The door opened and Tommy's face widened as he spotted the gun. He held his hands up and approached slowly, "You're alright, Dahlia, it's only me. It's Tommy." He got so close, and they both knew she wouldn't shoot but it was still a live weapon. He wrapped his hand around it and said, "I'm just going to take this and put it down."
As soon as he did she sank into the chair.
"Put one through my head, will you?" she slurred. He moved the hammer, set the gun on the countertop and lifted the bottle out of her hand. He saw the blood on her dress and told her, "Someone heard a gunshot in here, Dahlia."
She pointed to the floor.
"Were your brothers here?"
She nodded.
"Did they hurt you?"
His eyes flicked from her face to the blood on her dress.
"Its still healing," she answered his wordless question, "Sometimes it bleeds."
He left her in the chair to get a bowl, hot water and a cloth. He came back, his sleeves rolled up and set the bowl on the floor next to him as he kneeled before Dahlia. The bottle was back in her hand, empty. He reached for her collar and she batter his hand away.
"Leave it."
"I'm just going to clean it."
"I'll get it later."
"It needs seeing to now." His voice was rising, so was hers.
"I'll handle it."
"Not while your drunk."
"I don't need help." She barked. "Why on earth do you want to help?"
He rubbed his jaw. She was like an abused horse that couldn't understand a soft voice, or healing touch. "I just want to clean your shoulder, Dahl'." He said softly.
"You just want to look." She spat.
"It's not like that."
"I mean at the scars. The pin holes, the burns, the knives and teeth and –"
"Dahlia."
She stopped, and sagged deeper into the chair. She made no protest as Tommy pulled her shoulder free and he was gentle and quick. He stood when he was done and advised she change her dress as he took the basin and cloth to the kitchen. She found him staring out of her kitchen window, a cigarette nearly done.
"Tommy, it's late."
"I know. They might come back."
"You should go home and sleep."
"And leave you here alone?"
"Yes."
"And what if something happens to you?"
"That's life."
He frowned, "Why don't you care?"
"Why do you?"
She was the first woman who had inspired interest in him since Grace disappeared to New York; the first one to snake her way into his thoughts of Grace at night. It had been almost a year since Grace left and with no word from her, he knew she had no intention of returning to him. Like Grace had helped quell the sounds of the tunnel in France, he wondered if Dahlia could ease the burns of his love for Grace. Dahlia was scarred on the surface like Tommy was beneath. She wanted him to look at him; see him; hide him behind her walls and know his scars and show him hers. He couldn't stop caring if her tried.
"What happened to you?" he asked at last.
"Go home, Tommy. Stop caring. You did enough getting me guns. That saved my life tonight."
"They'll be expecting a gun next time."
"That's for me to worry about. Just stop." She left him there. He smoked one more cigarette, hoping she would come back, but when it was done, he left. Only the pipe could shut his eyes.