Late in the night, when the hope of sleep was overtaken by the darkness he had spent the daylight hours struggling to hold at bay, Richard Harrow would lay silently in his borrowed bed, perfectly still save for the constant movement of his hands—only calm when holding a gun—and wonder at what point the change had occurred. When did the warm, kind-hearted farm boy morph into the cold, calculating shell of a man that looked back at him from the mirror, his heart as hardened as the gnarled remains of his ruined face?

He had enlisted with all of the hopeful idealism of a boy on the verge of manhood, excelling in marksmanship thanks to his sister's instruction in the forests of Wisconsin. He had never been a social boy, having grown up with little company aside from his beloved twin. The forced camaraderie of the barracks was as foreign a land as the French countryside he would come to accept as his true home. It hadn't occurred to him, as he pierced target after target with bullets, that aiming a bullet through the cheek of his sworn enemy should be fundamentally different from the butchering of an animal back in Plover—it seemed somehow more humane this way, a single clean shot versus blunt force trauma to the head. The former felt far less like what he had come to accept as murder.

Perhaps the emptiness could be traced back to the days on end spent alone, moving from blind to blind waiting patiently for just the right moment to put a bullet below a German sniper's left eye. One memory came back to him more clearly and with more immediacy than most others from his time in combat, and he had come to enjoy its company. Three days he had waited, time enough to consider the man standing close enough to kill, but too far to address. He must have had a family, friends, hopes and dreams; by the second day, Richard had begun to wonder why this man deserved to die at all. But the weight of the rifle in his hands was a constant reminder that survival—his and that of his men and the innocent people he had joined this fight to protect—depended somehow on this man's death. Well, his and the scores of others he had and would encounter. He kept a tally in a bible given to him by the only woman he had ever loved; by his tour's end, even his small, cramped writing had spread to a second page, and his head swam with the memories of his kills. It wasn't guilt that kept him awake at night, but the awareness of his skill. The one true thing he knew about himself was that he could end a man's life cleanly, easily, and without question. It was a skill well suited for the horrors of combat, but to the outside world was the horrifying hallmark of a monster. They could laugh and whisper all they wanted about the half-man, the freak, the "Tin Woodsman;" he heard no laughter with his rifle aimed at their heads.

After ages alone, he welcomed the relative joviality of the trenches. The men would drink and joke, forcing out the horrors of their days in the trenches with reveries of home. Richard enjoyed playing the wallflower, smiling at the heroism of their camaraderie. He would listen eagerly as they recalled days of yore spent exploring the underside of their sweetheart's skirts. Later in the war, the sweethearts morphed into French whores, and Richard as ever was left to daydream about his own sweetheart back home. He thought about riding horses with Jenny Hastings, her plain but sweet face shining in the sun. After the battles had ended, when he would find his mind drifting back to more treacherous thoughts, he chastised himself for entertaining such an impossible fantasy as a summer ride with a sweetheart.

Truth be told, he couldn't remember how he'd come to leave the war effort behind him. He had awoken in a hospital bed, vague visions of fire and bombs exploding behind his eyes. Or was it eye? He would come to find out shortly thereafter that he had lost nearly the entire left side of his face in an explosion that his brain hadn't felt was important enough to commit to memory. He recalled Emma assuring him that what was left was still handsome, even after he had registered the latent disgust on her face when she tended kindly to his wounds back home. He knew better than to believe her.

He couldn't be sure when the change had occurred, but he recognized it from the moment he had set eyes on his sister again, watching her lovely, angelic face leaning over him, begging to be loved as before, and he felt nothing.

Richard sat up in bed, running his hands back and forth over each other in his lap and pulling the saliva back through the functioning corner of his mouth. The clock ticked towards three o'clock in the morning; he glanced around the small room and weighed his options. Sleep would clearly evade him for the night, but he could always lie there and succumb to the darkness once again, images of bullets ripping through the French air long since compounded with the faces of his fallen friends. Friends. There was a time when the word was so strange and foreign to him that the mere thought seemed silly, and he was not a silly man. But that was before Angela, and Jimmy. The thought of them sent a knot into the pits of his stomach. It was the now familiar pang of remorse mixed with a blind, consuming hatred for those who had taken them from him, from Tommy. What had once terrified him, he now bathed in gratefully. His anger fueled the machine that had overtaken the man.

