Author's Note: Takes place before and during "The Age of Reason" and "Peg of Old."

This chapter? Is smut and fluff...and then a major dose of angst.

Please read the notes at the end of the chapter.

Richard was alone in his bed for the first time since Memorial Day. He felt a twinge of panic (it had all just been a dream, he was still in the woods) until he saw Clara sitting at the desk wrapped in her robe-no, she called it a kimono, he thought-, her pen flying across the page as she wrote. There were small signs of her all around the room. The additional pillow under his head, the quilt smashed at the end of the bed, the pile of books on the bedside table, even the slight orange smell on the sheets. Two of her dresses hung in the closet with his clothes. The dresser he had left empty now held some of her things. Clara still went back to the Ritz most days so she could write while he worked (and, he assumed, to keep up appearances), but at night she was either here when he came home or got back shortly after. He liked coming home now, and he liked waking up.

Clara was deep into her work, so he decided he should start his own. He fished his undershirt and boxers from under the bed where they landed the night before, and also found the green one-piece lace and silk...thing Clara had worn to bed. He shifted when he realized she was only wearing her kimono. He dressed, choosing not one of his new suits but clothes he had brought from Wisconsin, but then hesitated to leave without telling her.

It took a couple of attempts to find his voice. "I'll. Mmm. Be right back," he told her while his hand hovered just over her shoulder. Clara's fingers reached up to brush his, but she didn't stop writing. When he returned, he set her coffee (light tan instead of the black of his own) and a bacon roll next to her left hand.

"Thank you," she murmured and reached for the coffee.

Usually, he ate standing at the dresser at the foot of the bed, but since Clara was so lost in her work, he sat on the edge of the bed and ate his breakfast before he went outside.

It was the smell that brought her back to reality. Sweet but acrid, it always smelled like summer to her. No, she thought, rubbing her right hand with her left, it smelled like the color green. She looked around the room as she stood up. The bed was made, the step-in she'd worn the night before neatly folded on top, but she had no idea where Richard was.

The slight whirring sound, which would come near and then grow distant, made her pull her kimono close and open the door. Richard was cutting the grass. The masked side of his face was turned towards the door. She leaned against the door frame and watched him. He was dressed in the tan pants and collarless shirt he wore the day she met him in Chicago. The first time she'd seen him in a collared shirt and tie, she remembered, was when he picked up her from her bridal luncheon (a slight shudder went down her spine at the thought). That red tie was still one of her favorites, but she'd missed seeing him in the collarless shirts when he stopped wearing them.

Even though Clara knew nothing about cutting grass, she could perceive the care he was taking in making his lines perfectly straight. She was growing ever more familiar with the care, and precision Richard brought to any task where he made use of his hands. Her heart sped up a little in her chest. When he turned at the end of the yard, he saw her, and she smiled and waved. She knew if she stood and watched him she'd make him nervous so she went back inside.

The mask itched terribly, and he could feel the sweat dripping down his back. Clara must be done writing, he thought. He would shower, and then he should take her out since he had the whole day off. A moving picture, something, even if they had to drive a town or two over. It wasn't right to just entrap her in his room.

When the door opened her body was almost humming with anticipation. She handed him a damp towel and a glass of water as he came in, but it took all her self control to step back and let him have a moment of privacy.

Clara's small gestures of caring always made him feel like he was coming undone. Even when she had just stood in the door and waved at him, he thought things were too good. He set the mask on the desk so he could wipe his face and drink. As soon as he set the water and towel back down, he turned back towards her hesitantly. He was still getting used to being around her with the mask off in the daylight.

Suddenly, she moved. Before Richard could say anything, Clara was pushing him back against the wall. The unexpected feeling of her tongue behind his ear sent him reeling.

His skin was slick under her tongue and tasted salty and like grass. Chlorophyll, she thought dazedly, half-remembering an old science lecture. She wanted more of that taste and her mouth started working its way across his throat as her hands pushed his suspenders off his shoulders, feeling the thin, crisp material of his shirt under her hands as she went.

