Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alfie is late.

     Tommy had stressed the outright importance of being on fucking time many times, including in a phone call this morning at around midnight, where Tommy couldn’t sleep, and Alfie should have been setting off up to Birmingham, so Tommy thought he’d ring and remind him. He had reminded him, and Alfie had been unconcerned, telling Tommy even as he reclined behind his desk in his study – because Tommy can tell how Alfie moves just from his slow lazy cadence – that he’d be exactly on time.

     “You worry too much, mate,” Alfie had said, definitely smiling. Tommy could just tell. “Don’t hurt your pretty little head over my timeliness, Tom.”

    But here they were. On the outskirts of Tommy’s property, in the dead of night, waiting for Alfie fucking Solomons. By all right, Tommy should just leave him to it. It’s not his job to make sure Alfie doesn’t get murdered. For God’s sake, he’d killed Alfie himself once. He shouldn’t care. He should just leave. He should.

     “How much longer?” Arthur asks, frowning.

     “Just a bit longer,” Tommy replies. “Just waiting for someone else.”

    Arthur pointedly looks around. At Linda, Ada, Polly, Finn, Lizzie and Michael, and the kids playing in the grass. “Right,” he says. “Who else? Got some new woman, Tom?”

   “No, Arthur. No new woman.” Tommy glances towards Lizzie who pretends not to be listening, holding Ruby. He knows he should have married her, but he’d never make her happy. Even yesterday, they’d argued for hours about Tommy insisting they all up and leave. In the end, he’d convinced her that Ruby and Charlie are in more danger in Birmingham than out in some field.

    They wait for another half hour and Tommy wonders if Alfie’s even coming then there is a sound of a car engine. It approaches, getting louder, then turns off, and a door opens, and slams shut. “Fucking careful, Ollie! Nearly had my fingers, you mad man.” Tommy relaxes despite himself, trying to not smile. Polly is watching him strangely, probably having already clocked their mystery guest’s identity. “Right, where’s my other mad man?” There are footsteps then Alfie appears from the trees like a ghostly image, grinning down at Tommy, Cyril by his side. “There he is.” Ollie is behind him, smiling shyly at Tommy, and Tommy raises a hand in greeting, ignoring his family’s glares.

    “Tommy, what the hell—” Arthur starts, and Tommy clears his throat.

     “You all saw the letter. The threat. The attempt on my life. Everyone in the family is in danger and no doubt, he will be after my friends, too.”

    “I’m honoured, mate, really.” Alfie claps a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “We’re friends, see, Arthur. Friendship is when you like someone who isn’t blood, right, mate? We talk on the telephone, and gossip like old women, and drink—well, Tommy drinks and smokes and the like and I get on my knees—” Ada snorts and Tommy flushes, even though it’s not fucking true. Alfie never gets on his knees; he’s got a bad hip. “—to pray and repent for his sins. He even does house visits, Tommy does. Slept over a few times – don’t look so scandalised, darling,” he adds to Linda. “Sleeps in the guest room, unfortunately, although I did convince him to wear one of my shirts to bed the other month.” Tommy rolls his eyes. Another half-truth. Tommy does in fact sleep in the guest room but Alfie often sleeps with him, if he does not slip out before Tommy wakes to brood on the balcony. Tommy refuses to take his clothes off in Alfie’s own bedroom. Far too intimate for what they are. Which are business partners. And friends, clearly.

    “Alfie,” Tommy says warningly but his threat is somewhat dimmed by Alfie’s hand still on his shoulder, fingers curling round the flesh like he’s trying to prove a point. Tommy can sense Polly’s eyes glued on Alfie’s hand. Any other man and Tommy would have slashed his eyes. Of course, he’s almost an MP now. Can’t be doing that. “Get in the fucking caravan.”

     Alfie looks at him then smiles. “Alright, Tom. Alright. Ollie’s coming too, by the way.”

    “Is he now?” Polly says, curiously looking at Ollie as he stands to the side. “Tommy, we can’t be with someone we don’t trust—”

     “I trust him,” Tommy says and is startled to find it’s true. Over the past few years, Ollie has become as much a part of the furniture of Tommy’s life as Alfie has. “He’s Alfie’s man.”

     “And do we trust Alfie?” Michael asks. Alfie merely stands, looking around cheerily, like they’re not talking about him, hand still on Tommy’s shoulder.

    “Yes, we trust Alfie. Don’t we, Alfie?”

    “Yes.” Alfie beams. “I’d never betray my good pal.”

    There is a silence then Ada clears her throat. “Come on, then,” she says, grabbing Karl’s hand. “Let’s go.”

    They file into the four caravans, Arthur hurrying ahead with a furious look on his face, and Alfie winks at Tommy.

Once they’ve reached the spot – a field in the middle of nowhere – Tommy is ready to throttle Arthur and Alfie. They argued for the better part of two hours, until Tommy had ripped a piece of paper from Ada’s book and had scrawled a message: say another word and i’m never coming to margate again. He’d passed it to Alfie who had read it and instantly shut up. Arthur’s attempts to antagonise him for the remaining hours had been unsuccessful, Alfie merely adopting a superior look on his face like he was above it all, making a little paper bird out of Tommy’s note.

    When they get out of the caravan, Alfie pockets the note. A fact not lost on Tommy nor a curious Ada.

    The men manage to set up camp without much trouble. In this quiet field, far from civilisation, prices on their heads, it feels like the war again. Arthur takes Alfie’s orders without hesitation, even jokes with Ollie. Tommy wonders if this is how it’s always meant to be. Open fields, nothing but clear blue sky above them, a river nearby, caravans and horses and family and dogs. And Alfie, of course. Watching a horse from a few metres away, frowning.

    Tommy had been tucking Ruby and Charlie down for an afternoon nap, so he is blissfully alone and able to observe Alfie for a few moments. He still remembers the first time, recklessly, dangerously, in an alley somewhere. They’d been fucking mugged of all things, or an attempted mugging, and they’d of course pulled out their weapons and beaten the shits to near death. Vicious and violent, but Tommy didn’t care. Then, covered in blood, in the cover of night, Alfie had accused him of an attempted assassination. He’d obviously been half-joking, but they’d ended up arguing until Tommy had pressed him up against a wall and kissed him. And Alfie had just let him. Kissed him back, grabbed his face with hands so large it felt like Tommy was covered in him. It had been a few months after Grace and the first time Tommy had felt anything since. The first time he’d had an instinct that wasn’t fuelled by his dead wife.

      It had been a natural progression after that. Years of hotel rooms, and Alfie’s office, and Tommy’s house a couple of times, and then, after Tommy had shot him, always Margate. The kitchen, the living room, the study, the guest room, the balcony, the hallway when Tommy couldn’t wait. Tommy doesn’t have to think for a while, and Alfie…well, Tommy isn’t sure what Alfie gets out of it all. He could get regular sex from anywhere, yet he calls Tommy every second Friday like clockwork. You coming round this weekend? He’ll ask, like Tommy’s not already cancelled all his plans.

     Maybe one day he’ll lord it over Tommy’s head. Maybe.

     He heads over to where Alfie is standing, pushing up his shirt sleeves as he goes. Alfie is as messily dressed as ever, waistcoat hanging loosely on a wrinkled shirt. His rings are all still there though, gold, and shiny in the May sun. “She won’t bite,” Tommy says, and Alfie smiles, taking his eyes off the horse to squint at Tommy.

