Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s not like it was his first time out of town alone. Much less his first time picking up some money from an old business partner of his dad's.   

The task was supposed to be more of a chore than a job, really. Debt collection. Easy on paper, he just had to go there, say his dad’s name and get the bag. Simple. 

Though the shitty thing about being a Shelby is that nothing can ever be easy. Specially if it had any ties to Arthur Sr. -That fucking bastard- He either sent Tommy to his death, or he didn't care whatever the outcome of this shitshow was. 

When Tommy arrived, it didn't turn sour immediately. At first, he believed his dad was lied to or didn't care too much to gather more information on what was gonna happen. Both options were equally possible. Point being, took him embarrassingly long to realize this was never going to work. 

Now Tommy's fucked, in the middle of nowhere, no guns, no money, just the clothes on his back. Bleeding out on top of it all.  

After some time, it was clear as day that the older man wasn't gonna part with his money so easily and the deal was far from amicable. Turns out that the real job was to get money from some poor sod, who lives two towns over, and is actually being blackmailed by Arthur Sr.  

Tommy could gather that when he saw the man showed up armed and with his three sons. Shit.

Bloody great, eh? So if everything goes well, his bastard father gets some money to piss away; If it goes badly, he just loses one of his sons. What a bargain. 

Outnumbered, all Tommy could do was allow them to search him for weapons. They took his gun and knives straight away and his focus was on trying to not let this escalate. 

Fuckers held him, and there was no way out of this mess. He decided to comply for a moment, wait for a chance to escape, not waste his energy too early. 

Tommy took a brutal beating, punches, kicks, the lot. 

None of it was new to him, the fifteen year old just kept his head down and tried not to look too bothered. 

He didn’t even see the knife, just felt the punch of it as the man pierced him. It was cold while puncturing him, then burning as it came out, followed by the leaky warmth of the blood spreading as it quickly soaks his clothes. 

Suddenly he wasn't so cool anymore. His head was doing laps, panicking, not letting him black out and frantically trying to think of a way to survive. 

Truth be told, Tommy was sure he was gonna be killed then and there when, at some point, what was probably some sort of animal instinct in him kicked in and it was all or nothing. There was no more time to wait for a chance.

He said something mumbled, couldn't remember what, but he called the stupidest-looking one closer, saying he had something important to say. As soon as the ugly fucker was eye level, Tommy used all his strength in headbutting him with the hopes he would knock the guy unconscious.

By some miracle it worked. One of the brutes let go of his arm and knelt down to see his brother.

That wasn’t perfect, but it was better than before. The shock was enough that the arse holding his other arm loosened his grip slightly. 

Tommy reaches quickly and grabs the fire iron the mook dropped when he knelt near his brother. In one swift motion, he knocks the one still holding him unconscious with it.

The dad and the older-looking brother were the only ones left. Before Tommy could act, the older son punched him in the face, getting him to fall and slam his head hard into cobblestone.

He’s not even sure how he managed to escape. All he knows is that his legs moved like never before. Ashamed to be running, but he had no more ideas. 

Tommy didn’t stop until he was sure nobody was following him anymore, hoping they decided to let him go and take the injured duo back home instead of following through on murdering the young man who was way out of his depth.

He shouldn't have believed his father. He should have known better by now. Arthur Sr. was never going to send him to an easy job. If it was really the matter of just collecting money, cunt would rather just go himself, spend it all and never even give a lick of it to his family.

Now he’s paying for his inexperience and stupidity. Even breathing’s painful and he’s so out of his depth, he can feel his whole body shaking with panic and fear.

Part of him is glad to be alone in a situation like this. He would rather die than to let anyone back at home see him like this. Scared, hiding behind a pile of dirty snow in an alley, wanting to cry, shaking and pathetic. 

Usually, he couldn’t give a fuck if they saw him battered, as long as he could still say he came up on top. This… this is as low as it gets. 

He can’t go home empty-handed. His dad's there and he'll get beaten to hell and back for messing this up.

Shit, how did he managed to fuck this up so badly? 

Somehow he gets his breathing to slow down. His lungs are burning, but he’s slowly getting back control over his body, his senses.

Before he can pull his hand away from the stab wound, suddenly he vomits all of his stomach’s contents.

Just what he needed. 

Had been working on gaining weight for Polly’s sake, now today’s efforts had all gone to shit. Was this because of the stress or the injury?

Stab wound to the abdomen and maybe head trauma... He has to do something about it. It’s far from his first time in a situation like this. Tommy’s well aware he’s losing blood and getting weaker and colder by the minute.

Soon enough, he’ll be left with no choice but to bleed out and be buried two towns away from home.

Tommy shifted and pressed harder his shaking hand to his side. Warm blood had already soaked his shirt, sticky and slick against his skin. 

There was no hope to walk around unnoticed anymore, he would grab the attention of anyone who spared more than a quick glimpse. 

He spat curses into the dark. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d made a right mess of this. He rips a piece of his coat and puts more pressure on the wound as he tries to think what to do, where to go.

Despite not wanting to admit to it, he’s scared of going home. He doesn't want to be beaten by his father and he worries his siblings will think less of him for having failed.

A small tear finally falls from his eye. Even alone, he’s trying to keep composed, but he’s overwhelmed. The alley walls press in, people walk nearby and shadows pass in front of him, making him scared to be caught by the men at any second.