"Mmm. Clara. I'm. Sweaty," he managed to get out.

"Yes," she murmured against his throat. She was busy unbuttoning his shirt and shifted around him so one of her legs was between his and began rubbing her hip against him in earnest. She heard his breath hitch. His hand went to her waist but then dropped away just as fast. Clara looked up at him.

"I. Mmm. Was cutting. Grass," he said.

Clara smiled at him while pulling his shirt free from his pants. "I know. I saw." Even though the evidence that he was enjoying her attention was pressed against her, she could feel his confusion as well. "I grew up in a hotel. It's very exotic to me."

The shirt discarded, she pulled on his undershirt with one hand while her other hand palmed him through his trousers. His head dropped on top of hers, and his hand grabbed her side in response, but once more, he let go immediately.

"What's wrong?"

"I need. A bath."

Clara smiled, untied her kimono, and let it slip to the floor. "What a marvelous idea. Let's go take one."

His mouth worked for a moment before the word would come out. "Together?"

For a moment, Clara lost her confidence and wished her kimono wasn't lying on the floor at her feet.

"Do you not want to?"

He swallowed. "No. Mmm. I want to."

Clara wasn't quite sure how they ended up back up on the bed. Her skin still felt like the remnants of an electrical storm was raging across it, and the rest of her felt like jelly. She wasn't sure any of her limbs would ever work again. Richard slipped an arm around her, and she leaned against him with a content sigh. A nap, she thought, was the only thing in the world she wanted.

"I cut the grass. Mmm. Every other week."

"I'll make a note," Clara laughed. I'm happy, she thought.

Her hair was still wet and was loose. She always tied it up, he'd never really seen it down. He brushed it back from her face. The guilt was eating at him.

"Clara. I don't want." It was an effort to form the words. "To take. Advantage of you."

She chortled. "I'm fairly certain I was the one taking advantage."

His hand danced back and forth across her arm. "This isn't. The way. Ladies are supposed. To be treated."

Rolling over was difficult because her body still wasn't completely recovered and the space between Richard's body and the wall was tight. She brushed her knuckles across his jaw after she managed it.

"I think under the circumstances of this damn feud we are doing the best we can." She refused to let her voice crack, although her own anxiety was nibbling away at the happy contentment of earlier. "But I more or less moved in without asking. If it was to fast, if..."

He closed his eye. He wanted to say it right. "I like. You being here. But I don't know." He swallowed several times. Clara waited. "Clara, I could never. Give you. What you have."

She smiled at him. "A life where I hear orgies outside my door? A life where I feel trapped? A life where I spend half my time forced to entertain people I despise?" She closed her eyes. "Marrying Darcy meant my life wouldn't materially change. But it also meant I lay in bed at night and cried at the thought of him touching me, of having to wake up to him. Whereas I was just thinking of how happy and content I am here, with you."

His arm tightened around her unconsciously.

"I love you, and I love this feeling of us being cocooned away from the world. But I know we will have to make everything official, if for no other reason than because I'd like to walk down the Boardwalk with you," the words came out of Clara in a rush as anxiety began dancing around her thoughts once more.

"End of. Summer?" Richard asked, after calculating a timeline.

"Do you think that will be enough time?"

He had the same sickening feeling he had whenever he let himself think about the coup. It was worse now that he knew how terrified Clara was. That would give them two and a half months.

"Where. Should we live?" he said, forcing himself to believe that things would calm down enough that he and Clara could have a life of their choosing.

"Here?"

Richard looked around. "Once you move. In your books. And clothes where. Would we fit?"

Clara laughed. "Oh, what no one knows is how funny you are. I won't need as many clothes once...well."

Richard made a noise she knew was a laugh.

"I just meant I doubt I'll need as many clothes for parties and meetings and the like."

"A kitchen would. Be good," he said thoughtfully.

"Something like Jimmy and Angela's old apartment would be nice, although I'll miss this place."

"You'll miss. The grass?"