    “See, now, Tom, how can you know that? She’s got an evil look in her eye, that one. I can just tell. I can smell it.” Tommy ignores him and goes to the horse, patting her neck. She whinnies and looks at him, eyes wide and trusting.

     “There, there, girl,” Tommy says. “Ignore Alfie.”

     “Ignore Alfie, he says!” Alfie proclaims and Tommy sees Polly look over out of the corner of his eye. He ignores her, instead grabbing Alfie’s arm and pulling him closer to the horse. “Tommy, mate, I really don’t think this is necessary. I got along with horses just fine before this. From a bit away from those dangerous legs. Got more kicking power than you, I reckon, and that’s saying something. Because your legs—masterpieces, they are—”

    “Alfie.” Tommy flushes. “Not here, or I’ll make good on my threat from before.”

     “Hmmph.” Alfie quietens then looks expectantly at the horse. “Doesn’t do much, does it?”

    “Don’t claim you’re bored; you were terrified two seconds ago—”

    “I was never scared, Tom. I’m not scared of anything. Except maybe your mad dog brother. And that aforementioned threat of yours. Not that you’d ever be able to resist popping down to Margate. Big fan of the area, aren’t you, Tommy? There often enough.” Tommy carries on stroking the horse’s neck, refusing to rise to the bait. Alfie just stares at him, a small smile on his face. “Yeah, I thought so,” he says although Tommy’s not said anything. “You look good like this, Tom. Natural. Away from all the smog, I can see your eyes.”

     “You never been able to see my eyes before?” Tommy meets his gaze and feels his stomach twist. Alfie knows just how to get to Tommy. How to smile in that way, tongue behind his teeth, dimples just hidden under his beard, eyes warm and genuine and honest. Here, in the middle of nowhere, Tommy can almost pretend they’re not bad men. But, of course, if they’re not business partners, not trying to kill and save each other at the same time, what does this make them? Without the excuse of business, how could Tommy ever justify the ungodly amount of time he spends in Alfie’s presence?

    Polly is still looking at them.

    “Show me, then,” Alfie says. “How to stroke it.”

      “Just approach her gently,” Tommy tells him. He stands to the side. “Reach out your hand, palm up, like you’d approach a dog.”

    “A dog?” Alfie actually looks nervous. “She’s a big fucking dog, Tommy.”

    “She’s just an animal. Same as you and me.”

     Alfie holds his hand out, and the horse sniffs at him then lets out a whinny that sends Alfie stumbling backwards, eyes wide. “Fucking HELL, Tommy! She just tried to bloody well kill me dead!” And Tommy—Tommy laughs. He laughs and he laughs, harder than he has in years, clutching his side. “Tommy, it’s not fucking funny,” Alfie says but he is grinning, looking delighted as Tommy wipes at his eyes. “That was an attempt on my life, I’m telling you.”

     “Shut up, Alfie,” Tommy says although it’s hard to remain serious when he can’t stop smiling. Behind him, he can hear Ada and Ollie laughing, and when he turns to look, Polly and Lizzie are smiling too.

    “This gets back to anyone, ladies, and I know where to find you,” Alfie says, brushing past Tommy on his way to the camp. Tommy follows, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. The longer they’re out here, the wilder he feels. The freer he feels. And it’s only been a day. The potential of weeks out here, until his and Alfie’s men deal with the blackmailer, loosens the constant knot in his chest. He sits next to Alfie on the ground, reaching for the packaged sandwiches Ada had made. “That includes you, Tommy,” Alfie adds. Tommy just rolls his eyes and tears his sandwich in half, hands Alfie some. “Thanks, mate.”

     They eat in comfortable silence as Ada and Lizzie chat, and it’s only when he’s finished his half of the sandwich, knees pressing against Alfie, shoulders relaxed, Tommy realises Polly’s still watching them. He meets her eyes and with a start, realises she knows. Of course she does. Polly sees all.

Tommy is smoking by the river when light footsteps approach. He suspects Lizzie at first – she often likes to join him for a late night smoke – but he soon catches the familiar scent of Polly’s musky perfume, and she sits beside him, bare feet curling up in the mud and grass. They stay silent, both watching the rushing water, then Polly shifts and Tommy resigns himself to his fate.

     “You love him,” she says, and Tommy starts, surprised. He’d expected accusations of sleeping with the enemy, scoldings over how dangerous Alfie is and how he could kill Tommy so easily in bed, even a demand of when, where, and why. Not this. Soft spoken, her eyes gentle, hands clasped together in her lap.

    “Love?” He echoes. “No, it’s not love, Polly. Just—sex.”

    “He loves you.” Again, a statement.

    “No, Alfie doesn’t love me.”

    “He’s come here, hasn’t he? Could easily protect himself, with all his legions of men, and yet, here he is, with his dog and his man, surrounded by your family, vulnerable, for the sake of you resting easy. So you can protect him.” Polly’s face creases in concern. “Tommy, how many men would trust you with this? How many would you trust with this?”

     Tommy considers it. Alfie’s taken a risk being here when he could quite as easily hidden away in Margate. Only Ollie and Tommy know of the existence of that house, and no-one’s ever found him there yet. It had been Tommy who had asked. To prevent me having to waste time thinking about you revealing all my secrets, Tommy had explained, smoking in bed, as Alfie stood by the window, naked as the day he was born.

     Don’t know any of your secrets, mate, Alfie had replied.

     You know all of them, Tommy had said and was surprised to find that it was true. You kill a man then sleep with him and all notions of privacy fall apart.

     “I killed him once,” Tommy says to Polly now. “He came back to haunt me. That means something, don’t you think? That I owe him?”

     “Maybe.” Polly tilts her head to look up at the sky. “Or maybe it doesn’t lie in the mystical, Tommy. Not everything does. Maybe it’s simple. Maybe you killed him out of business, and he returned to you out of love.”

    “He returned because of good doctors, a bad aim and an incessant need to annoy me.”

    “You were always a perfect shot.”

     Tommy stubs the cigarette out on the ground, watching the last embers die out before he stands. “I’m going to bed,” he says. Polly doesn’t reply, only closes her eyes and under her breath, starts to pray.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Tommy sleeps restlessly, kept awake by Finn, Michael, and Charlie’s snores in the bunks next to him. They look almost the same in the dim light, same light hair, all on their sides, curled into the blankets. Tommy has not thought of Michael nor Finn as children for a long time, but tonight he watches them the same way he watches Charlie. Makes sure they’re still breathing when their snores fade away, checks they are just moving in their sleep and not squirming from nightmares, is careful not to wake them up when he finally stops trying to fall back asleep and leaves the caravan.

     The girls are all sharing one caravan; Arthur and Linda in another; Alfie, Ollie, Karl, and Cyril in the final one. That is the one that is alight with noise. Karl was supposed to be sleeping in with Arthur and Linda, but all parties involved had complained until he was allowed to slip into the bunk above Ollie’s, grinning at his freedom from his family. At some point, someone must have hauled Cyril into Karl’s bunk because the boy is sitting with the dog, scratching at Cyril’s head as Ollie talks. Tommy leans against the doorway, still unseen as Alfie’s back is to him, pulling on a shirt.

     “—a chess board,” Ollie is saying, smiling at Karl. “If you want me to teach you.”