His vision blurred. The pain was stronger by the moment. The walls were getting closer. The cold was creeping in. The blood won’t stop.

He spirals out. “What the fuck do I do now?” The young teenager finally lets it all spill out. Cries as quietly as he can. 

He is too far from Birmingham to manage shelter. Too far from anything familiar. No safe door to slip through, no friendly face waiting.

How’s he gonna get the money?

Chapter Text

Through the blood loss and a bumped skull, Tommy is walking in the unfamiliar streets trying to think of his next move. 

Tommy’s breath hitched as he pressed his palm harder against the wound, the sharp ache pounding with his quick heartbeat.

Can’t go home empty-handed. The constant thought was the only thing keeping him moving.

He had to turn this around. There is no chance if he tries to take them all at once. He had to make up a plan. Calm down and think this through.

So far, all he managed to think was that he needed to bait the eldest out then take him when he came close. One by one. That could be the only way to fight them and get out of this.
Soon it will be dark. He’s not gonna survive if he falls asleep on the snowy streets. He had been stripped of money and weapons and now he looked tattered on top of everything else. His coat was ripped and used to hold his blood, his shirt was all stained red and his face was swollen.

What a fucking situation. 

Looking to his side, he saw some abandoned barrels and ropes, getting near, he’s sure he found his way out. 

There’s a bunch of old crates and barrels covered in snow, left behind by someone. 

Moving closer, he grabbed a length of rusty chain lying tangled near a barrel and swung it once, testing the weight.

He did it again, smashing the chain against a row of wooden crates stacked against the wall. They shattered, sending splinters flying and showing the contents left inside.

At first, Tommy believed they were empty, but looking inside the smashed box, he saw the unmistakable glint of a kerosene lamp.

Tommy kicked the nearest barrel hard, toppling it and sending oily liquid spilling across the cobblestones. Maybe he’ll manage to claw his way out of this mess after all.

He'll find a way out in the middle of the chaos. 

Took him a while to sort everything that he needed, but after leaving the alley, he circles back and sets fire to a nearby storage shed that was located right in front of the man’s home. 

When the man and two of his sons rush out to deal with the fire, Tommy sneaks into the house by the side entrance and starts looking for the money, or at least enough valuables to cover the amount his dad sent him for.

He kept low, moving like a shadow, muscles aching with every step. The money had to be here somewhere, hidden or stashed. He heard some noise. Shit. 

Quickly getting inside the nearest cupboard, he focused on calming his breathing and keeping still. It seemed that the twat in the room hadn’t heard or seen him, so he just needed to keep it that way.

Once he heard the steps leaving, he let out a sigh. Tommy decided to give it a moment before he left the cupboard. As he shifted his foot, he felt a bag hidden away in a corner and decided to take a look inside.

Fuckin idiot. So they really had all the money in a bag on a cupboard? Shit.

He picked it up, left the house. He got quite far away, stashed the bag hidden underneath some of the crates on the alley from earlier and put a bunch of snow over it for good measure.

Money’s guaranteed now. He could leave, stumble and crawl back home and tell his family he’s got done in by his dad. But what’s the pride in that?

Those cunts out there are loaded, didn’t need to make all of this trouble when they are sitting on so much more.

Tommy on the other hand, is all tattered and mucky. His clothes are ruined and he’ll need a strong drink to get through Polly’s sewing that gash on his side.

He knows very well his father will just take the money and abandon them again, only to come back when it’s all gone.

So they owe him a lot.

He made his way back in. Maybe it was a foolish move. Could be because of greed, pride, whatever. He was back in now and he was going for it.

At first he just scouted a little, looked for obvious, small valuables while going around the house. He put whatever he could get inside his pockets and felt pretty good about it.

Right, time to leave, then, he should have enough for this whole fucking mess to be worth it. Might even have some good amount left for a good time for himself and his siblings after Arthur Sr. takes off with the bag.

Careful now. Slow. Quiet.

He continued towards the exit, hands trembling, the weight of the cut in his side dulling his thoughts but sharpening his resolve.

Then. 

A cold voice cut through the dark.

“You’re bloody stupid, aren’t you?”

Tommy froze.

From the shadows stepped the eldest son, silhouette broad and threatening, eyes gleaming in the low light.

The family had probably finished tending to the fire by now too. He had been too slow. Stupid indeed, but he had planned for this after all.

No chance to run, but that’s fine. He knew it was likely gonna get down to this at some point.

The cold wasn’t just on his hands and feet anymore, it was all over. He had no more time. Bleed too much. This had to be over soon because he wouldn’t take it for too much longer now.

The older brute got close very fast.

The first blow landed heavy across Tommy’s ribs, driving the breath from his lungs. He stumbled, head whipping against the rough brick wall. The older son’s fist was relentless, pounding without mercy, fueled by anger and sadism.

He stumbled, fighting to keep his footing as the eldest son’s fists continued to rain down. 

“Gotcha now, you little shit,” the man spat, and Tommy’s vision blurred with stars, but he forced himself to stay upright, every nerve screaming in pain. He knew the family would be here any second. They were surely close by already. His only hope was to trust the plan his bonked head came up with while delirious hours ago. 