He rose from the bed and retrieved a rifle bag from his closet; he laid its contents carefully on the bed for inspection. As he began its disassembly, his thoughts turned again to Tommy, to the sacrifices made to ensure his protection. He was safe now, away from harm's way for the time being. The child had lost so much in his short life—Jimmy had been just another fallen soldier, sure, but Angela was an innocent caught in the crossfire. He glanced at her painting, propped against his dresser, and let the image draw him back to the day when she had sketched him while they talked for hours, about life, the war, Emma. Suddenly his sister's face swam to the forefront of his mind, her wide eyes puffy with tears as she leaned in close with a dropper of morphine, and her soft, sun-darkened lips pressed to his own. He closed his eye, forcing the memory back, and then it was Julia smiling down at him with the cool Atlantic evening air sending the strawberry tendrils of her hair dancing round her face. He sucked in a spot of drool and began to put the gun back together.

He dressed meticulously as always before lifting the mask carefully from the nightstand and threading the earpieces behind his ears. He swung the rifle over his shoulder and doffed his cap, then chanced a glance in the mirror, ever aware and accepting that each glance might be his last. He narrowed his eye and a brief hum escaped his damaged throat before he marched out the door.

The boarding house was mercifully dark at this hour, and he hoped the creak of his footsteps on the stairs would not wake anyone. No one had questioned his mysterious line of work in the weeks since he had first appeared on the doorstep, blood still caked on his jacket—it had been wise to take the time to wash his face and mask—and his few possessions stashed in the back of one of Rosetti's cars. He welcomed their respect for his privacy; he had never been keen to answer prying questions, whatever their nature, even as a boy. Now that the act of speaking in general caused him considerable pain at the worst of times and a decent amount of discomfort at best, he found it preferable not to speak at all, and when he did he chose his words deliberately. Jimmy used to tell him, as they rode down darkened back roads to their many jobs, that he was a hard man to read. His friend clearly hadn't realized that Richard's true mask had been in place long before the tin.

In the car, Richard laid the rifle on the passenger seat and set off on the familiar route. This was quick becoming a nightly pilgrimage, once Nucky's business had been dealt with and all that remained was the suffocating night. Richard would climb into the car, rifle in hand and ready to resume his post—a good soldier to the end.

He killed the engine as he approached the house. No sense in drawing attention to himself. He pulled to a stop close enough to ensure an accurate shot but far enough for seclusion. He rolled down the window and propped the rifle on the doorframe, then settled into the driver's seat. His watch had begun.

It was late, though how late he couldn't be sure. They had been talking for hours by the fire, an activity that only a few months ago he would have thought absurd. It was enough to hear her beautiful voice and the thoughts it illustrated with so much passion and life, but she never would have let him off so easily. Over the roar of the waves crashing against the shore mere feet away, she asked him about life before the war, back on the farm with sis, and he in turn heard stories about Fred and Dad and her fading memories of Mom. He had told her about Jenny Hastings, though he'd left out the time shortly before he had left for basic training when she had let him touch her breast. He had enjoyed her letters, and the thought of having a sweetheart awaiting his return; it made him feel like just another one of the fellows in the trenches and helped him through the first few months in the blinds. He supposed he should have been more disappointed to hear of her marriage to his cousin, but by then he was an experienced killer and had long stopped responding to her letters. He still thought of her for a time, but the shamefulness became too much to bear. Besides, such thoughts filled him with a need that was impossible to fulfill while on duty, and he was too good a soldier to be so easily distracted.

As Julia recounted the tale of her unrequited love, a feeling overtook Richard that he had been struggling with since the night they had met. It was a feeling so forgotten that at first he had been unable to define it—all he knew was that it lowered his practiced guard and drew him endlessly back to her. The right corner of his mouth pulled up and into a wistful smile, just as hers turned down in melancholy. Freddie had died in the Argonne, and duty had called her to choose her father's wellbeing over her own. The decision had cost her a marriage, a life.

