing the mask in public or when there's company.
He tells her the story of how he was wounded several months later. It's one of only two times he ever tells somebody who isn't a doctor. She doesn't cry when he tells her. He doesn't want her to.