“What the fuck?” was all the bastard managed to say before Tommy pulled a bottle from his pocket and struck it to the man’s head, smashing it and making the kerosene that had been inside to cover his whole front.
Tommy yanked a match from his pocket and struck it hard against the rough brick, tossing it on the man before he recovered and got any closer to the young Shelby.
The liquid caught fire instantly, roaring to life, flames licking the walls and throwing wild shadows.
The man shouted, panicked, stumbling over himself not knowing how to react or escape the sudden inferno. He moved quickly and without any course plan, just knocking stuff down and setting fire to more and more furniture on his way.

By now, the incessant screaming was surely going to lead the rest of the family to the ample living room, so Tommy needed to keep focused, ready for more.
They charged into the room armed and furious, likely already figured there was a connection between the man screaming bloody murder inside and the sudden fire outside.
In the shock of seeing their family on fire, as well as the room, the men took a moment to process what was going on. Tommy took the opportunity to get close and swing the heavy piece of chain like a madman, catching one son across the skull. The man crumpled, blood seeping from a split scalp.
Great. Two down, two more to go.

There’s no time to fight, he needs to use this chaos, leave the house, go get the money and vanish from this hell hole.

The father stormed towards the young man suddenly in a fit of rage. Tommy twisted, slamming the chain into his ribs, hearing the sharp crack as the man collapsed, gasping.

In another time, if he was feeling fit, he might have left it at that, not beat up an old man like his dad, but now there was no chance he was about to give the cunt a chance to hurt him again.

Tommy gave the fallen man another two good swings of the chain, aimed at his head. He would have done a third, but the man was unconscious and he knew there was another son to deal with.

Chain in one hand, last bottle of kerosene in the other, he prepares to finish off the last one. The stupid guy he headbutted before, but the fucker just ran away. Coward, but fine by him, it just gave him more time.

As Tommy backed toward a narrow hallway, a burning splinter caught him. He yelped, the pain searing hot, and blood welled up again where he’d already been stabbed.

The pain made him pause for a moment. He was alone now. He could take all he wanted, not just random tat.

But the fire was a double-edged sword. He was on a timer, now more than ever.

Smoke thickened, burning his lungs and blurring his vision, but he kept on, grabbing jewellery, silver. He found an empty bag tossed off at some point and started filling it with anything good on his way.

He focused on small items and stuff that would help him look like some proper rich twat. It would help him blend in and hopefully not get any more unnecessary attention or trouble during his trip back home.

Coughing and bleeding, Tommy limped through the smoke and chaos, knowing the men who owned the place were groaning or unconscious in the fiery wreckage he’d made.

Inside the bag, he had likely accumulated more than he had come from. To finish it off, he picks up a pocket watch, a nice hat and trades his battered coat for a much nicer one that was in a cupboard. 

Just before leaving, he makes sure to grab some nice clothes he can change into after he manages to clean up and stuff it inside the bag, covering all the valuables he had taken.

As much as he liked to, he couldn’t take much more, all he got he would have to carry and it was getting more and more painful to move as time moved on. He was cold and weak, the bleeding still hadn’t stopped, it was just slower.

The fire behind him roared higher, hungry flames licking up the walls. Screams echoed. Some of pain, some of panic. Someone was calling for water. Another person was shouting for help. Boots scraped, barrels clattered, a window shattered in the distance.

Too loud. Too big. The whole street would come running now. Coppers, neighbours. He fucked up again. 

Pressing on his way out, he moved, thinking it was almost over. He just needed to get out, reach the alley, grab the money, stop the bleeding, change his clothes, get on a train, and it would all be done. Simple. Simple. Focus.

He dashes forward, hugging the bag of stuff he’s collected close to his chest. Almost done. Almost done.

The bag. The money. Clothes. Train. Home.

His legs barely worked. Each step was a raw drag of bone and muscle, his side leaking warmth that spread down to his hip, staining everything dark.

It’s a simple line, just needs to keep going. Keep running.

Tommy stumbled forward, chest heaving, vision tunneling.

He falls face-first on the snow. Bleeding out and incapable of getting up again. All of his adrenaline had run out. Shit shit shit.

He’s bleeding out not too far from the scene.

He needs to get to the alley.

Alley. Money. Train. 

Just get up.

Just a few more steps. Find a cart. A corner. Anywhere… The alley was his refuge and his ticket out, but for now, if he could only hide, it would be enough. Just… Not get caught now. Please.

He was almost up, put all of his strength into moving again, but his legs buckled before he took a single step. His knees hit stone hard and he was right back where he was seconds ago.

One more time, he tried to push himself upright. Couldn’t. His arm gave out. His head swayed.

The world spun. Firelight blurring with smoke, brick, and shadow.

The simple job had become this noisy mess and he was gonna die here, then. Bleed out, lose the valuables, the money, be buried in an unmarked grave and nobody besides his dad would ever know what happened.

Nothing more he could do. His head was going, barely feeling the cold, the bleed, the bag in his hands, just the faded distant voices now, closer.

“Oi- someone’s down!”

“Lad’s hurt- bad. Get someone-”

Didn’t matter if they were coppers, strangers, or worse.

Didn’t matter at all.

Tommy’s body still wouldn’t react.

Black swallowed everything.

Chapter Text

The first thing he noticed was the smell. Bleach. Soap. Medicine. Sharp and clean that didn’t belong to him.