"I wish. I could kiss you."

She looked up at him, eyes sparkling, and gently touched his unspoiled cheek. He wanted to melt into that touch as she scooted closer to him and brought their lips together. His hand flew up to her face, afraid at first to make contact lest he spoil everything as he knew he would, but quickly instinct took hold. His mind flashed to Emma, the taste of strawberries and cream and summer sun on her lips. He pulled away instinctively to find Julia so close to him. He kept his hand on her cheek to assure himself that this indeed was real, that she was here and by some miracle had chosen him. A hunger welled up inside of him then, and he kissed her back.

The night grew colder as he waited. His eyelid drooped involuntarily, and he wondered briefly how long he had been sitting there. No one had driven by in at least an hour, and the houses surrounding him slept soundly in the deepening night. Suddenly, his eye was drawn to a light upstairs. He caught a flutter in the curtain and strained his eye for a better look. With a chuckle, he thought of how much he sometimes missed having two eyes, though his one generally more than sufficed. This time, he would have to move in for a closer look.

He scanned his surroundings before pulling the rifle down to his side and gingerly opening the door. With soundless steps, he made his way to the safety of a large tree in the front yard. From this new vantage point, he could see a break in the curtain. His eye narrowed, sharp as ever.

It was Julia, clad in a light cotton nightgown, her hair flowing freely upon her shoulders. Richard sucked in another spot of drool and steadied himself against the tree as he watched her.

She was sitting at the window, pen in hand and scribbling furiously. A voice inside of him begged to call out to her, but he stifled it with a low grunt and continued to watch. A look of frustration spread across her face and she crumpled the paper and threw it by the wayside. Who could she be writing to with such intent? He remembered the last letter from Emma and its withered remains tucked inside the bible in his room.

She looked up. Richard tucked himself into the shadows—had he been spotted? She stared into the night; his heart pounded in his chest. Slowly, she brought a finger to her lips and brushed them absentmindedly. He longed to believe it was in memory of a night mere weeks prior, and with it the smell of the sea and the man whose lips had met hers, but he couldn't bear the thought. She was no longer his, though she would probably always be his responsibility.

Under cover of night and the shadow of the boardwalk, their lips never parted. Here in his arms was a real, flesh-and-blood woman who had picked him from all of the fish in the sea, and a part of him still refused to believe it could be anything but another dream. But here, surrounded by sea and air and her unquestioning acceptance of him, a memory long buried in the depths of his war-addled mind was breaking to the surface. Nevertheless, he could feel the carnal pull of his desire for her and longed to succumb to it.

"Richard?" She had pulled away suddenly, startling him.

"Yes?"

"Will you take your mask off?"

He turned away, glad that the darkness hid the flush in his cheeks.

"Why. Would you. Want that?"

"Because I can't kiss you properly with that piece of tin in the way."

He turned back to study the earnestness in her eyes.

"I wouldn't want. To frighten you."

"Richard, how could you ever frighten me?"

She smiled, and he let out a soft grunt of compliance before he carefully pulled the earpieces down and peeled the mask from his ravaged cheek. He refused to face her.

She drew her hand up to his hollowed face and he instinctively recoiled. She persisted, letting her fingertips trace the smooth, angry red swirls of his flesh. She pulled his face towards hers and kissed him tenderly. Freed from the confines of his tin prison, he couldn't help but deepen the kiss, boldly plunging his tongue against hers as his hands began to pull the fabric of her dress from her shoulders.

Her mouth tasted of honey, and home.

It was nighttime. He had a train to catch at dawn and couldn't fathom sleeping. Instead, he rolled over in bed and watched the stars from his small bedroom window. His father's snores rang out from down the hall, muffling his sister's footsteps as she crept into his room.

"Richard," she whispered, "Are you awake?"

"Yes." His voice was clear (higher than a man's should be, as his father always reminded him; the insult made Emma giggle, as did his reply of, "They don't care how low your voice is in the war; you don't tell the other guy to shoot himself."). He moved to turn on the lamp but she stopped him.

"It's okay, I can see where I'm going."