They were distracted for a few minutes.

"Yes. A place with grass would be lovely," Clara said when they came back up for air. She was quiet for a moment. "A kitchen will be nice, too, but honestly, I can only make coffee, scrambled eggs, and canned soup. Well, and toast. If we get a toaster."

"You don't need. A toaster. To make toast."

"Yes, I've heard there are people capable of such alchemy. I'm just saying if you'd like me to make toast, we'll need a toaster."

He ran his hand down her arm. He wanted her to make toast.

"I can. Cook."

"Really? Good to know, it will keep us from starving." She sighed. " Once we get a stove, I'll get a cookbook, and I'm sure I'll learn. I've just never had the chance. Father doesn't like the smell of cooking food in the suite, and in New York, I worked so much that Angela did all the cooking. Plus, she was better at it." Clara was quiet for a moment. She wanted the next part, the two of them alone together in some small apartment, but she knew they both wanted more, too.

"I want us to have years where it's just us. So we can have adventures and spend days like this, but eventually...is there anything else you want to do?"

He looked down shyly. He knew what she was asking."Before the war. I worked. At the hardware store. I always thought. I'd like to own. One."

"Oh, you are so meticulous. I could see you being good at it."

"We could. Put a desk. In the storeroom. For you to write."

Clara leaned her head against his shoulder. It sounded almost like a fairy tale. Just...a normal life. Walking to work together. Writing while Richard...did whatever people did at a hardware store (Clara wasn't certain she'd ever been in one, but thought it probably required keeping lots of small things organized).

"Well, we should definitely save our money for a hardware store and a house."

"I want to. Build us. A House," he said. "Can I show. You?"

She nodded, confused. Richard pulled away and went to retrieve something from the desk. It was a magazine of some sort, and Clara could see it was well-read. Clara sat up against the headboard. She saw a picture of a large white house with a red roof and dark shutters and a long stone path and fountain. In white text, it was titled 'Honor Bilt Modern Homes' and on the bottom was the Sears and Roebuck logo. Richard flipped through the pages knowingly, and she saw penciled calculations written in the margins and hand-drawn sketches on some of the pages.

"The houses. Come ready to assemble. But we can make. Modifications."

"I've read about them. There was an article in The Philadelphia Record saying Sears was opening a sales office in Philly where you can walk through some of the floor plans."

Of course, it had to be in Philadelphia, he thought. "We should. Go. Someday," he answered, but Clara was to busy looking through the catalog to notice the catch in his voice.

"I love this one," Clara said when she saw the Hathaway, a small two-story white house with a porch and window boxes.

It was one of the simplest houses in the book. He wondered what drew Clara to it. "Why?"

She smiled uncertainly. "It's silly, I suppose. After we moved into the Ritz and I'd go visit my friends, the ones who lived in two-story houses with porches? Those seemed like real homes for real families, you know? And window boxes I just like."

He rubbed her hand for a moment and then flipped further into the book. "I think the Hathaway. Is to small. If. Mmm. We want..." He couldn't bring himself to say if they wanted children, so he just flipped through the book until he found the Americus.

"This is. A bigger version. Of the Hathaway," he said, showing her a white house with a deeper porch and even more window boxes.

Clara nodded, afraid to speak. She curled against his side as Richard explained he could build columned bookcases to divide the living room from the dining room and told her the different choices they had for setting up the kitchen.

"Clara just called. She's held up at a League of Women Voters meeting, but she'll be here in an hour or so," Angela told Jimmy and Richard as they walked through the front door.

"Don't we need to leave to make curtain?" Jimmy asked.

"Were you able to get tickets to Nobody's Money ?"

"I did, but first week of tryouts is always rough, Ange."

"It's okay, I just want to laugh and it's the only farce currently running."

Jimmy smirked because if Clara was here he knew she would say something like 'oh, that's hardly the only farce running in Atlantic City at the moment.' Then he was annoyed because flesh and blood Clara was bad enough. He didn't need her voice in his head when she wasn't even around.