The second was pain. A deep, gnawing ache in his side that pulsed with every heartbeat, spreading out across his ribs, his head...

His eyelids fought him. Heavy. But he needed to keep moving. It’s dangerous, not knowing where he is.

White ceiling. White walls. The clatter of metal trays and moaning sods mixed with nice women’s voices shushing and cooing.

Then, someone much closer to him. A woman’s voice, soft, calm.

“Oh, there you are, love... You gave us quite the fright, didn’t you?”

His head turned toward the sound. A nurse. Young, round-faced, hands gentle as she dabbed a cloth over his forehead. Her uniform spotless and crisp, apron tied neatly.

“W-...what...?” His throat scraped. Barely a whisper. Felt like speaking through sandpaper.

“Shhh, no need to talk just yet. You’re alright now,” she soothed. “Safe.” She folded the cloth, wiping carefully along his temple where a bruise bloomed dark. “Took a nasty knock, didn’t you? And that stab wound... Lord, lucky someone found you.”

Oh. The stab.

It came back in flashes. The job. Trap. Alley. Blood. Fire. Blood. Boots. Fists. Chain. Fire. Running. Falling.

Right… So where does that leave him now? How come he’s not in jail? Did he die after all?

His fingers grabbed at whatever was underneath, looking for more information, but found nothing but thin sheets. No sticky blood now. No cobblestones under him.

“Hurts...” he rasped, almost without noticing he let the thought out. His side throbbed, a sharp, gnawing burn that didn’t let up despite the buzz of the medicine that was surely running through him now.

“Aye, I’d wager it does.” Her voice stayed gentle, like a mother. Not his mother. A mother. His mother was dead for years now. “Stitched you up best we could. You lost a lot of blood. You rest now, alright? You’re safe.”

Safe. Right. Safe until when?

His eyes drifted shut again, but not before his brain coughed out one thought, sharp as glass through the fog:

Did he got the money?

They are treating him like a lost kid. Right. His bag had nice clothes inside didn’t it? Even the bag itself was expensive. If they knew he was just skint gipsy trash they wouldn’t put him here, that’s for sure.

"Shh, don't speak yet," she said gently, smoothing his hair back. "You've been through enough. Some terrible men did this to you, I heard."

That’s also why this pretty blonde girl is ooing and awing while he tries to talk, calling him a "a poor boy,” not a “thug who got what was coming to him.”

They think he’s just a mugging victim in shock. He needs to leave before they figure out they’ve got it all wrong. He’s not a victim, he’s not an innocent, he’s not posh and he’s not someone they want to tend to.

“Thought we were losing you last night. But you're a fighter, aren’t you?"

Tommy groaned low in his throat, tried to shift, and immediately regretted it. His entire side screamed, sharp and hot.

He sucked in a shaky breath, but even that hurt.

"Easy, love. Don't go moving about just yet."

“Where’s m’stuff?”

“Oh, your bag, dear? Don’t worry, it’s just underneath that chair over there. Sadly we had to get rid of the clothes you was wearing, darling, but once you give us your information, we’ll get your family to bring in some garments for when you’re discharged, aye?”

“Information?”

“Yes, dear. The police will be up soon to get your name, address… you know…”

He nodded, had to pretend this was fine, couldn’t let her know he was gonna leave as soon as she turned her back.

“Even m’coat?”

“Oh, I believe your coat was salvaged. Lucky you! It’s a bit thorn, but if you want it I can get it for you. It’s almost dry.”

Dry? 

“Dry?”

“Yes, love, we’ve cleaned it from the blood and mud.”

In the snowy weather? How long was he here?

“‘Ow long since I’m ‘ere?”

“‘Bout two days now.”

He shut his eyes again, forcing himself to stay still, to breathe, to think.

Can’t stay, police are coming. He needs to leave. 

Can’t stay.

Can’t stay.

The words hammered against his skull. He needs to think up a plan. How far can he go like this?

Slowly tugging at the linens, he touched his side, trying to feel the stab wound, figure out if it was still bleeding, how deep it really went.

Sharp pain flared the second his fingers brushed the stitches. He hissed, jaw clenching. Damp. Warm. Not soaked, but... not dry either. ‘Least they sewed it for him. Could help quite a bit, it was a day’s trip back to Birmingham.

Tommy reaches for his side, trying to feel the stab wound to see how bad was it currently.

“Hey! No, no-none of that,” the nurse scolded softly, catching his wrist. “Don’t pull at it, you’ll tear it open again.”

Her touch was gentle, but it was on his way. His eyes flicked toward the door, the window, the bag sitting under the chair across the room, right where someone had dumped it without realizing what was inside.

If anyone checked that bag...

“I-” His voice cracked. Think, Tommy, think fast. “Could... Could I ‘ave some water?” He winced on purpose, throwing his head back against the pillow. “Please.”

If Arthur saw this puppy face and whiny voice it would be the death of him, but for now he needed to play the “poor boy” routine.

“Oh, love. Course you can.” She smiled again—too sweet, too trusting. She stood, smoothing her apron. “I’ll be just a minute.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Tommy sat up fast. The room tilted sideways and his side ripped with pain, wet warmth pressing against fresh stitches. No time.

