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peaky-yamyam · 7 years

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Twenty-One: Part Nine

Part One | Part Eight (the second bit) | Part Nine | Part Ten |

The rest of our date goes, actually, incredibly well. Alfie and I are largely ignored by everyone in the building which means we can enjoy each other’s company without interruption. The food is amazing, even with my less than refined palate I can tell that the meal we’ve eaten is of incredibly high standard and once the plates are cleared away, it’s replaced with a selection of some of the most intricate desserts I’ve ever seen; a collection, each no more than mouthful but so delicately decorated that I almost feel bad for eating them. Alfie, however, has no such qualms, polishing off his half in the time it takes me to eat one.

The large clock shows that it’s almost midnight and I know the night needs to end soon, but despite that, I find myself taking increasingly smaller bites in order to drag the night out just a little bit longer. Eventually though both of our plates are clean.

“If I were a less confident man I’d ask if you’d enjoyed yourself,” Alfie says, thumb running along his forefinger as he watches me tidy the little space in front of me.

“It’s been… eventful. Lovely, but eventful.”

“As it should be… As it should be. Right! I suppose I should be getting you home,” Alfie says, pushing himself from the table before throwing a wad of cash down.

“You’ve not even seen the bill Alfie,” I gasp, running my eyes over the folded notes as I try to work out how much is there.

“Doesn’t matter. You enjoyed it here, I need to try and repair some of the damage don’t I, else we’ll never get to come back.” I accept his outstretched hand with a smile as he pulls me from the table, snatching our coats from the stand as we walk towards the door.

“Evening gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure. Compliments to the chef yeah? Those cakes were… well they were fucking magical weren’t they?” Alfie calls over his shoulder.

As he directs me out of the restaurant I notice his hand no longer sits on the small of my back, but on my hip, his broad fingers splayed as if he’s trying to hold as much of me as possible. We stop outside the doors and wait for the car to pull round, my skin tingling with anticipation as Alfie’s thumb begins to trace absently over the curve of my waist.

I don’t entirely know what I’m anticipating, apart from a few stolen kisses with random boys and a fleeting experimentation with someone I barely saw enough of to consider a boyfriend, I had no experience in this area. After a great many discussions with Florrie I know the gist, but running over the stories in my head now, I realise they always start “so I was fucking this bloke…”, she never actually speaks about the moments before, the build up or the actual moment when it’s decided that you’re going to have sex.

My stomach swoops at the thought and heat flares in my core as I use what little knowledge I have to imagine Alfie giving me that pleasurable feeling I only know how to give myself; the one where my legs go weak and my heart hammers so hard I think it’ll burst. I can feel myself getting riled and I lean a little closer to Alfie, chancing a look up at him. His attention is focussed down the street, but when I follow his gaze I realise he’s staring at a blank spot on a building. He’s stood bolt upright as well and I wonder if his thoughts have taken the same turn as mine, whether he’s imagining pulling me somewhere private and pushing my coat from my shoulder, unbuttoning my dress slowly, or whether he’s imagining foregoing all that, pulling me down the alley by the restaurant and pushing the hem of my dress up to my waist.

I desperately want him to kiss me, but I find myself frozen from making the first move, the realisation that Alfie has far more experience with this, drowning any confidence I’d been feeling.

“Car’s here,” he barks, before clearing his throat. He helps me into the vehicle and nods at the driver; it’s the same man as before and I wonder if he’s been waiting in the car this whole time.

“Where we going Miss?” the driver asks.

I reel off my address, happy for the distraction, before remembering how late it is.

“Actually, could you drop me off round the corner from there? There’s a little patch of grass with some trees you can park by.”

“No problem.”

He turns his attention to the road and I settle back in my seat, effectively alone with Alfie again. I decide I should probably try to make conversation, save my scandalous mind conjuring obscene pictures again.

“I had a really nice time tonight Alfie, thank you.”

“My pleasure love.” He glances out the window of the car, although there’s not a great deal to look at, before turning back to me. “You look beautiful tonight, did I say that before? Not that you don’t always look good, you understand, but tonight, yeah, you look just… incredible.”

The swooshing in my stomach returns, my insides feel like they’re on fire and I have to pin myself in the seat so I don’t jump on him there and then. Apparently being in close quarters with Alfie makes me more riled up than I realised.

“Thank you. You look great too, not that you don’t always,” I reply, my mimicked response earning a smile that does nothing to calm me down. “I like the neater beard, you can see your face better.”

I leave my words hanging in the car and turn my attention out the window, clasping my hands firmly in my lap. I hear Alfie shift in his seat but he doesn’t offer any reply and after a few minutes of silence the familiar streets of home come into view.

“Just here,” I notion to the driver and he slows the car.

Alfie jumps out before I can tell him to stay in the car to avoid the rife window twitchers in this area, all of them hungry for gossip.

“Walk with me a bit Emilia,” Alfie says, his voice lifts at the end as if it’s a question but I can tell by his expression that he won’t take no for an answer.

“Okay, but lets walk through the trees.”

He nods and I wait for him to place his hand back on my waist, but he doesn’t. Just shoves them deep in the pockets of his coat. The grass is spongy from the rain and water seeps through the sides of my shoes. Although annoying it gives me a sensation to focus on other than the twinge in my stomach.

“Nice street,” he comments, nodding behind him.

“You’re surprised?”

“Suppose I am a bit, yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing a hand across the bottom half of his face.

“Well, you pay me a lot of money Alfie,” I reply, my tone a little sharper than I intended, “and it all goes to my parents. They rely on me.”

It’s a sad fact that since my brothers died, neither my mother nor father have quite been the same, although they keep themselves busy I know they’re both haunted by memories and ‘what-ifs’.

“I can’t work you out Emilia. You, right, you consistently baffle me with your comments, your behaviour, all of it. Baffles me.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I ask, my mind very much reminding me of how dangerous Alfie is.

“It’s an interesting thing,” he replies and then he turns to look at me. He doesn’t say anything else, just holds eye contact so intense I’m unsure whether the butterflies in my stomach are due to nerves or excitement.

He answers it for me though when he laces his fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck, the feel of his skin, warm against mine, plucking goosepimples along my entire body. For once London seems to stand still, quiet and calm, the bustle of the night so far from us as Alfie leans down to press his lips to mine.

It catches me off guard, although it shouldn’t, and when he slides his other arm around my back pulling me closer to him I have to bite back a moan that tries to force its way from my throat at the feel of our bodies pressed together. I let Alfie lead, yielding as he runs his tongue across my bottom lip and melting into him as he tightens his grip on my hair the tiniest amount.

I swear I thought I knew what I was doing in a kiss, would have bet money that I could do it well, but this is something different entirely; the intensity rises quickly, no awkward clashing of teeth or fumbling tongues on lips, Alfie knows exactly what to do and it has me wanting more. I want to be closer to him, touch more of him, feel more of him but as I go to slide my hands under his waistcoat, he pulls away.

“I assume you don’t want me to walk you to your door?” he says.

It takes me a moment to realise what he’s talking about, my mind cloudy and disorientated.

“Oh, no. Thank you,” I babble, remembering where I am and why I asked to be dropped here in the first place.

“Right then, I’ll speak to you soon Emilia,” he says kissing my cheek lightly.

“I-”

“Home,” he orders, spinning me round by my hand. “It’s late enough already and if we carry on that way you’re going to end up being a lot later,” he adds when he see’s me open my mouth to argue.

I can’t help the flush of red that stains my cheeks and I decide to listen to him, if only to get some advice from Florrie before things progress any further. I walk to my house slowly, my legs weak without Alfie to steady me, keeping my eyes forward until I reach the door. But as I turn the key in the lock, I look back and see Alfie, leant against the back of the car, watching to make sure I get in safely.

I wave goodnight to him and disappear inside, flopping myself against the door as it closes. As I creep up the stairs and ready myself for bed one thought careers through my mind: I have so much to tell Florrie.

#peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #Alfie Solomons #alfie solomons fanfiction #alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons fanfic #twenty one

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twohearts-hs · 7 years

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Mummy’s Boy - Daddy!Harry Styles Imagine

Words: 1,847

Pairing: Harry Styles & (Y/N) (Y/L/N)

Requested: Yes

Requests are OPEN

Harry was surprised when (Y/N) told him that she had to go away for the weekend, it was a surprisement because, she never takes time out for herself. Before they had kids, it was Harry first, then her job. Now it’s her kids, Harry, and then her job. But when she told him, a week prior of that Saturday, that her company wanted her to go out to Scotland for the weekend to do a article, and possibly buy out that company, she could not say no. She could no say no for her company possibly buying out another company, and she did not want to send her assistant to go and screw it up. Therefore she said yes, but the hard thing is the kids.

Harry knows that their kids to his missus, is always her first priority, she always wants to make them happy, be with them, play with them. She loves them more than anything, and Harry knows that. But, when she did tell her that, it was a shock at first, and they, a good job for her company, but then the information sank in and he had to take care of Rosie, and Caleb, on his own without his partner in crime, would be hard part.

