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Lucille
"I thought it was you."
Dawson lifted to his feet, hat being ripped off his head by his own two hands. He held his arms out with a wide grin.
"Lucille!" He said, giving her a short but tight hug. "I'll never get tired of seeing you!"
"And I you," she said, pulling back with her hands gripping his shoulders. "Not that you need an excuse, but why are you here?"
She looked him up down as he paused, a chuckle leaving his lips. His laughter creased his face, eyes disappearing as they clenched shut with joy. Then she noticed the dark bruises that surrounded one of them, a solider of purple and brown on his golden skin.
"I didn't know your address so the Garrison was the next best thing," he teased.
"I know that," she said, leading him to sit down again.
"I need to talk to you."
"Just me?" He nodded.
He was on his feet again, unable to sit still. Dawson walked around the bar, hands reaching for a bottle of whiskey beneath the bench. Holding it up, he raised a brow.
"But first, a drink. I'm sure Tommy boy won't mind."
Lucille chuckled. "No he won't. With the rate Arthur drinks his own stock, he won't know."
Dawson's hands shook as they clenched the whiskey bottle, just as she'd noticed from the last time she and Tommy had met with him. But he managed to undo the lid and pour the dark liquid into two glasses carefully. He sat again, sliding a glass over.
"How are you, Lucille. Are you happy here? It's all I want for you."
"Yes, of course. I'm grateful. Especially with Adds and Tommy. They make the hard times less... well difficult," she said. He nodded in understanding. "Despite things, it's the happiest I've been in a long while."
"You don't miss home?"
"Sometimes. But all the things that I could possibly miss are long gone now."
Her lips thinned. Her mother had died a long time ago, and even then, the beauty of the farm had gone with her. The only thing that had tied Lucille to the village, was Adam and her father, and now they'd both hacked at that rope with a sharp knife themselves.
"You're not worried about them?" Dawson asked, as if he'd read her mind. "Your father and ex husband?"
"I'll always be worried about them. Both for their sake and ours," she said truthfully. "But I know they won't be a problem. Not for a while, at least."
Dawson sighed, holding the empty glass up. "Another?"
Lucille nodded, letting him walk around the bar to collect the bottle again. Dawson unscrewed the lid, but his hands shook, the top shuttering as he tried to lift the bottle to pour. It sloshed about, slipping over the edge until he grew so frustrated that he placed it back down with a heavy thud.
"Here, let me," Lucille said, taking the bottle softly and pouring the two glasses. He tipped his straight back.
"When did it start, if you don't mind me asking?"
"The minute it was quiet." He jaw tightened, eyes staring at the bar. "Do you never miss those days? When we were all together and the German soldier was gone? I remember those days well. It was peaceful, quiet, in my head too."
She smiled. "The smell of the bread and pastries would drive you boys wild."
"I dare to say I miss it," Dawson said. "It didn't matter that there was a war going on. All that mattered was us, our health and the food and the fresh spring air. I hadn't experienced everything then. Hadn't gone through the Somme or anything like that." He breathed out. "It was quiet."
"I remember it so well," Lucille said, frowning. "But Dawson, time goes on. We knew it wouldn't last forever. And those times weren't perfect, even when we forgot about war. Don't you remember how scared we were some days. There were days when even you couldn't eat out of sickness from fear."
Those days had been good, with no need to worry about her husband, her father abnormally silent and the fresh summers. It was like the trees and flowers had bloomed big that year, as if to say we're with you, you'll survive. A last bit of hope. She'd found love.
But they'd went back to war, experienced horrors that shouldn't have been possible. And then her husband had returned.
"There's no harm in remembering the goodness of some days," he said.
"No there's not. But then again, I'd disagree," Lucille said. "I think we all need to forget about the past. About the bad. And I think we need to stop romanticising the good of the past. All so we can look toward the future."
He shook his head, running a hand through his hair and across his tired face. "That won't stop the panic attacks. Or the shaking."
"Maybe not. But what if it could at least help a little?" She said gently. "Tommy told me himself that there are days he's so consumed with thoughts of the future, our future, that he doesn't even think of the sounds."
She wrapped an arm around his shoulder pulling her friend close. "We love you Dawson. You're our family. We want nothing more than for you to be happy."
"Thank you, Lucille."
She pulled away, eyes flitting across the bruises. "What happened to your face?"
Dawson finally broke into a smile, a laugh breaking through the solemn nature of the ended conversation.
"Lady Ethel. She didn't like the fact that it was me leaving her and not the other way around," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "What was I thinking?"
Lucille laughed along with him. "We questioned that everyday."
Dawson sobered up from his laughing, leaning against the bar. "I suppose you'd like to know the real reason I'm here."
"That would be nice."
"My club. It's not doing the best," he said. "I've been getting threats. There's a man-"
Dawson was interrupted by the sharp banging of fists on the front door. Lucille glanced to him quickly. Grace had locked up before she'd left, leaving the two by the bar. Dawson stood abruptly.
"Stay there. I'll see who it is," he said. Lucille chucked him the keys.
The door clicked open, the sound of rain suddenly filling the silent room.
"Dawson?" Tommy staggered in, eyes wide in confusion.