She pulled his blanket back and crawled into bed with him. She laid her head on his shoulder and he wrapped a protective arm around her. They were nearly the same height, and their toes hung off the bed. They spoke in whispers.

"I can't believe you're really going."

"Emma, we've talked about this."

"You don't have to prove anything, you know. You'd be as much of a man staying here, helping out with the farm."

"The war effort needs strong men. Plus, it's your fault I'm such a good shot."

"You will make a good sharpshooter, I'll give you that."

He squeezed her shoulder lovingly and she snaked her arms around his waist.

The sand gave way beneath them as he lowered her lithe body onto the blanket. Her dress had been abandoned beside them and he stared transfixed as her breasts swelled beneath the light fabric of her slip. He moved his fingers across her nipples, enjoying the gasp that escaped her lips in response to his touch. He had never felt more human.

He kissed her gently as his hand moved down to her legs and disappeared between them. He found her mouth again with his and felt her hips move towards his tough, beckoning it closer. He swallowed hard.

"Will you think of the farm when you're all the way in Europe?" Emma whispered in the dark.

"I'll think of you. Pretend you're there beside me. They won't know what hit em'."

She looked up at him; he smiled down at her.

"I'm scared, Richard."

"I know, sis. I'm scared too."

He hugged her close as the sobs overtook her, letting her tears soak his undershirt. Then he lifted her chin with his finger.

"Don't cry, Emma."

Before he could register what was happening, her lips were on his. He pulled away, shaking his head. She nodded and leaned up to kiss him again.

The kiss intensified, and he found his hand moving down her shoulder, tracing the curve of her waist down to her slender thigh. She opened her mouth to accommodate his tongue as his hand worked its way tentatively towards its warm, welcoming goal. He ran his finger across the moist fabric of her undergarments, his erection pressing against her.

"It's okay," Julia breathed. "Please don't stop."

He hadn't realized he had, but now, emboldened, he let his fingers make contact with the soft folds between her legs. He was surprised by the silky wetness, how easily his fingers slipped inside of her. He fought the urge to stop when her moans began to intensify and instead kissed her neck hungrily.

His forehead on her shoulder, he explored her with his fingers, lavishing each secret spot with attention and relishing in the sound of her pleasure. Her gasps were music to his ears.

"Please don't stop," she breathed into his ear as he touched her. Wide eyes staring into hers, he pushed a finger into the wet recesses and watched as a flash of pleasure crossed her beautiful face. Her hand was grasping the hardened appendage between his legs, slowly pulling and releasing and filling him with shameful needs.

She pulled up her skirt and moved closer to him.

"Shh," he whispered as her moans grew louder. She dutifully bit her lip and he kissed her as she moved on top of him, undoing his belt with fervor to free him from his trousers. He kicked them off beneath her, nerves fought down ever further by desire. She smiled and nodded to him, and he pushed himself inside of her.

He ached to be inside of her, but a sudden snore snapped him back from the devil's grasp. He pulled away, his back against the wall. Emma's eyes glistened with tears. He reached up to touch her face but she was already rising from the bed, straightening her nightgown as she moved to the door. Her tearstained cheeks glistened in the moonlight, and she disappeared down the hall.

A cry of ecstasy escaped Julia's lips with each thrust, and suddenly he didn't care if anyone heard because the beauty of the moment was all that mattered. They could watch him and judge him and think him a freak, but the woman he loved was giving herself to him completely, and her pleasure was all that mattered. He pushed himself deeper, enveloping himself in her warmth. Years of heartache, of loneliness, of longing flashed behind his eye, but the feel of her pulled him back and soon the darkness began to ebb as an overwhelming flood of joy washed over him. He stared up at the angel above him, her halo of hair, silver in the moonlight, cascading towards his face, the glow of sweat on her brow. He pulled her into a passionate kiss as he propelled himself towards release. He could feel her tightening around him and couldn't control himself any longer. Somewhere tucked deep beneath the tin and the scars and the walls that had kept the cold draw of madness at bay for so long, he felt the coming of spring. He held Julia close as he exploded within her.