Therefore on Thursday night, she was packing, it would only be three days, but to her, she did trust Harry, but she has never left them alone with him for more than five hours, she does not know how the situation would go. So, when she was placing her blouse in the small carry on, he stood behind her, arms crossed, chin high, leaning against the dark chester draws, watching her, was almost aggravating to her. He watched her, burning holes in the back of her head, trying to get her to notice him. She tried to ignore it, she tried her best to go past it, forget it, but she can’t, she can’t leave her baby like that, so she placed the last shirt down and turned out, doing the exact same posture as Harry, but she gave up several seconds later, she placed her arms to her side, and looked at him, a sorry expression trying to show.

“I don’t know if you’re upset with me because I’m leaving you, or that you’re alone with the kids?” She says, he pushes off, walking up to her, giving her the same look, but placing his hands in a loving matter, rubbing her arms, gently.

“Both, you’re leaving me this weekend, the bed will be empty, cold, even. No morning kisses, with light shining through, oh, and no morning sex, (Y/N), no sex for three days, I can’t do that.” He stated, she went wide-eyed, giving him a look of how pathetic he is.

“Harry, for goodness sake, you’re acting like a horny teenager, you’ve been gone months before, leaving me to deal with stuff like that, and the one time I leave you for three, small days, you are complaining. You can survive for those three days, if you really want sex, there is always the option of wanking off, but I am not changing my plans.” She told him, moving past him to grab her jeans from the draws.

“But, love-” He was interrupted.

“No, Harry, I love you, but you need to let me do this, ok. I have given up for three years, my passion, my job. You know how passionate I am about this stuff, please let me, I’ll make it up for you.” She told him, instantly, when she told him that’ll she make it up for him, he was fine with her leaving. He nodded, a smile on his lips, telling her a quick and cheerful ‘ok’ and walking out of the room. She laughed from his actions and continued on with packing.

That morning when she left, bright and early, she did say bye to Harry, but not the kids. When either she or Harry said bye to them, they would throw a mental breakdown, and that breaks both of their hearts, therefore they decided to not say bye anymore until they have matured enough to behave proper, so, they just leave without them knowing and play it off cool.

The first two days was fine, Harry told the kids that mummy was at the store, or that she was at Auntie Gem’s or that she was at a friend’s, whenever they asked, and they simply thought that she’ll be back in a couple of hours. The three of them went and stayed at his mum’s house for two days, he did need a little of help to handle the two of them because Rosie was walking now at one years old, and he needed to be watching her a lot to make sure that she was not up to any trouble. With Caleb, at three, he was at the stage of wanting everything, so he throws tantrums and hits, therefore, Harry was constantly stress with balancing both kids, and it would help a ton with some extra help, but those few days went well. It was really the last day, Sunday, that hit him like a brick.

He woke up, back into his and the missus’ room, the right side of the bed was cold, another reminder that she was still in Scotland and was coming home later that day, but it was not the normal light that woke up him up, it was the wailing from next door.

Harry pulled on his pajama pants, and threw on a shirt and walked out, Caleb’s room was on the left, therefore he slowly opened the door revealing a crying, three year old with little curls of blonde hair, and deep hazel eyes. He automatically turned into daddy mode and started to shush him, telling him that daddy was there, no worries. Harry placed his ringless fingers under his son’s armpits and picked him up, gently bouncing him, shushing him in a gentle manner.

“What’s wrong baby, what’s wrong, daddy’s here.” He said, but the minute he went into Harry’s arms, Caleb started to push away, squirming away, still sobbing. Harry tried his best to keep hold of him since of how big he was getting, but he eventually sat down in the rocking chair, sitting him up, trying to find out is wrong. His diaper did not stink, the only option was that he was hungry.

“Mummy.” Caleb, simply said, sobs in between the syllables. Harry started to show sympathy, he felt bad.

“Mummy will be home soon buddy, she will be home in a couple of hours, she’s just out right now.” He said, trying to rock him, but his little boy, who was only in a diaper was still fussing. Harry has never seen him so depressed, he looked tired, and sleep deprived. He started to push away, but Harry kept holding on.

“No, mummy, now.” Caleb, was still sobbing. Harry picked him up and placed him close to his chest, and walked downstairs, hoping not to wake up his little baby girl. But he was still whining, and squirming. The minute he got down to the kitchen, he sent Caleb in his high chair, sobs still coming out. It made Harry’s heart weaken, seeing his big baby all upset, not wanting him, but his mummy.

He walked to the fridge, and pulled out some milk, gently pouring it in a pot, and turning it to medium-high, and nuking it for a few moment, until it was lukewarm. Then he placed it in the bottle, screwing the top on. He looked up noticing it was only six o’clock, which was a normal thing, both kids were early birds, like him. But he began to hear a faint cry, coming from upstairs. He placed the bottle to Caleb, that he took acceptably, which gave Harry the ‘thank God!’ feeling within, but here comes phase two, his daughter.

He raced upstair, quickly as possible, turning the corner. “Morning, poppet!” He chirped, when she came into view with the redhead. He picked her up with please and gave her a kiss on her head. Rosie just snugged into him, gripping on his arm. Mumbling, and gurgling, ‘Daddy’. He picked up her blanket, and walked downstairs as fast as he possibly could, thankful that Caleb was still drinking. He placed Rosie in her highchair, giving her a bowl from the fridge of mushed food.

Only problem, Alfie was soon done and started to cry again, Rosie dropped her spoon on the counter and covered her ears with her tiny hands, shaking her head. Harry did the second thing that would soothe him, he picked Caleb up and sat down on the couch, pulling his shirt off, placing Caleb on his chest, chest to chest therapy, it did wonders to both kids at states like this. Harry rubbed his back in a circular motion, over and over, until his cries turned in soft snores, that took an hour and a half to do, still doing chores around the house, keeping Rosie fed and with milk.

But, he heard keys jiggling, and the sound of the door unlocking, which made him confused. The door opened a few seconds later, and a bang of a suitcase hitting the floor, with the same voice he will love forever, calling out.

“Hello, I’m home, H, babe, Caleb, lovely, where are you all?” She asked, Harry knew it was her.

“In the living room, love.” Harry responded, Rosie dropped her blocks on the highchair, screaming out in excitement, and saying, ‘Mummy’ over and over again. (Y/N) finally made it through and saw her husband on the couch with a baby on his chest. A smile pulled on her lips, she started to walk up to Harry pulled his chin up for a quick kiss.

“Was he being fussy?” She asked, he nodded and laugh.

“You can’t imagine.” He stated. She walked to Rosie, picking her up and kissing her head repeatedly, sitting next to her husband.

“How’d it go, tell me the details?” She questioned.

“It was fine, went to Mum’s, baked, played a with cars and blocks a lot, hmm’ Rose and Caleb, but it was all good. This fella was starting to be fussy an hour ago, but all good now.” He told her, “But tell me, why are you home so early?’ He asked, she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“The meeting went quicker than expect, I took the failing company under my wing, all good, now, nothing like this will happen soon.” She told him, he laughed.

“Thank God, I don’t think I can do one of these weekends again. I love you.” He told her, sighing in relief.

“Ok, now I’m scared.”

“Don’t worry, it was all good, it was just a lot of stress between a stubborn three year old, and a walking one year old.” He told her, she laughed.

“Welcome to my life. I love you too, gorgeous.” She told him, smiling at him.

This was requested by: @tiaameliapnina

I tweaked it a bit since I wanted it to follow into my series, but thank you for requesting!

Requests are open: Ask

Lots of Love,

-Ava xx

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whentommymetalfie · 5 years

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To live a life -chapter two

A/N: The second chapter is here. This one’s a bit of a segway, but we’re getting into some of the comfort now. but first: more angst

Chapter one

Story summary: Tommy is gravely injured in an accident, and Alfie struggles to keep himself from falling apart as he’s left to deal with the aftermath.

When Tommy eventually wakes up, they set out on a dwindling road to recovery.

Pairing: Alfie/Tommy

Warnings: Hospitalization, descriptions of injury

Read on AO3

Alfie’s heart has developed the habit of stopping for a moment every time the phone rings. So he almost hangs up again in pure frustration when it’s just Arthur on the other end.

Arthur starts talking before he can even express his annoyance.

“How about you come over for dinner Friday? John’s coming too. With the whole lot. Finn and Isaiah might swing by-“ Arthur rambles. Alfie can only pick up bits and pieces. “Think it’d do you good. Getting out of the house, you know. Charlie might like it too.”

Alfie is about to say no. Because how can he do such a normal fucking thing? But then he catches a glimpse of Charlie outside the window, running around the lawn as Edith chases him. He thinks of that drawing…

For Charlie’s sake, he has to try.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Think he’d like seeing his cousins.”

And so, they end up at Arthur and Linda’s house.

Alfie dreads it, beforehand. Thinks it’ll be a whole affair; John making inappropriate jokes because he can’t handle the situation. Linda just being… Linda. That they’ll look at him strangely, not know what to say… And sure, there’s a bit of that, to start off with. Alfie has sort of forgotten how to be around other people. How to pull himself out of his thoughts and interact with them.