He yanked the blanket off, shoved one hand against the wound to hold himself together, and staggered to his feet. His head swam, knees buckling—but he caught himself against the wall.

“C’mon... move...” he hissed.

His fingers fumbled with the straps, but he pulled up the bag, heart slamming against his ribs. Heavy. Still full. No one had opened it.

Thank fuck.

Slinging it over his shoulder, Tommy was about to leave when he looked down. He only had his pants and undershirt on. Hospital’s clothes. Shit. 

There’s no time to dress up, but he’ll freeze quickly if he leaves like this. He picks up the blanket and wraps himself up. 

He gets himself prepared to run and holds the bag tighter. He shoves the door open, teeth gritted against the pain, and bolts down the hallway barefoot, half dressed in hospital linens.

No matter how badly he hurt, no matter if the stitches tore, he’d rather bleed out in the street than be caught by the coppers lying down here like a duck.

Just like that, running like a lunatic, he escapes the hospital and dashes towards the alley.

Alley. Money. Clothes. Train. Home.

He gets there and, by some stroke of luck, the hidden stash is very much still here. 

What’s not so lucky is that at this time of night, there’s no way he’ll manage to get the train home.

Fine. He’ll stay the night and go home in the early morning.

He’s about to pull out the coat he stole, hoping it could help him warm up and survive the night when he sees a nice house with some warm-looking garments he could probably make do with.

Maybe’s best to take them. Keep the nice dressing for the train home. If he puts it on now it’ll get dirty with blood and wet from the snow. Would be a waste.

So he knicks the stuff from the clothing line and keeps walking. At first he considers going to some cheap inn, sleep and then move on, but his paranoid head just wont let him.

He’s fucking scared of being recognized, of being found by the police, the stupid brother, the hospital staff.

In the end, he can’t bring himself to walk around in the open. He can’t fight anymore. He can’t run anymore, so he has to lie low if there’s any hope to endure the night.

He can't move anymore. So fucking tired. His side is burning. 

Lowered head, he walks aimlessly for what feels like hours. He misses Small Heath. Misses his siblings, aunt Polly… 

Misses knowing where he is and knowing what to do, having someone to turn to.
Stumbling his way into another cramped passageway, he wishes he could just go to uncle Charlie’s. Not deal with his dad, questions, money-talk or anything of the sort. 

Charlie usually doesn’t ask him questions, does not press for explanations and never expects him to provide. He just gives him a bed, a warm meal and a ride home in the morning.

That’s all he wants right now.

Sadly, you can’t always get what you want. 

What he’s got now is the narrow and dark corridor between a decrepit chapel and a house.

He manages to find quite a good hiding behind the chapel. He’s ready to slump down and just let his body decide if it wants to wake up tomorrow, when he sees there's a cellar door. 

Maybe he can die in a damp basement instead of the snow covered curb? That would surely make quite a few mates lose some bets.  

Fine. Just out of spite, he moves and gets himself a grip on the handle. It sticks, swollen from the cold, but he yanks until it gives with a miserable screech. The smell hits first. Mildew, old wood, damp stone.

Right. In he goes.

Chapter Text

He stumbles down three crooked steps, nearly eats the floor on the last one. Hand out, fumbling through the dark, he finds a stack of old crates and slumps behind it.

His breath fogs the air. Shallow. Ragged. His side burns hot and wet, but the rest of him’s gone numb. Bone-deep exhaustion. Let it be the floor or the fever that takes me, he thinks. 

Just as his knees buckle fully, something thuds upstairs. Voice. Distant, muffled. Someone lives here.

Brilliant.

Tommy likely looks as poorly as he feels, because the man who comes downstairs takes one look at him and goes instantly from an angry expression into a pitiful sad one.

“My boy, who are you?” The old priest asks. 

Who should he be? 

Well, if it worked once, maybe it could work again. He put on his best posh accent and feigned distress.  

"Oh, father-" 

"Hush boy! You don't need to tell me if you don't want to, just don't tell lies in the house of the lord!"  The man quickly interrupts. Somehow he saw right through Tommy as soon as he opened his mouth.

Thank. Fuck. His head wasn’t apt to do much work right now.  

"There's a room upstairs, boy. You can spend the night. In the morning we'll sort you out."  The hagerty old man helps him up, making Tommy flush from even needing help from such a frail man, but even his pride wasn't enough to get him up anymore.  

They make their way upstairs, slowly and painfully, at least for Tommy. Then the father guides him to a chair and tells him to stay there.

He comes back with a small tin of biscuits and a water cup. Greedily, Tommy eats it all, not having even realized earlier how hungry he had been.
Once the “meal” was over, he was led to his promised lodging for the night.

The room offered was actually a cramped cubby underneath the stairs. It had a tiny door and no bed, just a thin mattress on the floor and a tossed off candle to the side. He wanted to be pissed at the conditions the holy man left him with, but maybe the hit on the head did something to him, because instead of the anger he was brewing for days now, all he felt was this warm nostalgia. 

The walls close, the low ceiling. Smells of dust and old wood. For a split second, the edge in his chest settles. Not because he feels safe, but because it’s familiar in a way nothing in this town has felt so far. 

Feels like that little room, back when it was just him, Arthur, and Ada. John and Finn weren’t even born yet and mum used to get away with having all of her children piled into one tiny space. Arms and legs tangled, one thin blanket they had to share. No privacy, barely room to breathe.