     “The boy’d rather be playing with his cousins, surely,” Alfie says. “Throw rocks like I used to do.”

    “You threw rocks?” Ollie asks, laughing, and Alfie spins round, pointing his finger.

    “Right, lad, I grew up in simpler times, I did,” he says defensively.

    “If some of the rocks hit your head, that’d explain a lot.”

    Karl bursts into giggles and even Tommy can’t help a little chuckle that has three heads – four if you count the dog – turning to him, Alfie’s anger fading at the sight. Karl beams. “Morning, Uncle Tommy,” he says, ever polite. Ada had raised him well.

    “Morning, Karl. Did you sleep well?”

   “I did. Cyril came to sleep with me!” Karl announces, renewing his affection on the dog’s head. “He must have climbed up.”

     “Must have done,” Alfie says. “You sleep well, Tom?”

     “Well enough.” Not as well as he does in Margate, soothed by the sound of the waves and Alfie’s warm chest and solid arms. Better than he would in the big house, with silence as his only companion. Lizzie used to climb into his bed, coming from her wing of the house, when she was unsettled or when she knew Tommy was having a bad day. She’d not expect anything but for Tommy to wrap his arms around her, nestle his head in her sweet-smelling hair. She’d stopped that, in the past few months. Maybe she’s seeing someone and feels disloyal, maybe she’s sick of Tommy’s reluctance to marry her as he should have done.

     He’s still not sure why he hadn’t.

      “Why don’t we go for breakfast, Karl?” Ollie suggests, and Tommy realises he’s been staring into space. Karl carefully climbs down from his bunk then Alfie grabs Cyril and puts him on the ground, waiting until Ollie has led Karl out of the caravan before sitting on his own bed, frowning.

     “You look like you’re thinking, Tommy,” Alfie says. “Not about to kick us out of your little holiday, are you? Only we left the car back on your estate, so we’d have to walk back, and Ollie’s a nightmare for complaining, won’t shut up once you get to know him. You still scare him, though, stays quiet around you. Not scared of me anymore, nah.” Alfie huffs. “Apparently, yeah, you spend your days shooting seagulls and waiting for pretty boys to come drink tea, and you’re not scary anymore. Ollie actually fucking laughed the other day when I threatened to cut his balls off. Said, Alfie, he did, Alfie, you’re making fucking jam.”

     “What kind of jam?”

     “None of your fucking business.” Tommy laughs at the ridiculousness of it all. “Yeah, yeah, there we go, now, what’s bothering you?”

     “Thinking about Lizzie, about how I didn’t marry her, if I ruined her.”

     “That’s some heavy rumination for a morning.” Alfie stands and comes closer to Tommy, one hand gentle on his shoulder. He looks sincere, as he often does first thing in the morning. Tommy becomes delirious when he is lacking sleep, tells Alfie damning secrets when he has not slept for two days and finally collapses in Alfie’s guest bed. Alfie, however, is more open when he has slept. When he is warm and domestic, ten hours of deep sleep behind him, bleary eyed from waking up, hands carding through Tommy’s hair. He is still Alfie – still sharp and quick and violent – but he is not Alfie Solomons, gangster, until he has had his first cup of tea. These are things Tommy should never have found out. “She’s not got such a bad life, Tommy. Lovely kids, money, influence, a home, a job. Family. More than a lot could hope for.”

     “What if no man will marry her because of me?”

     “Lots of people can’t marry,” Alfie says simply. “Don’t need some fucking paper to prove how much you love someone.”

     Tommy watches Alfie for a second, then smiles grimly. “I’m sorry, Alfie. I didn’t think.” Because how could Alfie ever marry? He is a self-proclaimed sodomite, through and through. He’d never be able to exchange rings and vows and toast to a life legally bound together. With Grace, Tommy had felt comfort in their marriage. That people could bear witness to their dedication. To have something physical there. Easily burnt papers, quickly discarded legalities, but still…proof that neither of them wanted to leave. Tommy supposes that Alfie has to rely on easily broken promises.

     “It’s alright.” Alfie looks at him. There is a brief silence – not awkward, it is never awkward between them – then Alfie clears his throat. “I mean, marriage, and the like…have you ever…not Lizzie, obviously.” Alfie sighs then spits it out: “You ever think about getting married again, Tommy?”

     “Are you proposing?” Tommy says, purely out of reflex, because this is his and Alfie’s usual push-and-pull, Alfie asking a ridiculous question and Tommy going along with it, or Tommy asking a serious one and Alfie turning it all into a long-winded story or joke.

    “Maybe.”

     Tommy feels the air deepen, become heavy, like it does when Alfie pulls out a gun or Tommy tries to break his jaw, except this isn’t violence – it’s just a joke, one of Alfie’s fucking wind-ups. Isn’t it?

     “Tom!” Arthur barges into the caravan. His eyes shift to Alfie then he turns his back to him, facing Tommy. “Ada and Linda are arguing,” he says breathlessly. “Won’t listen to me.”

    “For fuck’s sake. Why?” Alfie is watching Tommy carefully over Arthur’s shoulder. Tommy feels hot under his intense gaze. What the fuck was all that about?

    “Uh—” Arthur actually looks sheepish, scratching at his head. “Ollie and Ada were talking about—about some club. Some bohemian club they both go to.” Bohemian club. Tommy tries not to look at Alfie. He and Alfie, on one regrettable night when Tommy had drunk too much, and Alfie was being far too lenient, had gone to a club in Soho where women took other women into private rooms and men wore dresses. It’s only a miracle that neither of them had been recognised and, in the morning, Tommy had made Alfie swear he’d never take them there again. “And Linda overheard and fucking—morally objects or something. I don’t know what’s wrong with that club, but they’re arguing and shit—”

    “Right. Right. I’ll come fucking sort it.” Tommy heads out of the caravan, Arthur and Alfie hot on his heels. Linda and Ada are shouting at each other, Ollie tucked behind Ada, and Michael and Polly standing to one side, both smoking. “ENOUGH,” he snaps and the women both jump turning to look at him. He’s already got a headache, the brief peace he’d found in his and Alfie’s conversation disappearing into the pink-streaked sky. “Where are the kids?”

    “Lizzie and Finn took them to play in the river,” Polly says. “To save them from hearing Linda preach her God’s words.”

   “He is your God too,” Linda says.

    “Perhaps, but I think He has bigger problems than to worry about who someone fucks, Linda.”

     “Mr Solomons, you are a man of religion, are you not?” Linda turns imploringly to Alfie, her eyes set on his Star of David chain, hanging just below the neckline of his half-open shirt. Alfie glances at Tommy, the corner of his mouth twitching, and Tommy knows what he is thinking about. Alfie above him in bed, necklace hanging above Tommy, and the many times Tommy has taken it in his mouth just to stop himself from moaning like a whore. After the first time, Tommy had asked if it was blasphemy, but Alfie had only shrugged. Probably, mate, but I’m a man of many blasphemies, one more won’t harm me. Tommy has always suspected Alfie rather likes it, Tommy’s mouth metallic afterwards, the point of a star pricking his lip, making him bleed, taking Alfie’s religion in his mouth as Alfie takes him.

    “I am, love,” Alfie says, his eyes still on Tommy. Tommy looks away, takes a cigarette out from his pocket. Michael leans over and lights it for him, smirking like he already knows what’s going to happen. He probably does. Smart man, Tommy’s cousin.