They talk about Tommy for a while. But there’s not much that hasn’t been said already. It’s the one thing they talk about, over and over again. When meeting in the hospital corridor. It’s a fucking draining subject, because there’s never anything new to say.

So eventually, conversation moves to other things. Some sort of defense mechanism, probably. There’s only so much gray misery a person can take.

They slip into something that just feels so incredibly fucking normal. It’s boisterous and mildly chaotic and there are moments when Alfie sinks into it so completely that he forgets about everything else… He even laughs a few times, and the sound is so unfamiliar to his own ears that he barely understands it’s him making it.

Later, when he carries a sleeping Charlie out to their car, he realises he still has something akin to a smile on his face.

It’s not until he’s put Charlie to bed and goes into his and Tommy’s bedroom, when he sees the empty bed, that it fully dawns on him again: There’s no Tommy there waiting for him.

The guilt twists his stomach so hard it almost knocks the air from his lungs, and he sinks down onto the mattress, resting his head in his hands. How the fuck can he sit by a table and listen to Arthur ramble about the fucking deer gnawing at his apple trees, when Tommy’s lying alone in a hospital bed? Just fading away a little bit more with each passing day?

How can they behave as if- as if this is normal?

As if anything will ever be normal again?

As if anything will ever be alright again.

Right then, he’s so fucking sick of himself and the world and fucking everything that he wishes he could crawl out of his own skin.

But he can’t. So he just sits there, on the cold empty fucking bed. Staring into the darkness.

…

Then one day, the call actually is from the hospital.

Just a fucking call, from one of the nurses, informing him that Tommy has woken up. She says it in a bright, and somehow far too normal voice, and has to repeat the words several times before they sink in. Alfie drops the earpiece to let it dangle as he rushes out the door.

He curses himself the entire way to the hospital.

Tommy is unconscious again when he arrives, and he deflates completely, slumping down on the chair next to the bed, and reaching out to take his hand.

“Sorry I wasn’t here, love,” he sighs and runs a thumb over his knuckles. “Didn’t know you’d just decide to wake up. Maybe you could’ve.. Don’t know, given me a bit of a sign or something? Moved your hand a little the other day.”

Tommy’s eyelashes flutter and he opens his eyes slowly, blinking up at the ceiling.

“Tommy?” Alfie squeezes the hand gently, the smile stretching on his face feeling absolutely fucking alien by now. He wants to reach out and run a hand over his cheek, but all the metal makes it impossible. Tommy just stares blankly at the ceiling. Then his gaze shifts to Alfie. But there’s no spark in the eyes. Just this… emptiness.

Alfie inches the chair a little closer, holds Tommy’s hand between both of his own and squeezes it. It remains is completely still. He squeezes a bit harder. Too hard. It should hurt. But there isn’t even the tiniest flinch in Tommy’s face.

Letting go of the hand again, Alfie sinks back in his chair. Closes his eyes as he tries to swallow down the nausea. He has to just breathe for a moment. Breathe and not be here. Not face this.

The surroundings become a blur after that. He just sits in the midst of it all and lets it happen.

The doctor is suddenly there, asking Tommy questions. “Do you remember your name? Where you are? What year it is?” Simple things. But Tommy’s eyes remain utterly lifeless. He can see, the doctor tells Alfie. That’s not the problem. He’s just not thereyet. Not completely.

What the fuck does that even mean?

The doctor insists that it’s a good thing, despite all of that. A good sign.

Tommy falls back asleep just a few minutes later, remaining unconscious for the rest of the day.

When Alfie makes the drive back home, all he can think about is how lifeless those eyes looked. How there was nothing of his Tommy left in them.

He has to stop the car by the side of the road, and barely makes it out before he’s vomiting his guts out onto the gravel.

…

He in a strange state of absolute numbness for a few days.

Once that initial flicker of happiness at seeing Tommy open his eyes dies down, there’s just a void in its place. Alfie thinks that maybe one of those wires in his head finally snapped completely. Maybe that’s why he’s just feeling… nothing.

He more or less lives at the hospital. Spends entire days by Tommy’s bedside, holding his hand, trying to speak to him. Fucking hell if he’s not going to sit by that bed every single day until- until something fucking happens.

Tommy stays awake for a little longer each day, but never emerges from that fog his mind seems to be caught in. They keep him on high doses of morphine to combat the pain, and the room is always dark. Because the light hurts him. Loud noises hurt him. Everything fucking hurts him. Alfie doesn’t dare to talk much, keeping his voice to a mutter whenever Tommy turns his eyes to him. Hoping to get through to him.

He never does.

Outside, the sun has finally thawed the ground completely, and the whole world seems to be coming back to life. Compared to that, the room feels increasingly like a separate reality.

Alfie almost can’t bear going there on some mornings. Then he remembers the black and white photograph on his nightstand. So he goes. To look into those eyes that are the same colour as Tommy’s, but still not his.

Sometimes he thinks he can see an accusatory shadow in those eyes as they stare blankly at some undetermined spot over his shoulder, too large in the gaunt face.

“You have to promise you won’t let me waste away in some hospital bed. Promise-”

The words gnaw at him.

Then, one day, a tired nurse forgets the bottle of morphine on the nightstand. An entire bottle. Alfie stares at it. For a moment, he wonders if this is how God has decided to answer his incessant prayers. A merciful way out.

It wouldn’t hurt.

Tommy is gazing listlessly at the ceiling.

It wouldn’t take long.

Alfie could hold him.

He could hold him and it wouldn’t hurt and-

He stares at the bottle. For seconds that melt into minutes and an absolute eternity. And then he gets out of the chair, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Out of the chair and out of the room, escaping from the bleak walls and the clinical smell. Has to get as far away as possible-

Some part of his brain still capable of logic tells him he shouldn’t be driving, but that’s easy to ignore.

The stable yard is empty when he stops the car in the middle of it, the usual bustle having died down for the night. A sense of peace has replaced it and the light spring evening is enveloping everything in blue mist.

He feels oddly detached from his own body as he wanders aimlessly over the premises, letting his feet carry him wherever. Searching for something, without knowing what. Just needs to keep moving.

He ends up in his and Tommy’s office. The building is large enough to accommodate two, several of them really. But after so many years of sharing the one in Camden, it would’ve felt odd to suddenly split. And Alfie’s used to looking up every once in a while to rest his eyes on Tommy.

Tommy keeps photos on his desk now. Of him. Charlie. They’ve slowly accumulated over the years, starting with just a single one hidden among the pages of his calendar and increasing in number. Now they all have frames.

Alfie stands there, staring down at the papers neatly piled on the blotter. Very different from his own desk, which is always a ‘fucking mess’. No wonder you’re always losing things. How would you even get by without me?

The calendar is splayed open, filled with Tommy’s neat handwriting. Meetings, important dates… He’s got all the holidays written in there. And Charlie’s birthday. Alfie’s. Their anniversary. Alfie was the first one to mark that in a calendar, several years ago, by drawing a large circle that cut off Tommy’s carefully written letters. For fucks sake, Alfie! I would’ve remembered anyway. Just look at this? It’s covering half the page!

The next anniversary, Tommy circled the date himself. Alfie teased him and earned himself a glare that didn’t fade until he pulled Tommy down onto his lap and mercilessly tickled him and-

And how-

How is he supposed to live without him?

The hole in his chest where that odd numbness has settled is suddenly filled raw pulsating heat, bursting up from it. Blind and pitch black rage. His hands grasp for something to throw, closing around one of the picture frames.

Can’t bear to look at it. Any of it.

Because Tommy isn’t here. He’s lying in a hospital bed, slowly withering away before his eyes-

And Alfie promised-

The table lamp, a ledger- anything that he can get his hands on ends up thrown across the room.

How the fuck could Tommy ask that of him?

How could he leave him with all of this?

With no fucking way out.

And how is he supposed to live without him?

Finally, there’s nothing left. Nothing that’s whole or worth breaking; but the anger is still fucking burning in his chest and it’s ripping a hole through his fucking ribcage and he can’t- can’t do this-

He buries his face in his hands and screams.

Digs his nails into his scalp, clutches at his skull and just fucking screams and screams until his throat his raw. Then, the tears finally come. The scream dissolves into wordless sobs and he slides down onto the floor, back leaned against the bookcase.

And he cries.

…

There are voices in the distance. Talking to each other, seemingly. Too low to be addressing him. Alfie wishes they’d just shut the fuck up and take their conversation elsewhere…

He only catches little bits and pieces.

“-don’t know, I found the car when I got here this morning…” That’s May. What the fuck is she doing in his and Tommy’s bedroom? “-didn’t know who to call-“

But this isn’t their bedroom- didn’t make it home last night-

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

Besides, he’s sitting on a fucking hardwood floor. Over which steps are now approaching.

“Morning, mate! Figured you’d do some redecorating?” Arthur. Fucking brilliant. “Looks like shit. You should probably let Tommy take care of it from here on.” A pair of knees knock against his as Arthur crouches down. Alfie kicks out one leg aimlessly, but misses of course.

“Sod off.”

“Sure, but you’re coming along.”

