Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

Et Sic Incipit: February 1921

Author's Note: This chapter takes place between episodes one (21) and two (Ourselves Alone) of Season Two. The conspiracy is showing itself with Nucky's arrest, and when Clara runs to Richard in the aftermath of her father's arrest THINGS HAPPEN. 

February 14th, 1921

There's a soft knock at his door. He sits straight up in bed, his heart pounding against his chest. Jimmy was going to New York. No one else should be knocking at his door-his landlady is in Florida until March. Richard retrieves his Colt 1903 from the bottom shelf of the bedside table and immediately feels some of the anxiety dissipate as his fingers wrap around the base of the gun.

"Richard, it's me. Are you home?" Clara's voice calls from the other side of the door.

"Mmm. Mmm. One minute," he scratches out, the fear of why Clara is standing outside of his door late at night making him frantic with worry. He knows there's going to be no happy reason she's there. He puts on the mask he took off, according to his watch, a few hours ago. It's almost one in the morning.

He opens the door, half expecting that someone is holding her there at gunpoint, but it's only Clara clutching a small bag. Her coat is unbuttoned, her hat isn't straight, and her hair is falling from its pins. She looks like she's trying to hide that she's upset, but the redness in her eyes shows she's been crying. He flashes back to her face when he picked her up off the sidewalk on Pacific Avenue. She doesn't look as terrified as she did after the d'Allessios kidnapping attempt, but something is wrong. He reaches around her to shut the door.

"I had to leave the Ritz," she says softly. Clara looks over at the bed and can tell he's been asleep; the bed is mussed and his healthy cheek is warm and flushed looking. She's seen him sleeping enough to know it's because he always sleeps on that side.

The only other men she's seen in their undershirts are her father and Jimmy, who both wear the new knitted sleeveless kind. She always thinks of Richard's sleeved shirts with buttons as old fashioned and intriguing, like they are a tangible difference between Richard and every other man in her life. Tonight he's wearing one, and is barefoot wearing what she presumes are his pajama pants. His hair hangs on either side of his face and she pushes down the urge to touch it. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, adrenaline still coursing through her system, coupled with anxiety, and the biting flame of something else now that she's standing in Richard's room.

"Clara. What. Happened." He's still trying to grapple with the idea that she's standing in his room.

"I was writing in my room when I heard a commotion. It was about seven o'clock? All of a sudden two men burst into my room with their guns out. They, they were New Jersey State Police. They made me stand against the wall..."

Cold fury started to rise in Richard's chest. The Commodore's plan. He stops her, because he needs to move around to burn off the nervous energy building in his limbs and because he's overcome with the urge to do something for her. "Mmm, it's not good to wear. Your coat indoors," he says before helping her take it off. He then stands in his room awkwardly, realizing there's no good place to put it. He finally hangs it in his closet, where it looks odd hanging with his clothing.

"Is it all right if I sit down, or do you need me to leave? I know I woke you up." Clara asks, still standing in the middle of the room. She's taken her hat off, and is spinning it in her hands.

"No," he pulls up the covers on his bed. "Sit down." He stands awkwardly until Clara looks at him confusedly, so he sits next to her. They both have their backs against the wall with their legs hanging off the side of the bed.