    “Then you agree? Clubs where that kind of sin runs rampant…it’s abominable. Two men lying together – it shouldn’t be encouraged. It is an act against the Lord.” Linda’s sharp eyes find Ollie, who is looking considerably less worried now that Alfie is standing there. Tommy wonders when Alfie became so fond of his assistant, or if he has always been fond and Tommy has just never noticed. What else has Tommy not noticed? “Did you know about your man, Mr Solomons? About his habits?”

     “His habits of fucking pretty men in dresses?” Alfie smirks. “Yeah, love, I know all about that. Don’t mind too much though, would be a hypocrite if I did, because I have a particular habit of that myself.” Tommy tries to avoid Polly’s look. He’s never fucking worn a dress. “Pretty men, I mean, because my partner won’t wear dresses, stubborn man that he is.”

    Partner.

    Linda looks horrified, and even Arthur recoils, eyes shifting to Tommy. “Tom?” Arthur says voice wavering. Alfie looks at him too and his smile immediately drops. Tommy wonders what he looks like, his eyes on Alfie’s face, Grace’s ghost scratching at his back. He is too tired, too wild with the breeze in his hair and Polly’s eyes on his face, to bother schooling his features. His surprise at Alfie’s confession. His distaste at Linda’s words. His fear of the secret life he has accidentally built. “You knew about all this?”

    “Yeah, Arthur, I knew. I’ve always known.”

    “And he’s Tommy’s friend,” Ada chimes in, looking championed. “Arthur, if Tommy doesn’t care, why do you?”

     “Do you not worry?” Arthur asks ignoring their sister. “That he’ll try and bugger you?”

    Alfie laughs and Tommy flushes, eyes cast to the skies. He blows out a cloud of smoke and decides not to grace Arthur with an answer. “Linda, Alfie’s a homosexual. He’s also my friend, and business partner. I trust him and I—” Tommy refuses to look at Alfie and indulge his fucking wild domestic fantasies. He is not Alfie’s partner. Not in life, and barely in business what with Alfie’s retirement. Grace whispers something jagged into his ear. “I like him,” Tommy concludes. “A lot more than I do you right now.” He ignores Arthur’s roar of protest and stubs his cigarette out on the ground. “Right, I am going to say good morning to my children. I’ve got a fucking headache.”

    He leaves them all behind, hearing Michael offer Alfie some breakfast, and heads to the river where he’d half-confessed to Polly the other night. Alfie doesn’t love me, he’d claimed. And this morning Alfie had talked about marriage and called Tommy his partner. Had their wires got crossed somewhere? Had Alfie started to think of him as something more than an easy fuck? Tommy thinks briefly of the last time he’d gone down to Margate. His usual Friday, and he’d arrived late, soaked from the rain just from the walk up the path. Alfie had forced him into warm clothes, and they’d eaten broth by the lit fire, Cyril’s head in Tommy’s lap. They’d spoken of the war, and Charlie’s school, and raising goats. The memory raises a warm nauseous feeling in Tommy’s throat.

   Partner.

  Maybe Alfie hadn’t got his wires crossed but had simply settled into this new thing of theirs. Maybe Tommy was the one who had gotten it all wrong.

    He reaches his children before his thoughts can make him dizzy, and Charlie and Karl wave. Ruby is still small, just under a year old, but she manages a gummy smile from Finn’s arms as he shows her the fish. Lizzie moves to hover beside Tommy, frowning.

    “Is it all settled?”

    “I hope so.” Tommy wants another cigarette but he’s trying not to do it around the baby. Doesn’t like seeing her covered up with a haze of smoke. “Linda’s going to have to deal with being round him.”

    “Good.” Lizzie’s hand is suddenly on Tommy’s, her eyes fierce. “I like Alfie,” she says.

     “Yeah.” Tommy doesn’t know the last time he kissed someone that wasn’t Alfie Solomons. “Me too.”

Tommy doesn’t like being unsure. Especially with Alfie.

    Alfie has been the one constant in his life. An unpredictable man with predictable actions. He would betray Tommy, yes, but the how of it all used to keep Tommy on his toes. He is sporadically violent, but never towards women, children, or animals. He fucks Tommy, but it could be rough or gentle, followed by being held in bed or Alfie leaving to sit outside, Tommy might get a normal conversation out of him afterwards or Alfie would clam up and just want to be with him in silence. Tommy’s not the only one affected by a long hard life.

       And now, after years of learning Alfie’s behaviours, Alfie is acting oddly. He spends his days with Ada or Lizzie or the kids, where Tommy can’t ask questions, and his nights smoking herbs with Polly, exchanging quiet words, before heading off to bed, ignoring Tommy’s stare. Tommy sticks to Michael and Finn and Arthur, drawing his battle lines in the sand. Alfie stays with his lot and Tommy stays with his. Linda refuses to talk to either of them, and Ollie flutters between them both. The children can’t quite catch that is something is wrong and request games and never-ending questions. Tommy and Alfie take them to the river, haul them about the field and play knights and soldiers, but never touch, never speak.

A week passes, their usual Friday arrives, and Tommy goes on a ride.

    He returns determined to just fucking speak to Alfie but upon sight of him, making breakfast with Tommy’s family, he stays quiet instead. He drinks the tea Charlie hands him, slightly slopping over the cup in his tiny hands, and watches Alfie spoon out oatmeal. Linda is sitting with them all for once, and Arthur gives her a stern look, so she grabs a bowl off Alfie and thanks him in her best King’s English. Alfie looks amused but nods at her with a gruff no problem.

      “Nice to see we’re all getting along,” Ada says, looking pointedly at Tommy. “Maybe we needed this.”

     “Domestic fucking bliss.” Alfie settles down with his own bowl then frowns. “Oh, Finn, lad, can you pass me—”

    Tommy grabs the jar of honey from where it sits between him and Finn and hands it to Alfie before he can realise what he’s done. There is an unsettling silence amongst the circle, punctuated only by Ruby’s baby chatter on Lizzie’s lap. Alfie takes honey in his porridge. A thick heaping spoonful and Tommy pulls a face and Alfie kisses him, every single fucking Saturday morning right after breakfast, no matter if they’ve been arguing or if Tommy has been trying to leave for the past hour to no avail, and Tommy can always taste it. The honey.

    “Right.” Alfie takes the jar and coughs. “Uh, thank you, mate. Thanks.”

     Tommy opens his mouth, hoping for something nonchalant, something less fucking revealing, to fall out, but nothing does, and he is just a man sitting there with his mouth open.

    “Tommy,” Ada says quietly, and he realises that she knows. Of course she fucking does. Polly will have told her, which means Lizzie knows. Probably Michael. Tommy feels a cold wash of shame clutch at his neck. They know. What do they know? That Tommy gets fucked by Alfie Solomons? That he’s Alfie’s partner? That he kisses Alfie in the morning and over dinner and that when Tommy says anything particularly intelligent, Alfie calls him his brilliant boy? That Tommy likes when Alfie is kind to him, likes when he massages knots out of Tommy’s back and makes him his favourite food and that once they’d fucked in the sea at night and Tommy had felt born anew?

    No. No-one knows any of that. Only Alfie and Tommy. Half of Tommy’s life is in the hands of Alfie fucking Solomons.