When Arthur grabs his arm, Alfie feels forced to open his eyes. The light streaming in through the window pricks them like needles and he promptly squeezes his eyelids shut again. He presses his back against the bookcase, the firm surface grounding him somewhat as a shelf digs painfully into his shoulder blades.

“Here. Know you’re not much of a drinker, but this feels like the right time for an exception.” Arthur very rudely bumps something cold and metallic against his forehead and Alife opens his eyes again to glare at the flask. “Go on.”

“Just fuck off Arthur,” he grunts and considers shoving him. But what would the fucking point be? He lets his arms fall limply at his sides instead.

The destruction in the office looks worse in daylight. Broken glass, ripped papers, furniture that’s been tipped over-

“Alright, here’s the deal,” Arthur sighs, still holding the flask obnoxiously close to his face. “Either you take a swig of this, get up on your feet and come with me. Or, I’ll bash you over the head with something and fucking drag you out to the car.”

For some reason, Alfie gets the feeling this isn’t an empty threat.

The whiskey burns as it slides down his throat, rousing him slightly, and when Arthur hooks a hand under his arm and pulls, Alfie staggers to his feet.

He numbly follows as Arthur takes the lead out of the office building, walking briskly towards Alfie’s car. The stable yard is full of the usual activity, and it feels so fucking odd, being in the midst of it suddenly. Alfie tries to focus on just putting one foot in front of the other

“How the fuck did you get here?” he mutters and looks around in search of Arthur’s car.

“I walked. You do realise I live half an hour away? And it’s a nice morning. Figured that if you’d been sitting in that office all night, a few minutes longer wouldn’t hurt you. Even though May was in a bit of a state when she called.”

Not completely aware of his surroundings, Alfie almost walks straight into the lanky figure crossing the yard. Suddenly, he’s stood staring into a pair of wide eyes.

The reaction is abrupt and instinctive, like a jolt of electricity running through his veins. His hands move on their own accord, grabbing Jasper by the collar and nearly lifting him off his feet by it.

“What the fuck are you still doing here?”

They boy just stares at him, eyes impossibly large as he grasps at Alfie’s wrists with bony fingers.

“Alfie, fucking leave it,” Arthur calls out, already approaching him over the gravel. But he stops when Alfie directs a look at him.

Jasper swallows, wetting his lips. “I- I’m sorry about what happened.”

Letting out a cackle that sounds manic even to his own ears, Alfie clenches his hands until his knuckles whiten and he can feel his pulse thumping under the skin of his palms.

“You’re sorry, yeah?” he grits out. “Fucking sorry. Good. That’s good. See, we should of course be sorry, right? When we fuck up so badly that we get someone’s skull cracked open.” Jasper winces a little when some spittle lands on his cheek. “Being sorry is the appropriate reaction, innit? Yeah, the man I’ve shared my fucking life with for ten years is lying in a hospital bed, staring into some endless void. As if his head’s just full of blood and broken fucking shards.” He takes a shaky breath in through his nose. “But you’re sorry. So it’s all fine-“

The boy is completely frozen in fear. Reminds him so much of that day –petrified, unable to even listen to a simple command.

Let go of the fucking reins.

“Alfie, let him go.” May’s voice comes from his side, where she’s silently appeared. “It was an accident.”

Alfie bores his eyes into Jasper who stares back, eyes still wide and full of fear.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffs.

He’s just a fucking kid… Can’t be older than… seventeen.

Yeah, but Charlie… Charlie is a kid. And maybe Tommy won’t be around to see even his fifth birthday.

May comes a bit closer. He can see her out of the corner of his eye, slowly reaching out.

Alfie lets him go abruptly and Jasper staggers backwards, panting. He stares at the ground, at the sack he’s dropped there. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “I know it’s not- that it’s not enough, but- but I’m sorry.”

“Jasper, go and give Aristides his food,” May tells him firmly, and he’s quick to hoist up the sack with shaking arms and hurry off across the yard.

Alfie is left with a racing pulse throbbing against his temple and hands clenched into fists, watching his retreating back.

“He lives alone with his sick mother and four younger siblings,” May says. “Work isn’t easy to come by out here.” She pauses, as if expecting a response. Alfie doesn’t give her one. “It was a mistake. And yes, it was a bad one. But that’s all it was. A mistake.”

A mistake. Yeah. Sure. But there are mistakes you’re not allowed to make.

Alfie turns to face her, and she squares her jaw as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“If Tommy never… wakes up,” he begin slowly. “Fucking, actually wakes up... If he can never talk again. If he doesn’t remember me. Doesn’t remember Charlie. And has to spend the rest of his life in a fucking hospital bed-” His eyes slip to the stable, but Jasper has disappeared from view. “Then I don’t think he can keep working here.” May’s gaze is unwavering as he meets it. “Because I might end up shooting him.”

Nodding, May lets her arms fall to her sides.

Alfie turns and marches towards the car, Arthur coming to walk alongside him and sliding into the driver’s seat before he can protest. Climbing into the passenger seat, Alfie demonstratively turns to look out the window.

The entire ride is spent in silence.

It’s not until Arthur stops outside his and Tommy’s house that he speaks up.

“You need to stay at home for a few days,” he states, as if he’s got any kind of authority to be giving orders. “I’ll go to the hospital today. Talk to the others and make sure they visit too. He won’t be alone. But you need to fucking rest.”

“Fuck off.”

Arthur shakes his head slowly, giving him a tired look.

“Take a fucking look at yourself, mate,” he sighs. “You’ll end up killing someone. Yourself, probably. I know it’s fucking hard alright-“

“Don’t give me that shit,” Alfie scoffs. “The fuck do you know? It’s not Linda lying in that bed is it?”

Slamming his hands against the steering wheel, Arthur stares at him, eyes suddenly wide as he draws a sharp breath.

“No. But it’s my fucking brother. You’re not the only one- the only one who’s fucking worried.”

For a moment, Alfie wonders if Arthur will punch him.

For a moment, he wants him to.

But then Arthur’s shoulders sag and he slumps against the back of the seat. His voice has lost all its strength when he speaks again.

“He’s- he’s my little brother, isn’t he?” He rubs a hand over his mouth. “You know, I still think of him like that. Always liked that, I did, being a big brother. Remember how proud I felt when our mum showed him to me for the first time. He was this tiny, tiny little thing.” Letting out a shaky laugh, he holds up his hands to illustrate. “Could’ve fit in a shoebox. And I felt so fucking proud, being an older brother. Sure, spent a lot of time fucking it up. But... yeah, I still think it’s one of my finer qualities.”

Alfie’s about to say that he’s definitely improved in this area over the years, but Arthur hasn’t finished.

“I know it’s not the same,” he continues. “Fuck, of course I do. Because what you have- yeah, I get it. Not the same.” Arthur’s eyes have gone suspiciously dewy. “He’s going to snap out of this. And then he’s going to need you.” He stares out the car window at a tree branch, as if that branch is the most interesting thing in the entire fucking world. “Tommy’s never needed anyone the way he needs you. So you can’t run yourself into the ground. Alright?”

A bird has landed on the branch, giving Arthur even more of a reason to stare at it. Alfie in turn looks down at his hands, twisting the ring on his left ring finger a few times.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright. No need to get all emotional.”

That earns him a sharp elbow in the side. Arthur straightens up in his seat again with renewed energy.

“Brilliant. So, now you’re going into that house. To your son and your stupid fucking giant dog and you’re staying there for a few days,” he says, nodding towards the house. “Maybe go for a walk. And Friday, you’re coming to dinner again. Alright? Or I’ll grab John and Finn and we’ll fucking barge in and drag you there.”

“Finn? Really?” Alfie snorts, trying to imagine Finn doing anything even remotely violent “That’s your threat?”

“Fine. I’ll ask Esme.”

“Sod off.”

Arthur climbs out of the car and Alfie does the same, fighting back the urge to just fall asleep in the passenger seat. Giving his back a firm pat, Arthur shakes his head, blinking a suspicious amount of times as he stares at that branch again. The bird is gone. The hand lingers on Alfie’s shoulder.

“Just so we’re clear, my statement still stands. Said it all those years ago and I’ll say it again, I don’t fucking like you.”

“I don’t fucking like you either, mate.” Alfie stares at another branch in the opposite direction. It’s blurry, for some indiscernible fucking reason. He blinks to clear his eyes from the dust that must’ve gotten caught there. “In fact, I hope you fall into some fucking hole on your way home. Get eaten by a starved fox that John’s failed to shoot. Place must be crawling with those. Because he’s a lousy fucking shot, isn’t he?”

Arthur slaps his back again, quite hard.

“Ten fucking years I’ve put up with this. A fucking miracle if there ever was one,” he grunts, before beginning his walk down the gravel road. “See you Friday. I’ll even make sure it’s all kosher and shit,” he calls over his shoulder.

Alfie goes inside.

And the next day, he stays at home. Bakes bread for Charlie and takes him on a long walk with Cyril.

For three days he doesn’t go to the hospital.

But then Charlie asks about it as Alfie tucks him in one night: When they can go visit together.