"Richard, will you be okay with Tommy until Clara gets here?" Angela asked.

Tommy was playing in the sunroom, and Richard remembered the horror that happened last time he tried playing with the boy. He did have something he'd like to do, though. "I need. To go to Blatt's. And pick something up. Is it okay. If I take Tommy?"

Angela nodded. She'd feel better if Richard had something concrete to do with Tommy until Clara arrived. "Of course."

"You aren't worried?" Jimmy asked as Richard loaded Tommy into his car.

"About Richard? No, he's so much better."

Richard regarded the little boy next to him thoughtfully. "Can you. Keep a. Secret?" he asked.

Tommy smiled up at him. "Yes. Me and Mema have lots."

Richard nodded. "We are Blatt's. To buy. Clara a present. But you. Can't tell anyone."

"When Clara takes me to Blatt's we get cookies at the bakery."

"We can get. Cookies."

"Can I get ice cream for being a good secret keeper?" Tommy asked.

"Fine. You can. Get ice cream."

The jewelry counter at Blatt's looked like a very serious place and was quite busy. Richard knew it was foolish, but he was reassured by Tommy's small hand in his own.

"What are we going to get Clara?" Tommy asked.

"Mmm. A ring," Richard managed to say.

Richard found the rings and then was stymied by the number of choices. In his mind, he could see the large diamond ring she wore when they met, the one Blaine gave her. She'd hated it. She complained it caught on everything and was heavy.

He wouldn't be able to afford a ring like that, anyway. But he wanted her to have something she'd like.

"I like this one," Tommy said, pointing to a ring even larger than Clara's first engagement ring.

"Mmm. Tommy, that ring. Is more money. Then I have. It also. Is bigger than. Clara's finger." He could see Tommy had his father's taste. Suddenly Richard wished he'd asked Angela to go shopping with him.

"Clara likes green," Tommy said.

Richard nodded. Clara did wear a lot of green, and a lot of blue.

"May I help you gentlemen?" A man wearing a white carnation asked them. Richard noticed that the man startled when Richard looked up.

"We're here to buy Clara a ring. She likes green. It's a secret. Richard don't have much money. Her fingers are little," Tommy announced.

"Tommy," Richard said warningly. "I want. To buy," he tried to control his mouth twitch and just say it, but he couldn't. "An engagement ring. She doesn't like. Only diamonds."

"She likes green," Tommy repeated.

The jeweler took in the duo. He had worked in Atlantic City for a long time; a disfigured man and a little boy looking to buy a green engagement ring? He could do that.

He put together a tray of rings and brought it out.

Tommy pointed to an insanely large emerald, but Richard saw it at once. It was an oval stone that was a dark bluish-green. It looked like the color of the ocean. On either side were two small square diamonds set in a trapezoid-shaped setting.

"How much?" he managed to say. The salesman told him a number.

"Do you know what ring size the young lady takes?"

Richard didn't know they came numbered like shoes. He opened his wallet and took out a small piece of paper. "I. Mmm. Traced the ring. She wears. On her right hand."

The man took the paper and Richard's money, and then returned with a small velvet box. For a moment, Richard panicked. What was he doing? He was being ridiculous. Clara was never going to marry him. What was he going to do, sit in Nucky's hallway and then walk into his office to ask him for Clara's hand?

"You should get ribbon," Tommy said. "And then get me cookies."

"Ribbon?" Richard asked, looking down at him.

"Mommy always puts ribbons on presents."

Ribbon. He could do that. He closed his eye for a moment, thinking of Clara curled against him as they talked about what kind of apartment, what kind of life, what kind of house they should have. She said she wanted a life with him. He put the box in his pocket.

"Tommy. We need to buy. One more thing. For Clara."

Clara was surprised that the beach house was empty when she arrived. She found a note saying Richard had taken Tommy shopping. I'm sorry I missed that, she thought, trying to imagine Tommy and Richard wondering the aisles of Woolworths or Blatts. She knew that Tommy would soak Richard for a variety of treats.

