Hello! This is my first foray into fic writing in fifteen years. I wrote this series of scenes because I couldn't get them out of my head. Though they had a fair amount of screen time this season, Richard and Julia's relationship remains largely up for interpretation. I love the mix of Richard's complete social awkwardness with Julia's pragmatism. She has no delusions about who he is (except for the parts he has managed to keep from her), and is attracted to the way he takes risks for her sake. Howard Korder explains this all very well in this clip: watch?v=krK2G8sL1oI
I do not own these characters, though I wish I did! Hope you enjoy the fic. Thank you to those who took the time to review. Any small note is always greatly appreciated.
The drive from Michigan Avenue to the boardwalk was almost entirely silent. After the explosive confrontation with Paul, Julia was visibly distraught. Richard hadn't meant for things to get physical, and berated himself for upsetting her. Truthfully, his body had taken over once the weight of Paul's words hit him like a fist. How could he be expected to hold back while Paul continued to insult the honor of his own daughter? All he knew was rage until he felt Julia's hand on his shoulder. He left the kitchen, dazed and headed for the front door – resigned to walking back to the Artemis Club as penance for ruining what had been a lovely day. Once he realized that Julia was following him out he stopped.
"We're leaving," she announced loudly. She glanced at him, pushing past him through the porch while she said it, but her declaration was meant for her father. Her tone was angry, but her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. He wanted to reach out to her; comfort her somehow, but he feared that her anger was directed at him.
She kept walking, straight down the concrete walk and climbed into the car. As she started the engine, she called to him.
"Get in the car, Richard."
They drove four blocks. He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt, stealing glances at her. She kept her eyes fixed on the road.
"Where are we going?" he asked, finally. She braked suddenly and the car skidded to a halt beneath the shade of an apple tree.
"I don't know," she said with a sad little laugh. Her laughter stopped abruptly, and he watched in utter distress as tears began to slide down her face. He took her hand off the steering wheel and held it while searching frantically for the handkerchief he kept in his coat pocket. Unfortunately, his coat was back at the house.
"Don't cry. I'm sorry." He unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and pulled it forward, awkwardly dabbing her chin. She gave a weak smile.
"Don't be sorry," she choked out. "I'm sorry. You were just –"
She took a deep breath and gave her head a small shake. She drove on, holding his hand the rest of the way.
They spent their evening wandering the boardwalk. As they walked they talked of everything but what had happened earlier. For some reason, conversation with Julia was always easy. She had a way of getting him to share parts of himself that he hadn't shared with anyone. Anytime he stopped speaking to question how much he should divulge about the shadier aspects of his life, she would look at him so directly he couldn't help but speak the truth. Her ability to hear him out while reserving her judgment was a quality he appreciated more than he could express. When she spoke, he loved watching her lips move and her face change with the tone of her words.
They bought popcorn and ate it on a bench facing the beach, the sun setting at their backs.
"What was it like growing up in Wisconsin?" she asked. He was relieved to see that her shoulders had finally relaxed.
"Cold."
Julia laughed, her shoulder pressing against his. She seemed to be willfully ignoring the fact that they were eating popcorn for dinner; outside with neither coats nor hats. Richard didn't mind.
"I know that," she said, her tone flat; eyebrows raised. "I mean, what do you miss most about it? What's your family like?"
He wasn't sure where to begin. How could he explain to her that the farm was so distant a memory to him it might as well be Oz? He thought of Emma – the shadow of her body passing across his bedroom doorway and felt her long elegant fingers touching his head to check for fever. The smell of antiseptic clinging to everything in the house. He remembered packing his things in the middle of the night, and leaving without a note. He could no longer stand to sit quietly pretending he didn't hear while others wept and argued and planned on his behalf as though he weren't there.
"Hey. Where'd you go?" she asked softly.
"I'm sorry. What did you say?"