“Soon, love.” Alfie smiles, but it’s starting to feel so strange… like he’s forgotten how to do it properly. Charlie frowns.

“You always say soon.”

Alfie thinks of that drawing. The small figure on the cloud…

Charlie deserves to see Tommy. No matter how heartbroken it’ll leave him.

“How about tomorrow, we start on a drawing. And then we draw a little each day.” He picks up Charlie’s tiny hand. “How many fingers have you got?”

“Five!”

“Yeah, that’s right. Five. And… let’s say in five days, we go and give the drawing to papa. How does that sound?”

Charlie is quite pleased with this answer, and immediately begins planning on what to draw. Something with horses, because papa likes those. Daddy should be in the picture too, and Charlie and Cyril of course-

When Alfie lies in bed later, he feels something hot and wet trail down his cheeks. The sadness is back in its usual spot in his chest, where that numb, hollow feeling has been residing.

He doesn’t bother wiping the tears away. There’s no fucking point-

No fucking point to anything anymore-

It feels like he’s missing- fuck, like half his body is missing. Not just a missing limb, but a missing lung and heart and brain and he can’t think without Tommy. For ten years he’s been able to share everything with him. Every little stupid idea and thought that passes by in his head…

He feels so alone that he can’t fucking bear it.

Large paws come padding across the hardwood floor, and the mattress shifts under Cyril’s weight as the dog settles on the bed. Not at the foot of it, where he usually curls up, but on Tommy’s side.

“Yeah, you just lie there at your own risk, alright,” Alfie sniffs. Cyril raises his head and licks him in the face. Straight across. And somehow, he laughs a bit through the tears. “Tommy will be fucking pissed at you for getting hair all over the sheets. And I’ll be the one hearing it, won’t I?”

Cyril just pants and slobbers a bit more on his face, before settling heavily right next to him with a pleased sigh.

Alfie reaches out to scratch him behind the ears. And he decides that tomorrow… Tomorrow he’ll go to the hospital again. He’ll go, and he’ll bring one of Tommy’s favourite books and he’ll read to him.

...

He informs Edith of this decision as he passes her in the kitchen the following morning.

“Alright.” She looks up from the kettle, eyes narrowing, and her voice has a definite edge to it when she adds, “But you’re coming home tonight.”

What does it say about him, that he chooses to surround himself with people like this?

“Yeah. I’m coming home tonight.”

Giving a curt nod, Edith goes back to making tea.

Tommy is asleep when he comes into the room. It makes it a little easier. He looks a bit healthier that way. A bit more peaceful.

When Alfie reaches out and takes his hand, his eyelids twitch. The quick reaction should incite some hope, but it’s- fuck, he’s so tired.

“Hey there, love. Sorry about the cold hands. Really shitty weather out today,” he mutters and tries to smile. “And sorry I haven’t been here, either. For a few days. But I’m here now, alright? Brought a book and everything.”

Tommy blinks and turns his eyes towards Alfie. A tiny crease appears between his eyebrows and he blinks a few more times.

And suddenly he’s not looking through him anymore, but at him. Alfie’s heart makes a leap in his chest, high enough to catch at the back of his throat and cut his breathing off completely. And the hand shifts the tiniest bit, the fingers squeezing weakly around his.

“Tommy, love, can you hear me? You there?”

Tommy smiles, the grip tightening the slightest bit. The smile is not much more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but there’s a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Life stirring under the blue surface. Alfie lets out a long exhale.

Breathe, for fucks sake, he needs to breathe-

“And you- you know where you are? You remember-“ Then he can’t get any more words out, because he’s all out of air and his throat is too tight.

Tommy lets out a weak hum, squeezing his hand a little harder, the thumb rubbing a tiny circle on the back of his hand.

Alfie presses his lips against the knuckles. Holds the palm of Tommy’s hand against his cheek to feel the soft skin. The warmth. Feel that Tommy alive. That he’s here, finally here…

There really shouldn’t be any fucking tears left at this point, but when Tommy smiles at him again, they well his eyes nevertheless. This time, Tommy’s thumb is there to gently wipe them away as they trail down his cheek.

And just like that, Alfie remembers how a real smile is supposed to feel.

…

Charlie is absolutely ecstatic when Alfie tells him they’re going to the hospital. He tries to prepare him first; tells him about the metal, that Tommy looks a little different right now because he hasn’t eaten in a long while, worried that Charlie will start crying at the mere sight. Charlie seems unconcerned with all of that, practically jumping next to him as they walk through the corridor, his drawing clutched in his hand together with a bunch of forget-me-nots. They had to roam half the county to find those, in the early spring weather, but Charlie’s smile when they found them made it well worth the trouble.

“And we’ve got to be real quiet, like when you play hide and seek,” Alfie tells him. “Whisper, you know?”

Charlie nods solemnly and clutches his drawing a little tighter to his chest when Alfie opens the door to Tommy’s room. It’s a relief to see that Tommy is not only awake, but turns his eyes towards the doorway the moment they come inside.

“Look who’s here to see you,” Alfie says quietly and gently ushers Charlie into the room.

When his eyes settle on Charlie, a sad shadow crosses Tommy’s face and Alfie’s heart twists with worry.

But the moment Charlie sees Tommy, his entire face lights up.

“Papa!” He beams and reaches for him, completely unconcerned with how pale and gaunt his father’s face looks. Doesn’t even seem to notice the metal cage.

The sadness fades. Tommy smiles, a little wider than last time, and something bright and happy glints in his eyes. God, Alfie could just start fucking bawling again…

He carefully sits Charlie down at the edge of the bed, making sure he stays far away from Tommy’s head. Charlie places the drawing on Tommy’s stomach and holds out the flowers.

“I picked these for you,” he says quietly, glancing at Alfie in need of reassurance. Alfie nods encouragingly. Charlie looks back to Tommy. “Do you like them?”

Tommy’s hand twitches a little, and Alfie picks it up and places it in Charlie’s lap, so he can squeeze his knee gently. Charlie seems to take the accompanying blink as a ‘yes’ because he grins toothily. Then he shows him the drawing, pointing at and explaining the different things depicted. It’s the three of them out in a meadow with Cyril and an arguably excessive amount of horses.

A nurse brings a small vase to put the flowers in, and they get a prime position in front of all the others. There’s a whole collection. A bouquet from Polly, one from Finn and Isaiah –just like Finn, to be the only one out of the Shelby brothers with the sense to buy flowers. But apparently both Linda and Esme have taken the reins and bought some as well.

Alfie’s got a distinct feeling Tommy will disapprove of all the plant life once he’s able to properly turn his head. Not Charlie’s flowers of course. But all the others. Not like I could see them anyway? He honestly can’t wait to hear it.

They stay until late in the afternoon, when a nurse comes in and warily tells them Tommy needs to rest now. It’s not good for his head, too many impressions in one day. Her eyes dart around the room, looking at anything but Alfie. And Alfie has perhaps not been the most… pleasant of people to be around, so admittedly it’s not entirely unwarranted.

Tommy can’t quite quirk his eyebrow, but the look he gives Alfie is very much one of those ‘do as you’re told’ looks. So Alfie presses a kiss against the back of his hand, Charlie gives him a hug, and for the first time his heart feels light when he leaves the hospital.

When he’s gathering up Charlie’s crayons from the living room floor later that night, he finds another drawing. It’s a bed, surrounded by colourful splotches. There’s a figure in the bed, with bright blue eyes. Next to it is that bearded figured he’s learned to recognize as himself, and then a small one on the bed.

They’re all smiling in this one.

…

One afternoon when Alfie comes into the room with Charlie in his arms and yet another drawing in his hand, Tommy is sitting up in the bed. Leaned against several pillows, but still. All the metal is gone, and Alfie might be imagining it, but he thinks some colour has even returned to his cheeks.

“Papa!” Charlie squeals and splays his arms in an enthusiastic gesture. The tone causes Tommy to wince, but he quickly straightens his features into a smile. Alfie gently hushes Charlie, who presses a finger against his lips and whispers an almost inaudible ‘sorry’.

Then, Tommy lifts his hand a little, reaching out for him. “Charlie.”

The shock of hearing his voice has Alfie stopping in his tracks, unable to break out of his stupor until Charlie tugs a little at his beard. “Hug?”

Alfie settles Charlie right next to him on the bed and very carefully, Charlie wraps his arms around Tommy’s chest. It takes a moment before Tommy gets his arms to cooperate, but then he manages to hug him back. Charlie curls up on his lap, burying his face against his chest with a pleased little sigh.

Alfie watches the scene with eyes that have suddenly gone blurry and what he suspects is a quite soppy grin on his face.

When Tommy looks at him and smiles, he has to rub his eyes to clear them. Fuck, this is an absolutely exhausting experience. He’s squeezed in a lifetime’s worth of tears in a few fucking days…

“Don’t be sad,” Charlie says, eyes growing large with concern.

“Oh, I’m not sad, love. Not at all.” Alfie comes to stand next to the bed, reaching out to gently stroke Tommy’s hair. Tommy leans into the touch. “I’m just really happy.”

“I’m also happy,” Charlie declares. “I’m happy all the time now.”