His eyes flew open and for a moment he wasn't sure of his whereabouts. Then her window swam into his view, the light still glowing from within. He squinted, but Julia had disappeared. He lowered his gaze, disappointed.

"Ahem."

He spun around to see Julia, arms crossed, behind him. He swallowed and straightened up.

"What are you doing here?"

"I. Was…"

She cocked a brow expectantly, but no words escaped him. "Well?" she asked, finally. "You're gone for weeks and you think you can just show up in the middle of the night like this?" Her eyes flickered towards the firearm before he'd had a chance to swing it behind his back, and he could sense her fear. "Richard," she sighed as she took a step towards him. "If you could just tell me what's going on—"

"Nothing. Is going on." He shifted his weight away from her, but she came closer still.

"If you think you're…protecting me by keeping me in the dark, then you obviously don't know me as well as I thought."

He refused to meet her gaze, turning his face toward the grass at his feet.

After what seemed like an eternity, she broke the silence. "Tommy is well, in case you're wondering. Dad's really taken to him. I think it reminds him of having Freddie around."

"I'm just glad. He's safe."

"And what about you?"

"What. About me?"

"Are you safe?"

He looks up at her, the pain visible in his eye. "I'm. Surviving."

It was late summer, and he had been home from France for nearly a month. He had hardly stepped outside since his return, yet his childhood bed felt strangely unfamiliar. He listened to the trill of a bird outside his window, wondering how it felt to be so carefree. He wondered if he'd ever felt that way, while oddly certain that he never would again.

Emma appeared in the doorway, tray in hand. Upon his arrival, the morphine had flown freely and he was barely aware of her spooning warm broth into his mouth. Once he had regained his strength, he had refused to eat in front of her, yet she persisted. She now brought him a steaming bowl of beef stew and a look a steely optimism.

"Lunchtime, my love."

Richard turned to the window. "I'm. Not hungry," he croaked.

"You'll need to eat to build your strength. There's work to be done that isn't going to do itself."

He was determined not to look at her as she settled onto the bed beside him, holding the bowl under his chin.

"Please, Richard."

He grunted. She sighed and set the bowl onto the nightstand.

"What is it now?"

Silence.

"Richard."

The bird whistled a jaunty melody. The lace curtain swayed in the afternoon breeze.

"Perhaps some more morphine—"

"No. No drugs." He had snapped his face towards her, the exposed flesh on his face still screaming at her though it had long since begun to heal. He lowered his eye in embarrassment and turned away once more.

Slowly, gently, she placed her hand on his damaged cheek and pulled his face toward her. "My darling brother," she said softly, "I know you'll come back to me yet." She leaned in and kissed him tenderly, but his lips were like stone beneath hers.

She pulled away and stared him in the only eye he had left, mining its dark depths for some sign of the kindhearted boy who'd left her only three years prior. The blankness that stared back forced her to recoil, and she nearly lept from the bed.

He didn't say a word as she left the room, and he was headed for Chicago by nightfall.

"You can come in, you know. You won't wake Dad."

"No."

She waited for an explanation.

"Julia. I can't. Be a part. Of your life."

"Oh? And may I ask why not?"

He gripped his gun compulsively. "I. Am not. A good man."

"Just because you've killed people doesn't make you bad. It was a war."

"The war. Has never stopped."

Her eyes quivering with tears, she looked up at him imploringly. "Richard," she whimpered as she brought her hand to his face, "Isn't it time to come home?"

He closed his eyes and kissed her palm, his longing for her washing over him. She choked back a sob as he turned and marched back to his waiting car.

He chanced a glance in the mirror as he drove into the rising sun. She stood on the grass, composing herself in the pale light of morning. As he rounded the corner, he thought he could just see her marching into the house to start breakfast before waking Tommy for school. For a moment, he placed himself at the kitchen table, watching Tommy draw a picture as he and Paul gulped down their coffee and Julia flitted around them, her bubbly chatter filling the room. Nothing like an impossible dream to usher in a new day.

He smiled and forced himself to think about the routine ahead. By his count he only had roughly twenty hours to complete Nucky's next job, yet another life to extinguish without another thought, before resuming his post outside Julia's door. He wondered how he got to this point, and if she would be waiting.