     “Tommy?” Lizzie asks, and Ruby’s pudgy fist reaches out, and Tommy recoils.

     “I—” He glances at Arthur and sees a dawning realisation in his eyes that something is amiss. “Sorry,” he rushes out hastily and stands, tea knocking to the ground. He ignores Alfie saying his name, turns tail and runs for the trees.

Chapter Text

To Tommy’s surprise, Arthur finds him first in the trees.  

   It’s midday, the sun beating high above him, and Tommy is sitting by a small pond, watching the birds and the frogs. It feels like the beach at Margate. At low tide, he and Alfie occasionally venture out and examine the debris left behind by the water. The gulls scavenge a beached fish, and Alfie pockets seashells, once chased Tommy with a dead crab. That had been the night they’d fucked in the ocean, Tommy eventually wrenching the crab out of Alfie’s hands, tossing it aside, and had gotten to work on unbuttoning his shirt. Someone should have shot you by now , Tommy had told Alfie, leading him towards the sea, the moon high above them. You did, Tom, Alfie had replied, smiling. His mouth had tasted of salt when Tommy had kissed him,   

     Arthur sits beside him at the pond, dipping his hand in the water. He uses the water to wet his face, smooth down his moustache, then he sighs, eyes fixed on his lap. “I’m not as smart as you or Ada,” Arthur says quietly. “Even Finn—he does well in school. Really well. Good lad.” Arthur’s hands wring. “But I can put two and two together, Tommy. Same as the others. Might have just taken me a little longer.” Tommy watches a frog bury into a pile of leaves. “But it makes sense now. Always forgiving Solomons whenever he screwed you over. Disappearing all the time at weekends, no-one knowing how to contact you. And then you’d come back and look almost relaxed. Thought you had a new woman, we did.” Did he look better after those weekends? Tommy supposes he feels less burdened after those weekends, but he hadn’t known that it had been enough for the others to realise. “And this whole thing. Inviting Solomons along, the way he touches you, how you let him touch you. Laughing with him. You didn’t even laugh like that with—” Arthur stops abruptly but Grace’s ghost still lingers behind them. Tommy sees her less and less these days, now she’s just a faceless presence always watching Tommy’s misdeeds. “It’s why you don’t care about him being a homosexual, eh? Because you’re one too.”  

      “Even if I wasn’t…if I didn’t like men, I’d still not care about Alfie’s preferences. No hair off my back.” Tommy’s voice is hoarse, and he feels embarrassed, suddenly, ashamed like he is a child that has been caught out. Like he is thirteen at church and Freddie Thorne catches him looking a little too long at the baker’s apprentice. I don’t care , Freddie had said, when he’d cornered and forced a confession out of Tommy later, no hair off my back, Tom. Just don’t go flashing it about – don’t want trouble for you, I can only hit so many idiots.   

    “But you do. Like men?”  

     “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”  

    Arthur is quiet then he looks up and Tommy meets his eye. He doesn’t look as mad as Tommy thought he’d be, nor as confused or hurt. He just looks tired. “Alright then, Tommy. Alright. Just…give Linda some time to come round to the idea, yeah? Does anyone else know?”  

   “Everyone, I think, except Finn and the kids,” Tommy says. “I don’t mind Finn knowing but the men back in Birmingham can’t find out.”  

   “No, no, course not.” Alfie pats his hand then sighs. “John’d know what to say here. I’m useless at talking.”  

   “He’d go threatening Alfie and get us all in a big fight. Reckon Alfie would win,” Tommy adds, mostly to wind Arthur up, just to ease the mood.  

    “Don’t go backing that bastard now, Tom.” Then, “but yeah, he’d win. John was quick but reckon Solomons would have you on his side, wouldn’t he?” It’s not accusing, merely contemplative, as if Arthur is only just realising the extent of Tommy’s relationship with him. It’s a thought that Tommy himself does not want to consider. “Known him a long time, you have, and you know what, brother? You’d defend him to the last, I reckon.”  

    Tommy would never have thought that he’d be talking about Alfie, or any man, like this with Arthur. Both brothers had always gone to John for the emotional shit. He was the best of them all, but he’s gone, and he’d taken half of Tommy and Arthur with him. Tommy can’t even remember the last time he and Arthur had joked around properly since John. Maybe it’s time for things to change.  

    “I think he loves me.”  

    It’s an idea that has haunted Tommy for the past week. Alfie’s devotion. Tommy can’t blame him. Alfie had spent half their acquaintance wrapped in Tommy’s body, had become a god at Tommy’s hands, had spent the last year sleeping beside him, kissing him over wine, reading him nonsensical poetry from the shitty literary magazine Alfie subscribes to. And Tommy had participated. Had kissed him first, fallen asleep on Alfie’s chest, poured the wine, laughed at the poems.  

    “Yeah,” Arthur says quietly. “I think he does.”  

Tommy and Arthur return to camp to find a bustle of activity, Johnny Dogs and Uncle Charlie reining up the horses, Lizzie trying to grab Karl and Charlie from where they are in the low branches of a tree. Tommy jogs over to help her, leaving Arthur to help with the horses.  

    “What’s going on?” He asks, hauling down Karl and putting him on the ground. “Come on, lad,” he says but Charlie remains stubbornly clinging to the trunk.  

   “It’s all over,” Lizzie says. “We’re going back. Thank fuck. Charlie—” She yanks at his foot and he glowers at her.  

   “Like it here,” he says stubbornly.  

    “Charlie, we have to go back home,” Tommy says. He reaches up and Charlie smacks his hand away, grip precariously loosening. “Charlie, for fuck’s sake—”  

   “Don’t wanna go home.” Charlie’s face screws up and Tommy feels his stomach tighten. He hates when Charlie cries; it reminds him of those long months after Grace’s death. When nothing he did was right, and all Charlie wanted was his mum. “It’s scary and big. I want Cyril.”  

    Tommy winces. He’d taken Cyril back to Margate after he’d found out about Alfie’s resurrection, explaining to Charlie that it had only been a little holiday for Cyril and Alfie had sent a photo of the dog in the sea, thanking Charlie for looking after him so well, but Charlie’s love had lingered. “I’ll get you another dog,” Tommy promises. “Two dogs. Just fucking—”  

     “Charlie, lad, come on! You’re not a squirrel, are you?” Alfie comes bustling in, like Charlie’s not on the verge of tears, and Tommy isn’t about to tear his hair out in frustration. Lizzie glances at him then heads off in the direction of Ada. Tommy doesn’t want to imagine the lectures he’ll get from her later. About spending more time with Charlie. Getting a smaller house. Letting him go to school and make friends. He’s trying. He’s fucking trying. All he seems to do is try and yet, here is Alfie, grabbing Charlie from the tree like it’s nothing. Charlie acquiesces in his arms, bottom lip quivering as Alfie sets him on the ground then kneels before him.  

   “I want Cyril,” Charlie repeats stubbornly. “He’s my dog.”  

   “Now, now, he’s been with me a long time, he has,” Alfie says placidly. “Since he was no bigger than your little sister. I’m his dad, and he’d be upset if he was away for me too long. Just like you and your dad.”  

    “Dad’s always away.”   