Then, he wants to show Tommy his latest drawing. This one is full of mostly flowers, and trees with bright green leaves. Since Tommy can’t see them for himself, he explains wisely. He points to each and every thing in the drawing. Tommy hums and nods. He still slips away a little every now and then, unable to focus for too long. But he always comes back.

Once he’s finished showing the artwork, Charlie buries his face in the white hospital gown and promptly falls asleep on Tommy’s lap.

Tommy gently runs his thumb over his back.

“Probably knackered, poor thing,” Alfie explains. “He was so excited to see you that I could barely put him to sleep last night. Worse than before his birthday even.”

The twinkle in Tommy’s eyes makes his heart swell.

Tommy pats the spot next to him on the bed, and Alfie is happy to oblige, seating himself right next to him on the mattress and leaning back against the pillows with a sigh. He allows himself to close his eyes for just a moment, listening to Tommy breathing. Takes his hand and runs his thumb over the knuckles.

“Alfie-“

The sound of his own name has never been more beautiful. He hums and opens one eye. Tommy has furrowed his brow in concentration

“When…” Tommy pauses. Tries again. But the words won’t come out and he can see the frustration in his eyes. “Wh- en-“

“It’s okay, love. Take your time,” Alfie whispers against his temple, pressing a soft kiss there. “It’ll get easier.”

Tommy sinks back a little against the pillows, shoulders sagging and eyes slipping closed for a moment as he tries to gather himself. Then he looks up at Alfie again.

“Home.”

“Yeah, you’ll get to come home soon, sweetheart,” Alfie promises. “Bet our bed’s just as good as this one. Better, probably. I’ll have a word with the doctor. See if there’re any strings I can pull.”

Tommy shifts slightly, very carefully leaning his head against Alfie’s shoulder. Just as carefully, Alfie stretches an arm behind his neck, pulling him close.

“Now, this is how it’s supposed to be, innit?” he mutters into his hair. “Yeah, not the cracked skull perhaps. But the rest of it. You, me and a surprisingly uncomfortable bed. How you’ve managed to stay asleep for so long in this is a fucking-“

A confused wrinkle has appeared between Tommy’s eyebrows and Alfie cuts the little ramble short. “Sorry, love, not important. I’m just talking shit, as usual.”

Tommy’s forehead smooths out a little, but he still doesn’t seem to have caught up completely. Too fast. Too many words at once. Alfie needs to keep that in mind.

Luckily, there are plenty of activities that don’t require words.

So for now, he just leans down and kisses him.

And Tommy kisses him back.

#alfie x tommy #Alfie/Tommy #Tommy Shelby #Alfie Solomons #charlie shelby-solomons #cyril the dog #the whole shelby family #to live a life #wtma au

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whentommymetalfie · 6 years

Text

Shattered and hollow

A:N/ Sometimes, you’ve got to go where the muses take you. So... ANGST. This is set before Alfie and Tommy meet, and then in the first month or so after Kiss with a fist. (check my masterlist if I’m confusing!) Also, touch-starved!Tommy is literally a subject I could write like... a master thesis on. (don’t call me out on that) Point is, I’m obsessed. tumblr has decided to put in a giant blank space in the text, there’s actually nothing missing, it’s just... there. So bear with me, I’ll fix it as soon as I’m by a computer again! I think it’s gone... this website will be the death of me

Summary: Tommy suffers a particularly bad period of insomnia, and ends up in a downward spiral of opium, whiskey and too many hours alone with his thoughts. His thoughts aren’t very kind at night.

Then he meets Alfie, who further complicates matters.

Pairing: Alfie/Tommy

Warnings: Insomnia, drug-use, anxiety, ptsd, implied past child abuse, a fair bit of self loathing,

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13962621

Sometimes, during the darkest hours of the night, Tommy wishes that he could be anywhere but in his own body. And his own head.

When he lies awake, staring at the wall and listening to the shovels. And his chest feels both completely empty and somehow tight at the same time- then he wishes that he could just crawl out of his own skin and be someone else. Or take a knife and carve out the parts of his brain that aren’t working, until he’s left with the rational, logical ones.

The ones that are of any use.

It’s another one of those nights when sleep eludes him completely. One of those nights when the opium just makes his thoughts spin faster in his head, and not even the whiskey can take the edge off. So, he pulls on his coat and goes for a walk, body feeling oddly light. Distant. As if his mind is just soaring somewhere above his shoulders, separate from them.

It feels like that a lot of the time, these days. As if his body is just some vessel that carries his mind around. His mind has always been his greatest asset when it comes to business, so that’s what he relies on. That’s why he forgets to eat. Maybe.

The night isn’t particularly cold. But his hands feel absolutely freezing.

Tommy’s hands are cold a lot of the time. Something about the circulation is off, that’s the whole thing. But it feels like a sign, like his body is telling him that he’s not supposed to touch other people. Cold hands do for pulling the trigger of a gun, and go well with bloodied knuckles, but not much else.

He tells himself he doesn’t need it. Anything else.

Since when does he spend time on useless thoughts like this?

The opium makes his thoughts fractured, hard to control. He shouldn’t be walking around, not when he’s like this. High. Drunk. Mind cracked from too many nights without sleep. But he does it, still.

How many has it been? Three? Four?

He goes to check on the horse. Been quite some time since he was in the stables.

The eyes on the white stallion meet his, unwavering, warm. It hits him that hardly anyone looks at him that way anymore. Without averting their eyes.

See, you’ve got cold eyes, boy. Soulless. Bet you not even the devil could look into the for too long. His dad used to talk about his eyes when the whiskey had gone to his head. Stop fucking staring at me that way. Makes want to cut them out.

You should never teach a person too much about themselves.

If he’s got cold eyes, fine, he can use that to his advantage.

But it’s hard to look at someone any other way, these days.

It’s the opium that does it, stirs up all these strange thoughts. Self-pity is not something he indulges in. It’s just a side effect.

He opens the stall and the horse comes up to greet him. His hand instinctually reaches out to stroke its neck, and when he feels the warmth under his palm, it’s like a wave rushes through his entire body.

When was the last time he touched another person like this?

He searches his memory, but nothing resurfaces.

His head is not working properly.

Without thinking, he wraps an arm around the horse’s neck and buries his face against the mane. And it’s warm and alive and doesn’t tense up in expectation of a violent outburst- Tommy breathes in the familiar scent and presses the hand against the soft coat.

It only lasts for a moment, before his mind catches up to him and he backs away, looking around and expecting someone to be there and witness the display of weakness.

No one is there, of course.

Just him.

But it’s bad enough, isn’t it?

He catches some sleep the next night, and it should be enough to get his head in working order again. It is, really. He runs the business with the normal sense of logic and determination, and when John asks how he’s doing, he responds without looking up from the paperwork. Something dismissive, that he can’t recall exactly. John puts a hand on his shoulder, and he shrugs it off.

It's there, even during the day, when his head is clear and the opium smoke is far away. This numbness. It feels more and more like he’s just living completely inside his own head, and his body is this separate entity that he just drags around.

And he’s radiating this… cold. Not really someone you want to reach out for. So people eventually stop.

Even Finn becomes hesitant with his normally so frequent hugs.

And he doesn’t know what to do about it.

“Talk to me, Tommy,” Polly says when she catches him late one night in the kitchen, on his way out. “There’s something wrong, I can tell.”

“Everything is fine,” Tommy says flatly and brushes past her. One of her hands wraps itself around his arm. He fights the urge to recoil at the touch.

“If it’s something with the business, I deserve to know.”

Right. The business.

“It’s nothing, Pol. Nothing you don’t already know about.” He pins her with his eyes. “Full disclosure. Didn’t we agree on that?”

She doesn’t let go.

“Well, then it’s you,” she says, voice uncharacteristically soft, and rubs her palm along his arm. “Has something happened?” Tommy shifts away from the hand.

“It’s getting worse,” Polly states then with her uncanny frankness, dropping the arm to her side.

“What?”

“Whatever is going on with your head,” she says. “I can hear you get out of bed in the middle of the night. Not come back until dawn. And you’re distant. Like you’re never actually here. More every day.”

“Just some trouble sleeping, that’s all,” Tommy keeps his tone void of emotion. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Not sleeping is something to worry about. It does things to the mind. Things you have no control over. Makes you reckless.” Pol looks him in the eye. She is one of the few people he can’t stare down. There is genuine concern there –Pol has warm eyes. “You’ll end up hurting someone. Yourself, if I know you right.”

For just a moment, he wants to tell her.

This impulse makes him walk past her and out the door.

One time, on one of those nightly walks, he feels so disconnected from his own body that he thinks his nerves must’ve stopped functioning properly. That the little threads running through him has broken, and that’s why he can’t feel.

It's like he is floating.

He draws in warm smoke into his lungs, and it helps a bit.

He smokes until he runs out of cigarettes, and the surreal sensation of being completely numb grows. Until he’s drowning in it- he ends up at the end of some dark alley, without even remembering how he got there, hands resting on the rough bricks as he tries to just breathe. Tries to get some air past the rope that is wrapped so tightly around his chest.