A few minutes later Tommy and Richard came in.

"We have cookies!" Tommy announced.

"It looks like you've already had some, and ice cream as well," Clara said, leaning down to look at Tommy's face. "Where did you two go?"

"Blatts to buy you a surprise," Tommy said.

Richard closed his eye and prayed. Proposing at Jimmy's house while Clara tried to wipe Tommy's face was not what he had in mind. He didn't actually have a plan, yet, but it certainly wasn't this.

"We bought a toaster," Tommy finished, and Richard swore the kid smirked up at him in a perfect imitation of Jimmy's smirk.

Clara blinked and smoothed her skirt. "Go wash your face. Call out if you need help." She watched until Tommy started up the stairs, then she turned and kissed Richard hard around the mask.

She laced her fingers into his when she pulled back. "I guess we should get bread for breakfast."

Adrenaline and anger were still coursing through his veins when he opened his door and saw Clara sprawled across his bed, sound asleep. It was a hot, sticky night for June, even by Atlantic City standards. He longed for the cool, crisp nights of Wisconsin summers, but not nearly as much as he longed for the feel of her legs sliding against his. After hanging up his jacket and hat, he put his mask on top of the desk, undressed, and walked over to the foot of the bed.

Clara was wearing a lacy pale blue one-piece... thing (she wore them, he liked them, he had no idea what they were called) that barely covered anything. In the heat, she had kicked off the sheets, which were crumpled at her feet. It was hot, she was obviously tired; he should let her sleep, he thought. He started to smooth the sheets over her but instead rested his hand on her ankle. The touch caused her to stir.

"You're home," she said groggily, and a small burst of pleasure shot through him at the implication that they were home together. "What time is it?"

"Late," he scratched out and let his fingers slowly move up her leg, using his other arm to brace against the footboard. Fucking Charlie Luciano, he thought, almost the reason he hadn't come home to her. Fucking Rothstein. Fucking Nucky Thompson (Richard couldn't dwell on Mr. Thompson while his hand moved past Clara's knee). And that fucking butcher Jimmy had pulled into their lives. Fuck all of these games he didn't understand. Destroy the man who sliced an innocent girl's face. Fine. Keep Clara alive. He understood that. Watch over Mrs. Schroeder and the children. Sure. Work out how to get the booze from a boat in the ocean, and then distribute the alcohol to various places while guarding against Prohies and rival gangs. Okay.

A small piece of biting pride floated up when he remembered that it was he, not Jimmy, that figured out how to divide the work, how to run the gangs of men to move the alcohol successfully. Jimmy had big ideas but often neglected to think about the details. Another biting piece of pride joined it as he watched a flush spread from Clara's chest to her face, heard her breathing become erratic, and felt her leg tremble as his fingers trailed higher until they traced the lace edge of her undergarment. When he moved his hand to her other ankle, she sighed in frustration, but he slowly started the game again as he thought about the night.

Whatever was going on with Jimmy, with work, now felt like twenty games all happening simultaneously. Richard wanted to ask Jimmy tonight if he had any idea of who his allies actually were. He thought of Clara asking him to leave Atlantic City with her, her fear almost palpable. And that was before the Commodore had his stroke, and Gillian Darmody began sitting in on meetings. He didn't understand Jimmy's relationship with his mother, or the darkness on Clara's face when she talked about it. Still, he knew Gillian brought out Jimmy's worse impulses. After Clara yelled that Jimmy was playing hopscotch when he should be playing chess, Richard worried all the time. And the stakes just kept getting higher.

The sound of Clara's sharp intake of breath as his fingers once more hit lace made him forget what he was thinking about and this time he let his hand continue working its way up, causing her hands to grip the bottom sheet and her back to arch. After a few minutes, his other hand left the footboard, grabbed her ankle, and pulled her down towards the foot of the bed.

