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On his worst nights, Tora’s violence would collapse in on himself. Poppy would wake to soft knocks on their door, Tora unwilling or unable to cross their sacred threshold unbidden. When she opened the door, she would greet glassy eyes, shallow breath, and ragged knuckles. The first time he had crawled home to her like a wounded animal there had been tears, but she knew now that wasn't what he needed from her; Poppy had done it enough times to hold back her own fragility while she pieced him back together. She had given up asking what happened long ago; she could ease his burdens, but he would not permit her to share his nightmares.
Poppy would gently unfurl his fingers from his clenched fists, peel away his scarlet-soiled clothing, and carefully lead Tora under the hot spray of the shower. The two of them together barely fit in her small stall, but this was a necessary and temporary discomfort. She would delicately rinse away the harsh tang of iron, the water tinged a sickly rusted pink at their feet, disclosing which injuries were his own and which had been visited upon others.
These broken episodes were the only occasions that Tora was returned to her covered in blood, as his diligence in showering at his safehouses normally sheltered her from the harsh evidence of his profession. It was usually someone else’s, but sometimes a combination of both. It didn’t really matter; at least Tora’s physical injuries could be dressed without being concealed from her. Her first aid kit had diversified substantially since their involvement began. Alcohol wipes and band-aids were insufficient for cleaning and protecting the lacerations, abrasions, and bruises that adorned him. Time and love had taught her three types of sutures, the odor of iodopovidone, and the proper dressing of bruised and broken ribs. Her small pharmacy contained an array of antibiotics, pain relievers, and some antidotes. Those available only by prescription had been procured by Tora at Poppy’s insistence; she’d refused to be caught unprepared.
In the darkest moments, Poppy contemplated what Tora had done with these grim hours before he had given them to her. Had he gone to Quincey's? Somehow, she couldn't imagine he had - Quincey occupied a privileged position, but he was just as trapped by the clan as Tora was. He knew too much of the truth to offer sincere hope. She shuddered to think of Tora curled bleeding on his couch, with nothing to keep him company but his own thoughts, and no one there to stand between him and his own gun. It was sick, and she would take it to her grave, but despite his anguish, these blackened twilights held a dim spark of light for her. They confirmed what she already knew – Tora was not a monster, he hated what he did, and he lacked the luxury of choice. And even these nights were better than those where the sun rose, her voicemail was empty, and the space beside her was still cold.
They never bothered to dress after the shower, nothing was tolerated between them but carefully wrapped gauze. Hers was the only bed he had slept in in years, the bedrooms in his bolt holes (because they really couldn't be called apartments) left uninhabited because of their tactical disadvantages, the beds only ever occupied by decoys. Nights like these didn't always end in sex, but when they did, there wasn’t enough of him left to burn for her. Their couplings were solemn and slow, Tora never demanding for anything, accepting only what Poppy freely offered. She would straddle his lap, wrapping herself tightly around his torso, and pull him back to her piece by piece, one kiss at a time. Her soft touch and soothing murmurs grounded him – a reminder that he could sow and reap more than agony and fear, that Vincent had not yet succeeded in ripping every decent thing from him. There were fragments left of what he might have been, in another life.
Tora was taught to believe that these remaining slivers of humanity were his weaknesses – chinks in his armor that would one day kill him if he could not purge them. She had found those jagged pieces, quietly plucking them from the dust and shielding them from the elements. He frequently remarked on his incompatibility with her life, that it was his own hand that painted the target on her back. It had been a comfort when he told her that he would keep coming around until she sent him away, because she knew she never would. Poppy could never fear Tora; she knew what he was, but she also knew who he was - A good man dealt a bad hand.
He was more than the things he’d done to survive.