He’s teetering on the edge of some abyss of complete and utter insanity, that’s what it feels like right at that moment.

Maybe if he could carve out all the parts of himself that he-

He bites his knuckles –a nervous habit he hasn’t fallen into in years. But the pain at least makes his hands feel real again.

Somehow, he finds his way back home and collapses in bed, falling into an unconscious darkness.

When a bleak sun shines light through his window only a few hours later, he sees the wounds and is overwhelmed by disgust. He has to stop using –he can’t afford to lose control like this.

Approaching the Jewish gang in London is quite possibly one of those reckless things Polly talked about. And it very nearly does get him killed, due to his little encounter with Sabini’s men. It’s only luck that Arthur and John show up at the right moment.

But then again, it also leads him to Alfie Solomons. Who crashes into his life and turns everything on its head. In more ways than one.

And for a moment, it pulls him away from the edge.

Tommy wouldn’t have pinned Alfie as particularly gentle, or affectionate. Though it really shouldn’t shock him that Alfie proves him wrong, because if there’s one thing he is –its full of surprises. Turns out, he can be both.

Tommy especially thinks of it the first time they share a bed. Which takes much longer than he thought it would, for reasons he doesn’t care to look into. There are a lot of heated kisses, in Alfie’s office, in dark alleys, or the snug at the Garrison after closing hours. But it doesn’t go further than that; as if they’ve suddenly turned into nervous boys… Tommy doesn’t think too hard about it. Tries to, at least.

For the most part, he’s just so lost in the feeling of finally being touched by someone. Who wants to touch him, who doesn’t feel obliged to. But the high only lasts for those short, fleeting moments. And soon, he’s back in his own bed, staring into the ceiling and overwhelmed by that feeling of existing just outside of his own body.

Eventually, they do end up in bed together. Alfie’s own bed, in London. And it’s… Tommy won’t lie, it’s something else, as cliché as it sounds. It’s good. It’s really, really good.

There’s a bit of fumbling, granted. Because it all feels so new, somehow. And despite Alfie taking the time to open him up with his fingers, Tommy is wound far too tightly at first, and it’s painful when Alfie pushes into him. Not all the way, but it's enough. He squeezes his eyes shut and braces himself, knowing it’ll feel good in a while –just have to get through this first bit. But Alfie just pulls out and kisses his cheek.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart. Got a bit eager-“ he smiles down at Tommy and winks. “Bit more work to do, eh? Don’t worry, I’ll make it good for you.” And instead of telling Alfie that it’s fine, and he should just get on with it, Tommy lets out a laugh. He’s happy right then. To be there with Alfie.

When Alfie finally fills him up him completely, it doesn’t hurt at all. And he tells him all kinds of things –that Tommy is beautiful, how good it feels to fuck him… And he wants to know how it feels for him: good? Should he go harder? Slower?

He looks at Tommy as if he’s this precious thing.

Tommy is just there, in the moment.

Afterwards, Alfie wraps his arms around him and pulls him close, until his head is resting on his chest.

Tommy feels that familiar urge to run beginning to claw at him. They’ve fucked, it’s over and done with. Surely Alfie Solomons isn’t the type who cuddles.

And he feels pathetic, for wanting this.

Alfie is just doing what is expected of him, following a sort of unwritten rule.

It’s their first time, so there must be a lot of preconceived ideas about the whole thing.

Tommy doesn’t need his sufferance, and is tempted to dislodge himself and reach for a cigarette. But even though his mind is racing, his body feels heavy in Alfie’s arms. Like it wants to stay there. Like it’s longed just to be close to someone.

So he stays. For a little while. The bedroom comes with a different set of rules, always has. So maybe he can play along.

God, since when did he become so fucking pitiful?

He’s stopped using the opium. This is just something lingering. That’s all this is.

After kissing the top of his head and squeezing him a bit tighter, Alfie falls asleep.

Tommy doesn’t.

It feels like he’s got a weight on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He thinks it must be caused by how he’s pressed against Alfie’s body.

Careful not to wake him, he pulls out from the embrace and lies down at the edge of the mattress.

It doesn’t help.

Eventually, Tommy gives up on the idea of sleeping and goes down to sit on Alfie’s couch instead.

After that first time, this becomes his new drug. He finds himself going to London far more often than what is reasonable, and they find a shoddy hotel in Birmingham where -for the right price- no-one asks questions.

Tommy throws himself into the whole thing with reckless abandon, and Alfie seems both enthralled and a bit surprised.

Alfie always dutifully wraps him up in that sure embrace afterwards.

Tommy spends the majority of the night curled up on the opposite side of the mattress. Or down in Alfie’s living room. Fucking is one thing. The rest is something else, and he doesn’t need that.

It’s the fifth, or maybe sixth time they share a bed. Not like he’s keeping count or anything.

Tommy is on his back, and Alfie holds onto the headboard of the bed for leverage as he fucks him.

It’s better than the opium.

Alfie rolls off him with a satisfied sigh, stretching his limbs and looking very pleased with both himself and the overall situation. Tommy expects him to pull him close, the way he usually does. He’s even decided that perhaps he could… stay like that for a bit longer tonight. Maybe it’s because the weather has been getting colder, and he along with it, and he just desperately wants for something to warm him up, if only for a moment…

Only Alfie doesn’t. Instead he puts his hands behind his head and stares thoughtfully up at the ceiling.

Tommy reaches for his jacket on the floor and fishes out the cigarette case, ignoring that it suddenly feels like his insides have tied themselves into a knot.

“Yeah, figures you weren’t the cuddly type,” Alfie says, tone light and with a hint of a smile visible through the beard.

Unable to respond to this, Tommy just lights a cigarette.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” Alfie goes on. “That you always end up on the opposite side of the bed. Looks like you’re about to fall off, the way you curl up at the edge. So I recon you’re not really into the whole ‘laying in my arms and gazing longingly at my face-thing.”

“But you are?” Tommy draws the smoke far into his lungs and wants to store the warmth there.

“’Course I am!” Alfie looks almost offended. “Best fucking part of the whole thing. Well, maybe that’s taking it a bit far. Because you really are just… something else in bed, darling.” He chuckles and shakes his head slowly. “I mean, fucking you is like a… religious bloody experience, right. So it’s not really comparable to anything.” His fingers trail lightly over Tommy’s collarbone. “But… you know, it’s at least as fucking good. Just in a different way.” He pauses. “Though, not if you don’t like it. Then it’s pointless, innit? Should be a mutual thing.”

“Who knew you were so considerate,” Tommy quirks an eyebrow.

“Don’t say shit like that,” Alfie furrows his brow. “Don’t like having insinuations made about me. Not when it comes to this. I'm a bad man, alright. But not in that way.”

Tommy shrugs.

“So, I take it you need your space, then?”

“Sure,” Tommy answers. Because what the fuck is he supposed to say? He’s fucking pathetic alright, but Alfie doesn’t need know that. He’s burnt this bridge now.

“Fine. Maybe you’ll change your mind. Bit further down the line.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath.” Tommy puts the cigarette out and rolls onto his side, back turned against him. Alfie just chuckles quietly and turns the light off.

A while later, his soft snores fill the room. Tommy lies awake.

Maybe he should put an end to this whole thing. Before Alfie discovers what he’s gotten himself into and ends it for him.

Why should he put up with it?

Tommy wouldn’t put up with himself if he wasn’t forced to.

They meet up again the following week. Same shoddy hotel, same creaking bed. Alfie tells Tommy to ride him, lifts him up onto his lap and holds him close.

Tommy wants it to last, because like this, nothing is complicated. He can cling to Alfie, bury his face against his neck, let himself be held without thinking of the consequences. Alfie’s warmth thaws him from the inside out, and all those broken nerve endings seem to mend themselves.

Of course it does end, eventually, and once he’s back in his own head again, Tommy untangles himself from Alfie’s grip and reaches for his cigarettes.

Alfie talks about the different uses of nettles. There are a lot, apparently, and either he knows them all, or he’s making it up as he goes along. Tommy smokes and listens, feeling a smile twitch at his mouth. As long as Alfie is talking, he doesn’t really think about anything else.

Eventually, Alfie cuts off the long monologue with a yawn. He glances at Tommy and offers an arm in an inviting gesture.

“Still not feeling the least bit cuddly, sweetheart?”

It’s too late to change anything now, isn’t it? Would feel like admitting weakness. He can’t afford himself to be weak. He thinks of those first times, how it felt… And he wants-

“Not really,” he says and rolls over to his side.

Alfie just lets out that low chuckle.

“All sharp edges, ain’t ya´, Tommy?”

He doesn’t answer.

Alfie falls asleep within a few minutes.

Tommy's chest feels tight.

This will be one of those bad nights, he feels it more by each passing second. And there’s nothing here to take the edge off.

The unwelcomed thoughts start clawing at his brain, and he tries to focus on the sound of Alfie’s breathing.

He gives up.

Fuck this, there’s no point in lying here and feel the walls close in.

Tommy swings his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing a bit as he takes the first unsteady step over the rough floorboards. The urge to get out of the room is suddenly overwhelming, so his movements are a bit frantic as he pulls on his clothing, only bothering with the necessities, before grabbing his coat.

