Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

Come With Me Part Two-July 1921

A/N: I am a monster.

"Just go," Clara whispered when they got into the Ford, her fingertips smoothing and smoothing the pleats in her dress.

Richard glanced back at the house, half expecting Sleater or Thompson himself to come out shooting. They were silent on the ride to his room, but Clara's shoulder pressed against his arm, even though she looked straight ahead the entire time.

The silence continued when they reached his place. Clara felt shy as they walked in, like they hadn't done it dozens of times before. As she looked around she realized all traces of her were gone. The pillow, the quilt, even the toaster were missing.

"All. Of your things. Are in. Your dresser. I..." his voice trailed off. He didn't know how to tell her that he missed her and that seeing her things made her absence hurt even more.

Clara closed her eyes, and felt Richard behind her moments before she heard the sound of tin striking wood. His hand was still there, carefully lining up the mask with the edge of the desk. She ran her hand down the green tweed of his jacket, past the blue poplin of his shirt cuff, and on to the skin of his hand. A sigh escaped without her notice.

These were the last moments of their before. Everything that was about to happen, Clara thought as she drummed her fingers softly against his hand, it was going to propel them into the after. She didn't know what the after would be, and her stomach twisted in peremptory agony.

But right now, right now Richard had come to get her. They were no longer a secret. They were no longer apart, she was back in his room, where she had been so happy. Slowly Clara began to turn until she faced him.

He wasn't making eye contact with her. Clara reached up, running her right hand across the left side of his face.

Her hand was warm, and on instinct, he leaned into it and brought his own hand up to cover hers. He reveled in the warm softness of her hand, how alive it was, as he tried to banish the cold, dense feeling of Angela Darmody's hand from his mind.

"Clara," he tried to begin.

She shook her head. "Not yet, okay? I know...there are all sorts of things we have to talk about. And I know there's something else waiting. But not yet."

They stood without speaking. Richard finally looked at her. "I knew. You would. Look pretty. With a bob."

"So far I haven't pulled the hair out of my scalp," Clara answered, mustering a weak smile. But that might change soon, she thought.

Richard looked back down. A storm of feelings brewed inside him, more feelings than he could name or identify as the adrenaline rush that had seen him through leaving the Darmody house and going for Clara faded away. Now Clara was back with him, but standing in front of him looking lost and unsure. He wanted to tell her what having her hand on his face meant to him, that he couldn't believe she was back standing with him in his room, that missing her had hurt so badly it felt like physical pain, but he couldn't think of how to say it. Then he realized Clara had already given him the words.

"I thought. Mmm. About kissing you. A lot. Did you. Think about kissing me?"

Clara blinked as she recognized her own phrasing, and whispered, "Every day."

He put his hand on the back of her head and pulled her to him, hearing the half-breath Clara always drew before they kissed as he did. Part of him was afraid that after being away, after kissing Luciano, Clara would finally be disgusted by the ruined side of his mouth. Instead he felt her mouth open under his, and her right hand reached up to brush along the thick scar on the left side of his face, until her hand entwined in his hair and she used both hands to bring his face down more firmly upon hers. He felt himself melt into her, into the feeling of sweet escape from the prison of his mind that the physicality of Clara always offered, and finally he put his other hand against her back and gently pushed her torso against his.