"I asked about your family," she explained. "I hope that's okay." She faced him, looking flustered. " I mean, if you don't want to talk about it… I know what it's like not to want to -"
"They're nice. They have a farm. Mostly corn. Emma - my sister – we used to play hide and seek in it." She was terrible at hiding; he almost always won.
Julia smiled at him. Her body shivered. For the second time that night he wished he'd grabbed his coat. He wanted to put his arm around her, but he was almost sure she would rebuke him. As he watched the last of the beach frolickers make their way to their cars he heard Jimmy's voice in his ear. Promise me you're going to try. Richard braced himself and tentatively put an arm around her, resting the weight on the back of the bench. Julia kept her eyes on the horizon and leaned into his body. Her head came to rest against his chest, and he let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"You're cold. Let me… take you home." He said it more out of trained habit than any regard for his own wishes. Truthfully, he did not want to be away from her tonight; nor did he want her anywhere near Paul.
"I'm not ready to go home. Besides, wasn't I the one who drove us here?"
They eventually decided to retrieve a few blankets from the car that Julia kept "for emergencies." They doffed their shoes, and walked barefoot along the shore. Richard was charmed at the sight of her small feet stepping in rhythm with his.
Soon the sky darkened. Wordlessly he handed her the blankets, rolled up his sleeves, and started collecting driftwood. His time in France may have cost him his identity, but it had also fully prepared him to make a fire at any time, out of anything. While he worked methodically to coax the fire to light he felt Julia's eyes watching him intently. The ocean breeze was causing his tie to flap in the way of his work, so he removed it and handed it to her with a half smile. Once the fire was lit, he settled on a blanket next to her.
"Yet another thing you're good at. You're just full of surprises."
"Thank you."
She picked up a stick and idly used it to poke the fire and draw what looked like castles in the sand.
"Was there anyone waiting? At home, I mean. After the war?" Her voice was tentative, as though she was unsure if she really wanted to know the answer.
"Jenny Hastings. We rode…horses together. She'd write. Knit me a scarf. Married my cousin when I was in France." …once she found out about my face, he could have added, but didn't. She was his first kiss. He still remembered the shine on her lips and the fleeting thought that kissing was overrated.
"I was twenty; he was thirty-two - a widower with three children. We talked of marriage and then my brother, Freddie, was killed and my dad… " There was no need to elaborate this point. "Well. Douglas. That was his name. He married the daughter of the man who ran the telegraph office - had three more children."
He was suddenly filled with the urge to track this man down and make him pay for the hurt he caused Julia. He felt outraged to think that anyone would reward her loyalty and self-sacrifice with dismissal; especially at a time when she needed someone to take care of her while she took care of her father. It was in that moment he knew, without a doubt, that he loved her.
"I wish. I could kiss you."
He waited for a response from her- aware that his tone was half longing, half daring.
Her expression changed from one of speculation to resolve. If he could not move past this last barrier between them, then she would bridge the gap. Thank God for her. She shifted closer and pressed her palm to his face.
The sound of the ocean grew louder in his ears until her soft lips pressed against his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. Then she kissed him again, lips half pressed against tin. This was no accident; nor was it meant to educate a group of onlookers about the worth of a man. This was a confirmation of intent.
Unaware of himself, he reached out and traced the side of her neck. With his finger tips he felt the warm pulse of blood, steady in her throat. Careful to swallow first, he allowed his mouth to open enough to taste her. The beat against his fingers began to quicken.
Then she pulled back. He dropped his gaze and his hand, defeated. The ocean breeze felt cold on his exposed mouth. An apology was forming deep in his throat. He should not have pushed her. She was not Odette or one of Gillian's girls.
"Can I…?" she queried; oblivious to his turmoil. He couldn't catch the meaning of her words, so he forced himself to look at her. To his surprise she looked embarrassed, which made her look even lovelier than she had before. The light from their dying fire revealed that her skin was flush with colour across her cheeks and down her neck, disappearing beneath her blouse. She gave a slight shake of her head before moving both hands to his ears.