Clara gasped. She had only been half awake when his hand had started drifting up her calf; by the time his fingers disappeared up the open leg of her step in any rational thought she was regaining was replaced by the fog of desire. He pulled her up, so she was on her knees and started kissing her. They were hard, claiming kisses that made her heartbeat speed up. His hands were curled around hers, but then he started tracing his fingertips up her arms. She shivered, and he pulled back when his hands reached to the straps on her shoulders. He looked at her for consent, and then pulled them down to her waist before his hands moved up to start kneading her breasts.

Over the last weeks, even when she climbed into bed wearing the step-ins she knew he liked, she had to make the initial overture. Even then, even though she liked everything they did, Richard always touched her delicately, like he was afraid he might hurt her in some way. There was little delicacy in his touch tonight. It's because he wanted her, she thought and trembled even more with excitement. One hand drifted back down between her legs, while his mouth closed back over hers and she had to put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. He wasn't wearing his undershirt, she thought. He always came to bed in it, even if she pulled it off immediately.

Suddenly his hands moved to her elbows, and he guided her to stand up at the end of the bed. She looked down at him as he pushed the step in out of the way. Clara's breath was coming in fast gasps. She was trying to think, everything was so different, but she couldn't keep her mind on any single thought when Richard's hands kept doing new things to her.

"Trust me?" he asked in a voice even more gravelly than usual while looking up at her.

Clara nodded.

He pulled her arms back behind his head, which pulled her body tight against his. "Jump."

For a moment she froze, but then she jumped hesitantly. Richard's hands went under her thighs, and he pulled her legs around his waist. Clara laughed as he spun them away from the bed and sat her down on the dresser. He smiled up at her bashfully. She ran her hands through his hair, drawing a shiver when her fingernails lightly raked down his neck.

The skin of her shoulder was silky under his mouth as he pushed into her, attempting to get used to the new angle and fumbling for a moment trying to find a rhythm. He knew he was successful when he heard Clara's low moan and felt her legs clench around his waist. It took sheer willpower to maintain the rhythm, but he didn't want to finish without her. His hand slid into between them and Clara's fingers grasped his shoulders in response. The muscles in her leg tightened under his hand, and it wasn't long before her grasp on his shoulders increased along with her panting. When she groaned out his name, he pulled her down as much as possible and finally allowed himself to start thrusting wildly.

They were still holding each other tightly as their breathing slowed slightly. The backs of his legs were vibrating, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand. He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her before he turned and fell back onto the bed. The edge of the footboard cut into the back of his legs, but he couldn't move. Clara lay silently on top of him. Suddenly, guilt flooded into his happy haze. Clara had been sleeping. He had been rough with her, tossing her around with abandon.

Clara's hand reached up to cup the right side of his face. "When I said," she said softly, "that I wanted adventures, I didn't know you'd dream up such a good one."

He looked down at her. "Mmm. You are. Okay?"

"More than. You aren't going to be with your legs like that, though."

They shifted up so they were on the bed properly. Clara curled against him, but long after Clara fell asleep, he lay there and worried about the dark currents waiting outside their door.

It was supposed to just be another meeting at the Commodore's house. Richard wasn't looking forward to it, because Luciano, Lansky, and Capone were coming, and Richard trusted none of them. Even worse, Mr. Whitlock-who often seemed to hold back some of Jimmy's worse impulses- wasn't going to be there. But Gillian Darmody was, and that made him even more nervous.

Lansky, at least, analyzed the situations he found himself in, Richard thought. Lansky tried to deescalate problems. Lansky was the only person involved in this (nightmare, Richard thought, and then pushed away the word as being disloyal) who seemed to think de-escalation was necessary. Lansky even tried to get Jimmy to pay the damn butcher.

Every minute of the meeting felt like broken glass against his skin, as he expected. Yet he would have never guessed that Eli Thompson was the biggest danger in the room. When Eli spoke, when Eli condemned Nucky to death, it took Richard several minutes to be able to speak. Eli had dismissed him when Richard asked him how he could kill his brother. Richard looked over at Jimmy, and he saw the wild pain and fear on Jimmy's face. It looked so much like the face Clara made when she was hurt or scared that it took his breath away.