     There’s a horrible silence and Tommy feels sick as Alfie glances up at him, worry furrowing his brow. There’s no judgement there, though, only a terrifying kind of understanding. Alfie takes Charlie’s hand, squeezing gently. “Your dad’s a very important man, Charlie. It’s not fair but you’re going to have to share him for a lot of your life. With your sister, and your uncles and aunts, and with a lot of people you’ll never meet. They all want to speak to your dad and see him, so he might not be around much because he can’t let those people down. It wouldn’t be right of him, and he’s a good man, your dad. He might not be good all the time, but he tries and all we can ask of people, sometimes, is to try as hard as they can. I want you to try and be a good boy, yeah? Go home and do all your schoolwork and one day, you’ll be an important man too, I reckon.”  

     “Do I share him with you?” Charlie asks and Alfie hesitates.  

     “Yeah, yeah, lad, you did, but I think I’ll give a bit of my share back to you in the future, eh? I’m a selfish old man, you see. Me and Cyril—we take up too much of his time.”  

   “Why does Cyril need him?”  

    “He can’t sleep without him. Not really. Howls at the moon like a big bad wolf.” Alfie pokes Charlie’s side and Charlie jumps, giggling in surprise.  

    “Like a werewolf?”  

    “Exactly. And your dad, well, he’s a werewolf-tamer. Like he does with his horses, he’s good at calming Cyril down. Knows exactly where to stroke him—”  

    “Okay,” Tommy interrupts. “Alfie, enough, don’t you think?”  

   “Right.” Alfie pats Charlie’s head. “Go on, lad, we’ll be right behind you. Go play with Cyril, and maybe if you ask nicely, he’ll send you a letter soon.” Charlie runs off, beaming again, and Alfie straightens up, rubbing at his hip. “Not as young as I once was,” he says but it is in a distracted sort of way, looking over Tommy’s shoulder. Without Charlie as a buffer, the silence returns.  

     “You’re not—” Tommy clears his throat. Alfie’s eyes are still fixed on something in the distance. “You’re not taking up too much of my time.”  

    “I am.” Alfie looks at him, finally, the corners of his mouth turned upwards but his eyes heavy. Tommy feels awfully like this is the end of something. “I’m glad we had this trip, Tommy. It was nice seeing you around your kids. Made me remember that you do, in fact, have a life outside of Margate. That you don’t just appear at my convenience like some Friday night phantom. Feels like it sometimes.” Alfie huffs out a laugh. “Some mirage from a dream, like I’m still in France, dehydrated and fucking raw, and thinking up some fucking blue-eyed deity to spin me out my miserable existence. Do you ever wish we’d met in France, Tommy? Think things would have been different?”  

    “Maybe.” Tommy aches for a cigarette but he’d left them on a rock by the pond. How long will they live there? Some proof Tommy Shelby sat there once with a beating heart.  

    “I used to think of France every fucking day, Tommy. Not anymore.” Alfie looks at him for a moment then laughs again, although nothing’s funny. “I think I’m sick”  

    “You’re not sick.” Tommy had witnessed Alfie sprinting round the fields this week, tossing the kids in the air, as sharp-minded as ever. He knows Alfie ill and this is not it. “You’re the picture of health, Alfie.”  

   “I wander. Go round in circles. Delusions. My mind’s not all there.”  

   “Has it ever been?”  

    “Nah, probably not, mate.”  

   Tommy watches him for a moment longer, sees how Alfie’s face shifts. To anyone else, it would be nothing, but Tommy sees the twitch of his brow even as he coolly looks at Tommy. Tommy’s gotten good at reading him. Alfie’s not the only one who has absorbed secrets. Alfie’s upset. Tommy has every tool to comfort him but they feel wrong in his hands, rusted and useless. Kind words, gentle kisses, promises of a future…Tommy doesn’t know if he can offer that.  

   “I didn’t know,” Tommy says eventually. “That you saw me as all that.”  

    “All what, Tommy?”  

    “As a wife,” Tommy says because he has no other word for it. He is a wife – he gets fucked into soft bedsheets, Alfie washes his hair, he is often presented with trinkets, and he has been called pretty by Alfie’s gentle voice more times than he can count.  

    “A wife.” Alfie seems to let the word roll around his mouth. He licks his bottom lip. “Is that what you think you are, sweetheart?”  

    “Is that what you wanted me to be?” The past tense slips out and Tommy can see the moment it pins Alfie and guts him. He doesn’t correct himself. Doesn’t fix things. He lets the moment fall around them. Alfie straightens and looks around, jaw clenched.  

   “Time to go home, I suppose,” Alfie says. Ollie is standing at the now-packed caravans, his eyes on them. He nods once at Tommy but it contains none of the warmth he’s displayed the past few days. Their camaraderie has disappeared into the winds along with Tommy and Alfie’s relationship. “Margate.”  

    “Birmingham,” Tommy corrects him easily, although the thought of the city sours his mouth. Tommy doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay camped out here forever. He wants to taste honey on Alfie’s mouth. He wants his mother to tell him what to do. The thought blinds him and when he comes to, blinking rapidly, Alfie has walked away, his hand clapped on Ollie’s back. Tommy follows and gets into the first caravan he sees. Lizzie is sitting in there, Ruby asleep, Finn and Michael playing a card game. Tommy sits beside Lizzie and takes Michael’s offered drink. It is rum, sharp and burning. Alfie’s. The good stuff.  

     “Tommy,” Lizzie says, voice small, and he glances at her. She looks back at him and he lets himself, for perhaps the first time in a long time, be seen. “Oh, Tom.” She sounds like Ada and, ignoring Michael’s curious look, he lets himself slump against her shoulder.  

When they arrive back where they’d started, Tommy is himself again, or as much himself as he can gather. Alfie and Ollie say their goodbyes, Ollie looking twitchy in his haste to get back to civilisation. Alfie heads over to Tommy last and sticks his hand out.  

    “Bye, mate.”  

    Tommy shakes his hand, gripping tighter than necessary. “I'll be seeing you, Alfie,” he says. “We’ll probably have business to discuss soon, right?” He asks, even though he’s not sure why he’s even asking. “No doubt something went wrong during the whole thing...a few fights to sort out, invoices for broken bones and such.”  

    “Call Ollie,” Alfie replies before walking away and getting into his car, leaving Tommy in the dust.  

Chapter Text

It has been six weeks.

    Three of their usual Fridays have passed, and Tommy’s phone hadn’t rung. Actually, no, fuck that, his phone hadn’t stopped ringing – people asking him what to do, asking for his help, for his discretion in their fucking affairs. He got dozens of letters daily, correspondence from politicians and lawyers and businessmen, legitimate or not. But it’s never him. Never Alfie, who seems to have faded into the fog of Margate with as much mysticism as Polly and Linda’s God.

     The phone rings and Tommy clenches his jaw every single time it isn’t that soothing gruff voice on the other end, the mix of accents, a stupid joke and then a remark about the one – one – time Tommy had acquiesced to touching himself over the phone. He tears open handwritten letters and barely processes anything because it doesn’t start with hello, love in that familiar aggravating drawl. He jumps every time his secretary comes into his office at Parliament, looks up expectantly as if she’ll be leading a dead man behind her.

    It’s never Alfie.