Suddenly he realized that she wanted him to remove his mask; he was not being rejected, and once again he was at a loss. He recalled his night with Odette; her careful way of undressing him so that she not disturb his face. He hadn't minded – in fact he understood completely, and feigned sleep in her bed while the hooks of his glasses dug sharply in his ears.
"Trust me."
He nodded, afraid of the sounds his voice would make. She had boasted of her bravery on the boardwalk that day; and now the time had come for her to prove to herself, and to him, that she was unafraid. No one would pay a dime to see his face. He was no crocodile boy, just a wounded man.
One of his hands gripped the linen of her skirt hem, while the other anchored itself in the sand. She gently pried off his last fragile defense against the world. His mask looked surprisingly large in her small hands. He watched her carefully, gauging her level of disgust, or pity or both. She regarded him frankly; green eyes flitting across his features. Her eyes were clear and bright, not glassy like Odette's or sad like Angela's. The sand was slipping through his fingers. He was losing his grip.
She looked away long enough to place his mask carefully next to his boots and tie, leaning over him heavily as she did so. Her face came closer to his damaged cheek, and she whispered, breath tickling his ear, "Now you can kiss me properly."
The words jolted him. Somehow her voice his ear was more erotic than any rehearsed trick he'd experienced before. He turned to look at her and saw her smirk, cheekbones becoming more pronounced as she did so. She was waiting. She wanted him.
He was utterly lost. This moment was a culmination of hopeful encounters that, for once, he did not leave to chance. He knew about manners (his mother had seen to that), bringing flowers to dinner and opening car doors. The trouble was that he had absolutely no idea what to do after the initial show of courtesies was over. Of course he understood the act of sex, but intimacy was a mystery.
He wanted, more than anything, to make her happy. He had never expected to be emotionally intimate with a woman, let alone physically. He had never expected connection. He had never expected love.
His hand left the sand and found its way to the curls at the nape of her neck. His mouth closed gratefully over hers and he was adrift, caught up in a current. The momentum of it propelled him further into her. His was oblivious to everything but her. And while his movements were unpolished and tentative, she met each of his kisses eagerly, matching each sweep of tongue, each breath and sigh.
Every sound she made caused him to become bolder. His hand splayed on her back, pulling her closer. He was dimly aware of her hands in his hair, smoothing it back from his face in a way that was simultaneously soothing and arousing.
When they eventually paused, chests heaving, he realized two things; one, their fire had completely died, and two, Julia's sweater lay in a peach-coloured heap at her bare feet. Three of her white buttons were undone, revealing the lace of her camisole. He wanted nothing more than to run his fingers down the opening of her blouse -to touch her, but his respect for her stopped him short. He tried to dismiss Paul's words that forced themselves, unwelcome, in his mind.
He stood up quickly; retrieving her sweater and placed it hastily around her shoulders. She did not move. He tried again.
"I should get you home."
She rose slowly, gathering her shoes and the blankets. Richard picked up his boots, mask and tie, feeling equally relieved and disappointed. He needed time to decide how to proceed.
Julia grabbed his belongings from his hands and marched, purposefully into the shadow of the boardwalk. When she returned her hands were empty and she was once again missing her sweater. She stood in front of him, looking up at his face. He could just make out the gleam of her eye and the outline of her face, lit by the street lamps above.
She reached up to his chest and slowly, steadily unbuttoned his shirt. His blood thundered in his ears. He couldn't breathe. His hands shook as they grasped hers, forcing her to stop.
"I don't know. What I'm doing," he pleaded.
She pressed herself against him, placing an open-mouth kiss at his throat; then another, and another. He relinquished his grip on her hands; wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into a tight embrace. They stood like that a long while, listening to the waves and drawing warmth from each other.
And when she took his hand and led him into the darkness, never had it been more welcome.