But back then that’s where he felt safe. It was loud. Cramped. Uncomfortable.

Not like this, though

Not alone.

Once again he got this feeling of wanting to go home. Of wanting to be in his bed, with his siblings, with their noise and annoying habits.

When he woke up on the hospital bed, he really despised how much he had hoped it was their kitchen table. That it had been Aunt Polly who stitched him, that it was cheap whiskey lulling him to sleep, and that it was mum who wiped his fevered brow.

Never before he thought a church could bring him such peace and such nostalgia.

He shook the thoughts out of his head. Tommy wasn't a believer, no. His faith was burned down to ash years ago in a caravan alongside his mother.  

Still, it pays to know his way around a place of worship. 

As soon as he’s sure the father is out of earshot, Tommy leaves the nook and looks around the place, looking for anything of use.

He doesn't want any gold, silver or valuables, of course not. What's the point of that by now? Besides, he’s already packed with riches he can barely carry anymore.

Tommy’s not a medic, just stubborn and resourceful. All he needed was some supplies to mend himself up.

Gathering all he could think he could get some use out of, he made his way back to the cubby under the stairs. It was dim, cramped, and unclean. He lights up the candle, setting one he got from the altar near it, preparing for the first one to finish before he was done.

Right. He needs to see what he’s working with. Peeling back the dirty undershirt, he hisses as the fabric pulls at his skin, sticky with dried up blood.

He’s popped maybe four stitches. That’s not too bad. 

That’s all fine then. He has everything he needs to fix it to the best of his capabilities. Desperate and maybe delirious, he splashes water from the chapel font onto the wound.

It stings and does nothing helpful, but it’s what he had and what he knew to do. Clean it. 

Next, he tears the hospital’s undershirt to press against the wound. Make the bleed stop so he can stitch it back up.

He pulled out the small tin with needles and thread. It’s not ideal, but it’s not like he has anything better, so he sews himself up with a needle from the priest’s mending kit he found in a drawer. 

It's filthy, rusted. 

He does three shaky stitches before passing out from the pain.

When he wakes up in the middle of the night, sweaty and scared, he considers finishing the job, but knows he can’t. He settles on pressing it down again with the undershirt and ties it tightly to his body with his belt.

It bleeds through within minutes, but it slows the flow, so he decides to sleep it off. He ends up wrapping himself tight with the hospital’s bed sheets just to stop seeing blood and get some proper rest after all of this.

It could be worse. He's slept on way worse and here he is. Alive.

He'll make it out of this tiny room again.  

Chapter Text

As soon as he woke up, he grabbed all of his things, tightened the belt holding the makeshift bandage that was keeping him from haemorrhaging himself to death, put on the nice clothes he got and left the church in a hurried step, leaving behind the hospital’s sheets as some sort of payment.

Not that they'll be any good. Bloody and filthy, but if the priest was willing to mend Tommy, maybe he’ll be bothered to mend those linens.

What a fucking trip. 

When he got to the train station, there was coppers everywhere. 

He hid behind a wall and listened in on a conversation. Apparently the stupid son of his father’s mark had alerted the police about a criminal that looks exactly like Tommy set fire to his property and will likely flee the city.

Isn't that the best? Now he can’t even buy a ticket and sit nice and comfy on the train. It’s like even when he wants to follow the law and play nice the universe doesn’t let him.
Sneaking to the back of the station, he managed to hide himself in the back of a coal cart heading to Birmingham's general direction. Uncovered, half-loaded. Not a ride built for comfort, but a Shelby never expected comfort anyway.

He bit down hard, keeping the noise inside himself and tried to keep calm while the lawful passengers settled and the time of departure came. He could rest then, when the train started moving.

The rattling start of wheels. The distant shout of workers. The jerk of motion as the cart began to move.

It’s one of the worst travels he’s ever done. He passes out on the journey. Usually that’s a con, but considering his situation, it’s a mercy, really.

He barely remembers getting settled into the cart. Just that it stank of soot and sweat, and he woke up choking on both.

The screech of brakes jolts him awake. His mouth tastes like coal dust and copper. He coughs, but it comes out thin, weak. 

The train lurches, slows, jerks to a stop. He’s still bleeding and somewhat hallucinating by the time he arrives at the train’s destination. 

Could be the wound opened a bit more during the trip. Could be sweat. He doesn’t want to check, so he just moves.

Tommy pulls the stolen coat tighter around himself, grabs the bags, and stumbles. One foot in front of the other. That’s it. That’s all he has to do. 

Still a good walk ahead before Small Heath. He’s done everything else. Now is just home. Get. Home.

He remembers the feeling of utter desperation. No transport, delirious and paranoid, he staggers, half-aware, using alleyways and canals, hallucinating enemies and hiding from nobody real.

A few more hours pass in a fever blur. He doesn’t even remember how he managed to cross town. One moment he’s by the train yard. Next thing he knows, he’s at the canal bridge near Watery Lane, leaning on the cold brick, staring at the familiar smoke-stained roofs of home.

He limps along roads and fields he knew by heart, hiding from police, until he finally makes it to the edge of Small Heath and nearly collapses. So close. He’s got the money, he’s dirty, but dressed up, he succeeded. Now he just needed to get home.