    Tommy hasn’t felt this way since Grace. Before her return, when he’d been looking after every blonde woman in the street, chasing a mirage of his future wife around every street corner, naming horses after her and cursing her name every time he tried to go to bed with someone else. At least then he’d not had Arthur pecking his head about it all. Now, Arthur lingers at doors, and watches the phone ring and sees Tommy’s disappointment when he answers it to another mundane request. Tommy feels like telling him to fuck off but they’ve gotten closer since their chat by the pond, and with a constant reminder of John – a specially commissioned portrait in Tommy’s new MP’s office, something John would have called fucking toff shit – quite literally hanging over his head, Tommy is trying to be nicer to his elder brother.

    So he’s invited Arthur down to lunch in London. A dignified affair, or as dignified as Arthur can get, pulling at his moustache as they traipse into the small hotel.

   “Nice place, this,” Arthur says as they’re led to their seats, in a small booth tucked away in the corner with a view of the restaurant. “I’ll have a whiskey, please, lad,” he tells the waiter who smiles at them and walks away with no particular rush, chatting to a waitress. Arthur frowns after him. “Bit of haste!” He barks and the waiter barely jumps, just casts him a scathing look. “What kind of place is this, Tom?”

    “A slow one,” Tommy replies. He recognises the waiter. Good lad, fought in the back-end of the war. “They don’t react to violence, or raised voices, Arthur.”

   “How do you get anyone to do what you fucking want then?”

   “We’re past that, now. We’re businessmen. Got fucking houses and chickens and wives.”

   “You ain’t got a wife.” There’s a silence then Tommy looks up from where he’d been rolling a cigarette to find Arthur looking guilty. “Sorry, Tom, I didn’t mean it like that. Didn’t mean it about Grace. Only—well, you haven’t mentioned Alfie in a while, have you? Are you—is that over?”

   “Don’t sound so hopeful.” Tommy lights his cigarette and inhales the smoke, feeling his headache abate slightly. Alfie hates him smoking at dinner. Says it gets in his food and rots his stomach. Then he leans over and lights Tommy’s cigarette for him, when he’s in a good mood. Lovely hands like yours shouldn’t have to be put to work doing mundane things like that. Save them for touching me.  “Alfie’s not my wife, never was.”

    Is that what you wanted me to be?

   “Never said he was. Just—I don’t know what to call him, for you, I mean. Do I call him your boyfriend or—oi, you didn’t fucking hear that,” Arthur says, pointing an accusing finger at the amused waiter. “Was speaking purely hypothetically…”

   “Don’t worry,” the waiter replies, handing Arthur his whiskey and Tommy his rum with a grin. “I’m a man of discretion, handsome.”

   Arthur starts but the waiter is gone by the time he can blink. Tommy just downs his rum and starts to peruse the lunch menu. “This yours and Ada’s bohemian club?” Arthur grumbles, grabbing his own menu. “Well, looks like decent enough food. Think’ll I have the pie.”

    “You probably shouldn’t tell Linda.” Tommy can’t help a smile at Arthur’s curious glance around the place. He wonders what he sees. If he feels the same kind of freedom as Tommy does. They won’t be attacked here, protected as it is by Alfie and his endless funds and men. And there is no need to hide. No need to not smile and keep up the illusion of looking completely fucking in control. No-one is allowed in that isn’t recommended or vetted by an existing member; it is anonymity and safety. It is also Ollie’s favourite spot for lunch.

   “Is that Solomons’ lad?” Arthur asks, perking up. He’d liked Ollie during their little excursion, having forgiven his apparent sins of fucking men in dresses long enough to start up a game of cowboys with him and the kids.

   “Maybe.”

   “Will Solomons be with him?”

   “Alfie doesn’t leave Margate.” Tommy feels the tension creep back into his shoulders. Alfie doesn’t leave Margate, except when Tommy calls and asks him to. Tommy doesn’t even know what he wants from Alfie at this point – wherever he wants a return to what they had, or just to demand an answer.

    Do you still love me? Did you ever? Why?

    Tommy catches Ollie’s eye at the same time as the waiter returns to take their food order. Arthur rattles off his order, Tommy orders the soup of the day, and Ollie leaves the restaurant without even coming to speak to them. And there goes Tommy’s hope of a reunion.

Tommy is getting desperate. It’s humiliating.

    He is so desperate that he is in Margate, with fucking flowers. Flowers.

    The shame crawls down his spine like a virus, infecting his bones, making him stoop to knock at Alfie’s front door. He feels nauseous, wants to cast the flowers into the ocean, wants to step into the ocean himself and feel the sea salt burn in his new wounds. A cut on his cheek, bruises on his jaw, splintered fingers. Another fight, just another day. It won’t stop. He misses the caravans. He misses Alfie.

     The door swings open and he’s met with a young man, tall and blonde, smiling confusedly down at Tommy, because Tommy’s stoop has turned into a slouch, turned into him trying to crawl back into the ground. This man is alight like only men who haven’t gone to war can be. Has Tommy gotten so old that there are men that haven’t been touched by war just wandering the streets?

    “Morning,” the man says. “Can I help you?”

    “Is Alfie in?” Tommy asks. The man’s eyes flicker down to the flowers in Tommy’s hands. He looks tanned, sunburn across his nose. He probably works with the boats in Margate, catches fish, and sells them on the market. Maybe he sold some to Alfie once and Alfie invited him in. Didn’t let him leave.

    “Uh, yeah, yes, he is,” the man says. “Um. Alfie!” He calls and the familiarity turns Tommy’s stomach. “You’ve got a visitor,” he adds but it’s unnecessary because Alfie is already there, at the door, his eyes fixed on a spot just above Tommy’s head. “He’s here to see you.”

   “Right, thanks, Danny.” Alfie pats the man’s shoulder. “See you next week?”

   “Sure.” Danny smiles politely at Tommy before heading down the lane, whistling to himself. Tommy wonders what Alfie sees him in, if he’s replaced Tommy so easily. How long it had been. Do they fuck in the ocean? Does he laugh at Alfie’s stupid jokes like Tommy never would let himself?

    The door slams in Tommy’s face before he can collect himself.

    “Oh, for fuck’s sake—Alfie!” Tommy hammers on the door. “Let me in, you—you bastard.”

    “It’s not locked.” The voice is coming from just behind the door so Tommy opens it and finds Alfie standing in the hallway, looking impossibly calm. “Alright, Tom? No need to call names.”

    Tommy hits him.

    Because it is Tommy and he is Alfie, and this was their first language, before all the touching and kissing and intimacy. Before Alfie’s love and Tommy’s blindness and everything fucking else. Tommy hits him like no other lover would, hits him like he knows Alfie enjoys, maybe breaks his nose. He hopes he’s broken his nose. Then they’re on the floor and Alfie is pinning him down because Tommy has known from their very first meeting that he’d never be able to overpower Alfie. Not like this.

     “Like a cat in heat. I’ve missed this position, love, missed you squirming underneath me,” Alfie says and actually leans down to sniff at Tommy, nosing along his cheek. Blood drips from Alfie’s nose onto Tommy’s face and he tastes the copper on his mouth. “You been drinking? Taking those fucking pills of yours, doctor sanctioned you try and tell me, as if that makes them good for you.” Alfie’s face contorts into a disappointed frown as if Tommy has let him down just by the mention of the brief time he’d gotten a little obsessed with the pain meds he’d gotten once. That had been at the start of their relationship, as it was, a year after Grace’s death. Alfie had refused to touch him whilst he was on them. He’d flung them into the sea one Friday night, and Tommy had clawed at him, and Alfie had carried him home – not home, to Alfie’s house – and let him sulk by the fire.