It’s cold outside.

He ends up at the stables in spite of himself, warming his hands against the mane of the horse. It’s happy to see him.

He stays longer than he should.

The door creaks as someone opens it, and in a rehearsed movement, Tommy pulls his gun and turns to face the newcomer, hands steady.

“Bloody hell, you point that towards everyone you sleep with?” Alfie’s voice comes from the shadows and he steps out in the dim light flooding the stable. “Then again, you don’t really sleep, do you, Tommy? Must be why you’re so fucking on edge all the time. Go on, put that away now. Going to spook that horse if you shoot me here. I mean look at it, it’s all twitchy.”

Tommy has already lowered the gun and put it back in its holster.

“What are you doing here, Alfie?” he asks and turns back to calm the frightened horse. It only takes a moment –he’s always been better with horses than people. At least when it comes to touching them.

“Really could ask you the same, mate.” Alfie is coming towards him. “I just followed you, didn’t I? Or, I followed my instinct is more like it. Figured you might be hiding out here.”

“Thought you were asleep.”

“Well you thought wrong, didn’t you?”

Alfie is standing right behind him now. “Was for a while, sure. Woke up and discovered you were gone. Thought that maybe you’d taken the whole thing a bit further, your whole… intense self-loathing thing. Just decided to sleep on the floor. Seemed like a thing you could do, right. Fuckin’ hell, if I could only take a look inside that brain of yours-”

Tommy is bracing himself for more questions that he can’t answer, when a warm hand comes to rest on the back of his neck. The touch makes him flinch involuntarily.

“Fuck, you’re absolutely freezing,” Alfie mutters. “Will catch your death, hanging out in damp old stables at night. Come here-“

A pair of strong hands grabs his shoulders and turns him around. And a moment later, he is enveloped in a tight embrace. Alfie opens his coat and brings it up around him, forming this warm cocoon, as he holds him close to his chest. Tommy is absolutely rigid in his arms.

“What are you doing?” he asks dumbly, hands twitching at his sides as he considers pushing him away. Alfie huffs.

“I know that head of yours ain’t always working right, but even you must know what a fucking hug is. Now relax, will you? You ain’t a rabbit caught in a bloody snare.”

His head is telling him that he needs to distance himself from this; this is too close. Alfie pities him. But it’s physically impossible not to give in. Every little bit of resistance melts away, and he completely falls into the strength of Alfie’s arms, burying his nose in the crook of his neck and wrapping his own arms tightly around his waist. It must be cold, but Alfie doesn’t even flinch. And the warmth seeps into his fractured nerves and softens his tense body.

“There we go,” Alfie whispers and rubs his back. “Figured you needed one of these. Just to warm you up, eh?”

Tommy wonders for a moment if Alfie can actually see straight through his head.

Alfie takes him back to the hotel, undresses him and wraps him in a just as tight embrace in bed. And Tommy knows its desperate and pathetic and- fuck he wishes he didn’t need this so badly. But he does. And he’s so fucking tired. So he huddles as close as he’s able to and hides his face against Alfie’s chest. Alfie begins to stroke his hair.

The tightness in his chest disappears, and he can finally draw breath all the way down his lungs.

“Should’ve seen this is what you need,” Alfie mutters into his hair.

Tommy pretends to be asleep. Alfie keeps holding him just as tight, and he lies there and waits for the grip to loosen, for him to drift off. It doesn’t happen. The arms remain firm around him, anchoring him in warmth. And he listens to Alfie’s heartbeat.

Until he actually does fall asleep.

Alfie’s hands are rarely far away after that. Tommy sometimes wishes he wasn’t so good at reading him, because it makes him feel oddly vulnerable. That whenever he gets too caught up in something, and he’s beginning to sink into the disconnected fog, Alfie is there to draw him out of it. Putting an arm around his shoulders, or a hand on the back of his neck. Just to ground him.

Granted there is quite a bit of groping as well –Tommy doesn’t mind in the least. Alfie wants to touch him, that's what matters.

Tommy is bad at doing the same, at first. It takes a while to remember what it’s like to touch someone without ulterior motives. And then it’s his hands… he doesn’t want Alfie to flinch because he’s got those icy fingers on some days. It’s late autumn, now, so that doesn’t exactly help the situation.

They’re in the snug at the Garrison, presumably conducting business. At the moment, that is actually what they’re doing. Tommy is helping Alfie with the bookkeeping, because the sooner they get that over with, the sooner they can do something more useful with their time.

Eyes still on the documents before him, Tommy reaches across the table for a paper and accidentally touches Alfie’s bare arm. He instinctually withdraws the hand, as if he’s burned himself.

“Fucking hell, mate, those are some cold fucking hands,” Alfie mutters, glancing up over the edge of his glasses. Without hesitation he takes Tommy’s hand into both of his and starts to gently rub the back of it with his thumbs.

Tommy is frozen in his seat. But Alfie seems unfazed. As if this is something completely natural.

“See, you’ve got to get the blood running, right?” He nods to himself. “That’s the whole thing. Bet you faint easily, too… ‘Cause the blood doesn’t reach your head quick enough.” Alfie goes back to reading something very intently, but keeps massaging his hand, moving up the wrist. Squeezes the fingers in his warm palms.

“I don’t faint easily,” Tommy says firmly, but is terrified of doing something that will make Alfie stop.

“So you’re telling me you never get dizzy if you stand up to quick?” Alfie chuckles to himself and turns his hand over, taking care of the palm next. Little by little, he feels how the heat creeps down his wrist and into his hand.

“No.” Yes, but only if he hasn’t slept in a few days.

“Well, I’ll keep an eye on you. Bound to happen, what with the not eating thing. But we’ll work on that. Till then, guess I’ll just stick around, yeah?” Alfie glances up at him and winks “Make sure to catch you if you swoon a little.”

“You fucking wish,” Tommy offers a raised eyebrow in a display of scepticism. “We need to talk about your obsession with carrying me.”

“You never let me,” Alfie retorts. “You and your silly ideas. Now give me that other hand.”

Tommy does.

He’s sitting in the kitchen one night, instead of wandering the streets aimlessly. And it’s got nothing to do with Alfie, and how he always asks about it the next time they meet. “Don’t like it that you’re out when you’re that way. All jittery and fucked in the head.” So he tries staying indoors.

Arthur comes home from the Garrison, halting his step as he passes in the hallway.

“Tommy!” He exclaims and shoots him a lopsided grin as he stumbles into the kitchen and slumps down next to him on the sofa. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yes. Must be such a surprise. In our own house,” Tommy says and empties his glass.

“Well, you’re always rushing about these days,” Arthur reaches for the whiskey, as if he’s not drunk enough already. “Was bloody worried ‘bout you for awhile, you know. Seemed to be spinning completely out of control- your eyes were all hollowed out-“

Arthur noticed.

“But it’s better now. I can tell,” Arthur smiles that way he does when he gets sentimental. “Don’t know what it is, but you’re a bit softer ‘round the edges.”

Tommy wishes Arthur wouldn’t remind him of that.

Then Arthur wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him against his side.

“Yeah, whatever it is that’s doin’ it… just stick to it aight?” He reaches up and tousles his hair roughly. And Tommy doesn’t bat his hand away. “See, I’m gonna look out for you better now, Tom,” Arthur’s voice is thick with emotion. He probably won’t remember the whole thing tomorrow. “Better than when we were kids-“ his fingers brush lightly against the small scar on Tommy’s left cheek. This, Tommy shifts away from. But Arthur is too far gone to take any notice. His eyes linger on the mark. “Better than with our-”

“I’m not a child, you don’t have to fucking-“ Tommy starts to protest, but then bites his tongue and softens his tone a bit. “You’ve always done your best, Arthur. That’s enough.” No point in making him upset about this.

Arthur rests his elbows on his knees and nods slowly to himself, staring at some undetermined spot on the floor with glazed eyes.

The floorboards creek as Polly comes into the kitchen with that knowing look on her face, and a faint smile curling her lip.

“Oh sorry, are we waking Finn up?” Arthur wonders, quite a bit too loud in relation to the subject of the question.

“It’s fine, he’s used to this racket by now,” Polly says and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Well I’m off to bed,” Arthur states and gives Tommy’s hair another affectionate tug. “Don’t stay up too long, Tommy-boy. Not good for that head of yours.”

He leaves the room on unsteady feet, and Tommy just hopes he won’t fall walking up the stairs.

A sense of calm settles in the kitchen, and Tommy finds himself staying right where he is.

“I actually came down here to make tea,” Polly says and goes about it. “This house is bloody freezing.”

He should leave, before she starts asking things.

But Polly just sets the teapot and two cups down on the table, before seating herself and opening her book.

She doesn’t ask any questions. Just sits there with him.

Tommy doesn’t tell her anything. But he doesn’t leave, either

#alfie/tommy #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #wtma au #season01au #hurt/comfort #touch-starved #tw: anxiety #tw: ptsd #tw: insomnia #tw: drug use #tw: disordered eating #tw: child abuse

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