So many people fight to get out of Small Heath. Here he is, doing everything to go back. Funny, that.

When Tommy stumbles to his doorstep, half-dead, filthy, maybe still bleeding, his big brother has a sour look and, despite looking happy, shows all the usual signs of wanting to beat him up to a pulp.

Before Arthur can even think of what to say, Tommy pipes up.

 “Got the money.”

Chapter Text

Wrapped in a coat far too nice for him, Tommy is yanked hard by Arthur, who pulls him violently by the lapel, yelling out of fear masked as rage. 

He steps forward like he’s about to throttle Tommy, “Where the fuck have you been?” 

Tommy doesn't really react to his brother’s outburst, so Arthur shakes him again, “Five fuckin’ days, Tom. Five! Was a job- s’supposed to be done in one!”

Took Arthur an embarrassingly long time to take a proper look at his brother. His anger got the best of him and he’s not proud to say the only thing that made him stop and examine the situation was the wretched moan Tommy’s body produced when he pulled him closer, ready to shake some sense into him.

Once he took it all in, he could see that Tom’s coat hung off him like a curtain. His face was grey under the porch lamp, except for his cheeks, flushed. His lips were cracked and it seemed he was somehow sweating. Nevermind is cold as the devil’s bollocks outside, what with all the heavy snow they’ve been hit with.

Does he look thinner? How does one lose weight visibly in five days? 

Arthur’s mouth opened again, but nothing came out this time. He’s suppressing his initial instinct of mauling his baby brother for what he’s put the family through. 

As much as he deserves it, Tommy’s probably close to collapsing without Arthur’s interference, so he decides to be the bigger person and have mercy on him.

The more he looks at Tommy, more details keep popping up and the image in front of him is slowly unravelling the actual circumstances of his brother's trip.

When  he looks down and sees the wound. There’s no more fight left in him. Arthur pulls him closer and hugs him tight, holding his head against his shoulder and muffling the urge to cry. 

"Right, get inside. Sit the fuck down before you fall down. Polly’ll skin me if you bleed out on the doorstep." He manages while still pressing Tommy’s head against his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Tommy muttered. “Just... little banged up. Not dead.”

He slid his shoulder under Tommy’s arm and half-dragged him inside. “C’mon. Don’t fucking pass out, yeah?” 

They walk in, Tommy barely supported by Arthur, pale and shaky, breath steaming. 

It’s always like this with Tommy. He’s visibly not well. Badly beaten and likely sick, but he doesn’t let himself be carried by Arthur. Not fully. He pushes on, walking unsteadily while shaking, refusing to let his brother take any of his weight. 

As they stumbled into the hallway, Tommy coughed hard “You sick or something?” 

“M’fine. Swear to god. Just... need t’sit down a sec.”

The duo are making their way to the couch when they hear Polly’s heels noisily reaching the ground floor. “Arthur? Who was at the-”

“Pol. don’ make a fuss, ey?

She marched towards the brothers and slapped her palm to Tommy’s forehead. Her face shifted instantly.

“You’re burning up you fool.”

“Just warm blooded,” Tommy quipped.

“You shut your mouth, Thomas Shelby,” Polly snapped.

Arthur grimaced. “There’s more, Poll. He’s got a stab wound or somethin’. ‘E’s soaked through.”

She storms forward, grabs his chin and checks his eyes, his wounds,  tilts his face toward the light, scanning every bruise, every gash. “You daft little sod, what did he do to ya? What did he send you into?!” Her voice is sharp, but her hands are careful. As she manouvers him, pulling his shoes, socks, hat while Arthur held him up before they tackled his clothes. They needed to remove anything that could be hiding an injury.

“Five days, and you come home like this... I should strangle you-” She’s mumbling in a low voice, more to herself. When she removes his coat and sees the state of him, she grabs him in a hug so tight he gasps. “Five days, Thomas. Thought you were in the cut somewhere. Don’t ever do that to this family again, you hear me?” 

The tender moment is short-lived, but so out of the norm that both brother don’t react for a long while, only breaking their inertia once Polly holds Tommy’s face “Don’t you ever disappear like that again.”

“I was gettin-” His answer was cut off by a strangled gasp as his stab wound decided this was a good moment to make him remember that it was still very much there.

“Arthur! Set him on the floor!”

“Was getting ‘im to the couch-”

“Lay him down now! Don’t argue with me.”

Arthur starts to manoeuvre Tommy, but that’s when he notices his brother has two nice, but heavy-looking, bags slung over his shoulders. He goes to pull them off when Tommy repeats himself.

“Got the money, brother!” He says as he raises the bags as if expecting them to throw a party. Arthur doesn’t know how to react for a second.

“’Bout time you showed up—” John enters the room and his eager smile quickly fades. He had heard Tommy’s voice arguing with Arthur and came down to welcome his brother back home. He hadn't expected to see him in such wounded shape. “Fuck! You look like shit, Tommy.”

Tommy laughs, still holding out the bags.

John takes the bags from Tommy’s outstretched hands and sets them aside, gathering from Polly’s face what was going on. He helps them set Tommy down on the floor and keeps nervously glancing between Polly and Arthur for direction on what’s next.

“Just—just let me sit down for a minute, yeah? Bit tired.” Tommy says as he is being lowered.