    Tommy never thanked him for that.

    “No. Fucking—no.” Tommy stops struggling and glares at Alfie. “I’m sober, Alfie. I am here and I am sober. And I want to fucking talk.”

   “About business? I told you to go to Ollie for all that.”

   “Ollie’s ignoring me.”

  “Right. So, it is business talk you want.” Alfie huffs and lets go of his arms but doesn’t move from where he is straddling Tommy’s stomach. “I’m fucking busy, yeah? I’ve got a life.”

    “Who was that?” Tommy tries to gesture to the door, but Alfie pins his arms down again. “Oh, for fuck’s—who was that? The man…”

    “Danny?”

    “Danny.”

   Tommy’s flowers lie squashed on the floor beside them and Alfie’s eyes travel to them for a moment before returning to Tommy’s face, something like concern in his eyes. “I’m not fucking him, Tommy.” Tommy wonders if he’s always this transparently jealous. “He’s a local boy from Margate. Can’t read properly, see, but needs it for some fancy job in London he’s getting, and too embarrassed to go back to school. I owe his dear old mum a favour so said I’d teach him. Did you bring me flowers?”

    “You once said no-one had ever gotten you flowers. When I was telling you about going to leave some on Grace’s grave.” Tommy had been pulling on his shirt, preparing to leave Alfie to return to the real world. It had been the first time Tommy had ever mentioned Grace around Alfie. Alfie had grunted and said never had flowers given to me before and Tommy had taken it as a slight for some reason. Maybe it was the inference. That Tommy should be giving Alfie flowers as he kissed him goodbye and visited his wife’s grave. “I thought I’d get you some. To—” Fuck it. “To apologise.”

     “Fuck me. Have I finally ascended to the Lord’s Heaven? Tommy Shelby apologising to little old me.”

    “Get off me, Alfie.”

   To his credit, Alfie does. He moves, legs outstretched, to sit against the wall and Tommy regains his breath, curling his legs underneath him as he sits up. He’s forgotten what it’s like to be completely alone with Alfie. How different they both act. How easy it is, the push and pull, how Alfie acquiesces so gently when Tommy asks for something, when there is no-one to prove anything to. How domestic it all is, fighting aside.

    “I’m sorry,” Tommy says quietly. “I’m fucking sorry, alright, Alfie?”

    “What for?”

   “Don’t make me say it.”

   “Forgive me, love, but you’ve been giving me nothing since I told your family that I had a fucking partner. Which might not have been you, by the way, right. Because, Tommy, your form of narcissism, is very well hidden, but I see it. I see all. You assume you’re the only important thing in my life. What if I do have a partner you’ve never met?”

   “You’ve been fucking me for years,” Tommy replies. He wipes Alfie’s blood off his face, but it only smears across his cheek. He can feel it, warm and sticky, on his skin. Alfie smiles delicately at the sight of it and leans forward to rub it away with his sleeve. “And I don’t take you for a cheat, Alfie. Not in this. You love me.”

    Alfie huffs. “You’re doing a lot of talking, Tommy, for a man who normally doesn’t like to talk.”

    “I talk to you,” Tommy says.

    “About business and horses and sex. When have you ever spoken about your feelings apart from to tell me that you didn’t know I thought of you like that. Like we haven’t been together for fucking years. Like you don’t spend hours in my bed, in my house, with my fucking dog.” Alfie’s getting angry now, his eyes bright, and fists clenched at his side. Tommy waits for a punch that never comes. Alfie just stares at him. “Talk to me, then, Tommy. Fucking talk, then fuck off.” Tommy doesn’t speak. He doesn’t quite know what to say. And if he is silent, he’s learnt, Alfie likes to speak anyway just to fill the silence. “I love you,” Alfie confesses after a moment. “You’re right.” It's not the confession Tommy had imagined on the drive down. It is defeated. “I fucking love you, Tommy Shelby. What more do you want? I thought you felt the same. I thought we were partners. Thought we were together. I’ve not touched anyone that’s not you since the first—since the first time. And I know you have, and I know that for you, its business, or not because—well, you’ve got Ruby from Lizzie. But I didn’t mind because I thought maybe it was a gypsy thing. Is it?”

   “I don’t know.” Tommy feels sick again. “No. No, it’s not. It’s a Shelby thing. It’s a fucking fucked thing.”

   “Like us. We’re a fucked thing, ain’t we?” Alfie stands and offers a hand that Tommy takes, hauling himself upwards. “Friends?”

   “No.” The panic clogs his throat. Friends? “No, not friends, Alfie. Jesus. Fuck.”

    Alfie looks confused. “Tom, I’m not going to nothing, right? I love you, whatever that means, I can’t just not see you. I’d—fucking die, I would, right? Not to be dramatic or anything. Nah, that’s not like me, to be dramatic.”

   Tommy manages a choked laugh. Alfie loves him and Alfie wants to see him forever, no matter what. Unconditional love has always been an odd concept to Tommy. Because how easily love disappears when someone sees your ugly side. When you betray them. When you command your brothers to kill their schoolteacher. When you don’t spend enough time with your kids. When you are vulnerable. When you are addicted and mean. When you are looking for salvation. How quickly God and family abandon you then.

     “Alfie,” he says, and he thinks of the conversation with Polly. He’ll never know if he did miss intentionally that day. If he didn’t aim his gun properly. If his feverish prayers for Alfie’s life were heard by God. If Tommy had never wanted him dead. He doesn’t want him dead. He doesn’t want him gone. He just wants.

    Him.

    “Alfie.”

   “Tommy.” Alfie smiles. “Mate, look, you don’t have to let me down gently. I get it.”

   Tommy reaches out and kisses him, cupping his face gently, his hands threading through Alfie’s hair. It’s becoming almost unkempt, but Tommy doesn’t mind. He’ll sit nicely in Alfie’s kitchen and trim it. Because holding scissors against Alfie’s neck is longer a threat. Now a symbol of how much Tommy fucking— “Love you,” he whispers against Alfie’s lips, and Alfie grins, smiling too wide for them to carry on kissing. “I love you.” He doesn’t dare speak it any louder, but Alfie seems to understand. He doesn’t want God to hear him, just in case. In case it all goes wrong. Tommy can’t deck Alfie with cursed jewellery. His mind falls apart as Alfie kisses him, once, on the corner of his mouth.

    “Tea?” Alfie asks.

   “Please.” Tommy’s voice is hoarse, and if he was a braver man, maybe he’d admit that his eyes sting with salt. Alfie offers a gentle smile before leaving for the kitchen. Once the kettle is whistling, Tommy leans down to collect the now trampled flowers from the floor. They’re irredeemably dead and gone, now. Too late for salvation. Tommy glances in the mirror, sees the bruises still on his face from last week’s fight, the spot of Alfie’s blood that they both missed on his cheekbone, sees a smile on his face that feels hauntingly human, that springs back up eerily every time he tries to downturn the corners of his mouth.

    In a past time, Tommy might have felt introspective. Might have felt fear at the humanity spread across his face. The weakness.

    “Tommy!” Alfie calls. The kettle has stopped whistling. “Mate, I’m not your fucking housekeeper. You can fetch your own tea.”

   There is no time to feel fear in this house. No time to second guess himself. Tommy lets his smile settle, and turn into something soft.

   “Coming."