After considering everyone in the room, he realized two things. Jimmy didn't want to order Nucky's death. And everyone else in the room wanted Nucky dead. He didn't speak again, waiting on everyone to leave so he could talk to Jimmy alone.

He finally went up to Eli when Capone showed no speed in leaving. He didn't understand how anyone could call for their sibling's death. Clara loved her uncle, how could she stand knowing what he started? "You could. Make your niece. An orphan?"

"It's for the best," Eli said. "Clara will cry, you'll kiss away the tears, and then you'll both be better off. Nucky sees her as a pawn. Watching her with Blaine, it was like watching someone slowly turn the light out inside her. But all Nucky sees is money, power. The fact she loves you will mean nothing to him. He'll destroy you, not because of your face but because you aren't the husband he's pictured for Clara, and Nucky insists we all bend to his will."

As Eli walked away, it hit Richard that he and Jimmy were also complicit in the plot to kill Nucky Thompson. To kill Clara's father.

After everyone else left Jimmy dropped back into the leather chair and hid his face in his hands.

"You are. Going to let. Capone send someone. To kill. Nucky?" Richard finally asked.

Jimmy stared at him blankly. All Jimmy could think about was the weekend Nucky took him and Clara to New York for Opening Weekend the year they turned fourteen. They'd seen the Dodgers play in Brooklyn, the Giants in Manhattan, and the Yankees in the Bronx. Nucky didn't even like baseball, but he and Clara were obsessed. Nucky had then taken them to Delmonicos, where they'd eaten with a bunch of baseball players. It was the greatest meal of Jimmy's life (he still had the signed baseball from that night in his things, to give to Tommy when he was older). Clara had been so smitten with Giants pitcher Jeff Tesreau that she'd barely been able to eat her steak. He hadn't seen that look on her face again until that day in the drawing-room at the Ritz when he'd seen her smoothing back Richard's hair.

Jesus Christ, what was he doing, Jimmy thought wildly. He had just wanted Nucky to go to jail, pay for his part in what happened to his Ma, and pay for how Nucky treated him when he returned from Walter Reed. Nucky had taught him to shoot, taken him in when Gillian's life was too crazy for her to take care of him, and taught him how to wear a dinner jacket and behave at fancy parties. Nucky'd paid for parochial school until high school, he'd offered to pay for boarding school for Jimmy when he sent Clara to Foxcroft (Gillian had refused to let Jimmy go), he'd paid for Princeton. He'd given Angela money while Jimmy was in the service.

' Because I swear to you, this summer will not end with me standing in tears by a grave. I will not allow it. You have twisted everyone I love into this nightmare, ' Clara's voice whispered in his ear. Clara. Richard had once talked about his sister, his twin, and said she was his earliest memory. Clara was Jimmy's. They were on a blanket outside, and Clara was stacking leaves. They couldn't have even been two. She was always the simplest relationship in his life. He loved her. She loved him. There was no darkness between them, just the long chains of a shared childhood. The night Clara found her mother dead, Gillian had taken him to the Thompsons'. Gillian cried like it was her mother who died. Clara was sitting on the floor of her room, her knees pulled up to her chest. She wouldn't talk or look at him. He knew she had her old stuffed rabbit hidden under her pillow, so he got it for her. She rested her cheek on the rabbit, and he held her hand until Nucky came to move them to the Ritz. She had held his hand the same way when she came to Walter Reed, while he raged at the pain and frustration of still being alive. When everything got so fucked up at Princeton, when he ran and abandoned Ange, he dumped it off on Clara. She'd convinced Nucky to support Angela and Tommy, befriended Angela, watched over them until he got back. And when he left again, she did it again. Then he walked into his room in Chicago, Pearl's room, and found Clara looking at Richard like she'd known him for years and Richard staring at her like she was something from a dream.

"I...don't want to," Jimmy said.

Richard stared at him. "Then. Why?"

Jimmy didn't have an answer. "I'm going to call it off," he said decisively. He was going to put a stop to it, and then he was going to find the money to pay Horowitz. He was getting distracted. Things were falling through the cracks. He could still fix this. This war was still winnable without killing the man he considered his father until he was twenty-two years old.

As Richard left the house, he didn't notice Gillian Darmody waiting in the shadows to speak to her son.

Jimmy was at the event for Jack Dempsey, and for once there wasn't much to do on a Friday. Richard had grand plans to take Clara up the shore, but they'd gotten distracted, and it was hours later when they went to take a shower. Clara was standing in front of the mirror, pinning her hair up while he sat at the desk.

"I should just bob it," Clara said. "I hate all the time it takes."

"You. Would look. Pretty."

She smiled at him in the mirror. "I just worry about not being able to tie it back. What if I get nervous?"

"You might. Not." They were both quiet for a moment. He hurried to change the subject. "What kind. Of adventures. Do you want?"

Clara turned to face him after she pinned her hat into place. "Like we had in Washington. Some days in New York, especially before Tommy was born, I felt so free. I had one day in London like that. Rose was still in at home in Yorkshire, and I could do anything I wanted."

Richard nodded and took her hand. "I had leave. In Paris. I saw an artist. I walked around the. City and ate things. I couldn't. Identify. I bought. Emma a present. It felt like. That." It felt like a day of beauty amidst the horror of the war, he thought.

"That's what I want. I want us to go places and have days together like that. I've never been to Paris, to France, to so many places."

"We could. Go," Richard pulled her down into his lap.

"You could go back?"

He considered it. "Yes."

"We could visit England if we go to Europe so you can meet Rose's family. I love her parents."

"Why didn't. You go to Paris. When you visited. Rose."

Clara turned to look at him. "I wasn't visiting Rose, and I had promised my father I wouldn't go to France."

Her answer was puzzling, but before he could ask they heard a heavy knock on the door.

"Harrow, it's Owen Sleater," an Irish accent announced. "I know Clara Thompson is inside."

Richard moved so fast she was barely aware of how she came to be standing behind him while he held the Colt.

"I'm not here to cause trouble. Mr. Thompson has been shot, and he's asking for Miss Thompson."

Clara barrelled past Richard to open the door. "Is he alright?"

Owen kept his hand on the gun holstered under his jacket. "He's asking for you," he repeated, keeping an eye on Richard.

Clara turned. Later, she wasn't quite sure what she had been about to say to Richard. That she loved him? That she'd be back soon? That she was scared and wanted him to come with her? At that moment, they were all true.

The words died stillborn on her lips, because when she turned Richard was looking down and away. She recognized all to well the look on his face. Guilt. Shame. In an instant, she knew. She knew. This was Jimmy.

And that Richard had taken her into his bed, taken her, knowing her father was going to be murdered. It felt like the air was pushed out of her body and she almost collapsed under the weight of the betrayal. She blindly reached for her purse, sitting on the desk, and brushed past Owen Sleater on her way out the door.

Richard raised his eye just enough to watch her walk out the door. He could still feel her all around him-the slight smell of orange in the air, the book she reading on the nightstand-but he knew.

Clara had just walked out his door for the last time.

Author's Note Part Two:

Clara went to Richard's at the end of last chapter to be with him, but also to reject all that goes with being Princess Clara, including the plotting her father and Jimmy are doing.

a href=" photos/daily-bungalow/albums/72157646590737523" rel="nofollow"The catalog of homes/a Richard and Clara look at.

Richard and Clara babysit Tommy so that Jimmy and Angela can see a play, a href=" broadway-production/nobodys-money-12607" rel="nofollow"Nobody's Money/a In the show, we see Jimmy and Angela walk along the boardwalk after the show; it's when Jimmy sees Nucky with Waxey Gordon and the rest.

The only time Richard curses in the show is during the showdown with Lansky, Luciano, and Gordon's man. The only time ever. So I wanted to capture his feelings when he got home.

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