“You’re not sittin’,” Arthur growled. “You’re going flat down before you drop dead on the rug.” 

Together, the brothers lowered Tommy to the floor, half onto the rug, just shy of the hearth. He was very cold. Polly grabbed a cushion off the couch and stuffed it under his head before he could say anything.

That boy sure knew how to get under her nerves when he wanted to and she could see today’s not gonna be easy.

“I can sit, y’know,”

“No, you can shut up,” Polly snapped. “Stupid boy. You bloody stupid boy…”

Footsteps thundered down the stairs and Ada came skidding into view, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“What’s going on? I heard- Tommy?” She blinked, freezing halfway to the group.

He smiled at her from the floor. “Ada!” 

Was funny, that. Either from the blood loss, the head smash or maybe just the general sick feeling all over his body, but Tommy was actually happy. He spent five terrible days out and and had missed his family after all.

“Go get me clean towels, Ada. And boil water. Now.”

“Poll-”

“Now!” 

Ada flinched, but didn’t argue again. Her greetings to Tommy would have to wait. She hurried past the scene in the middle of the living room and sprinted toward the kitchen. When aunt Polly becomes this fretful, it’s usually best to do as they are told.

John crouched down next to him. “You’re a right knob, you know that? Vanish like that, then show up with a fever, a stab wound and a bloody posh coat?” His words were meant to sound angry, but his amused tone gave him away.

Tommy smiled. “It is nice, innit?” He answered as if bragging.

They are now working on getting him undressed so Polly can check up on the damage. His coat is tossed aside and left forgotten on a chair. The family can see that the rest of his fancy new clothes soaked through.

“Jesus Christ, Tom... What the fuck did dad send you into...” Arthur says as his hands shake as he checks Tommy over. He does his best and tries to act calm, but his face is storming. He proceeds in sharp, tight movements, lips white. Looks like he wants to hit someone. 

As Polly rips his undershirt open, she sees the belt holding the mess of torn fabric together, she winces and takes a breath. “Arthur, fetch a knife. Scissors. We need to get this sorted.”

“Christ...” John muttered.

The stab wound was deep and angry-looking, the edges poorly stitched and surrounded by dark, irritated skin. Some of it was popped open and his whole torso was painted in older bruises. Whoever patched him up didn’t know what they were doing. Or didn’t care.

“Jesus, Thomas! This wound’s… How long ago did they cut you?”

Tommy took a right beating alright. 

Ada burst back in with a pot of steaming water and a bundle of towels, skidding to a stop when she saw his bare middle.

“Oh, Tommy,” she said, surprised.

Polly took the pot and snapped, “John, go upstairs and get the bandages. Top drawer of the cabinet. And the sewing kit as well.”

John bolted while Ada knelt down in front of Polly, voice low. “He’s burning up, Pol. Look at him.”

“I know, Ada. He’s got an infection.” Polly was wringing out excess water from the towel she had just dipped in and started wiping the old blood, soot and dirt off her nephew.

“Ada, start cooling his forehead.” 

As soon as Arthur came in through the door, their aunt asked for his help to get Tommy clean. “When John gets back, I’m reopening that wound and stitching it properly.”

Arthur’s grip tightened around Tommy’s shoulders. His wipes were rough against his skin but slow and light. Desperate to not give him any more pain.

Polly is cleaning closer to the wound. She smacks his shoulder when he flinches. "Don’t pull away. You made this mess, you sit through it."

Tommy's eyes fluttered, half-lidded. “Told you... I'm fine.”

…

Polly finished the last stitch with steady, trained fingers. The flesh puckered tight, angry and swollen, but at least the bleeding was taken care of.

"Done,” she muttered, snipping the thread and dabbing the wound with a homemade salve one last time with her cleanest cloth left. 

Tommy didn’t react anymore. Had gone quiet for a few minutes now.

He hadn’t passed out, but he was drifting. Murmuring things neither of them could quite catch, his eyes half open and glassy, head listing to the side.

“Thomas?” She slapped his cheek lightly. “Stay awake, boy.”

He blinked, breath hitching in shallow, fast bursts. Polly slid closer and cupped the back of his head, lifting it just enough to press a damp cloth against the knot forming behind his ear. Fuck. He’s all out of luck, isn’t he?

The boy’s skin was clammy and far too pale. His lips were starting to take on a bluish tinge.

“John,” she called, “get more wood in that fire.”

John didn’t argue. He was already moving, tossing log after log into the flames.

Behind them, a soft creak came from the stairwell. A small voice followed, sleepy and confused. 

“Aunty?”

John turned around just in time to see Finn blinking at the soft hallway light, hair tousled, feet bare. 

“What’s going on?” he rubbed his eyes, voice warbling. “Is that Tommy?”

He peeks into the room, seeing Tommy a bleeding mess and nearly unconscious, and instantly starts tearing up. John grabs him and keeps him back. 

“Is Tommy gonna die?”

John crossed the room fast with two long strides. “Oi, Finn, s’nothing, alright? Come on. Let’s get you back in bed, yeah?”

“But I heard-”

“It’s alright. He’s alright. Just had a rough trip, ye? He’ll be holding you upside down by tomorrow.”

Finn was hoisted up on John’s arms and looked over his shoulders to where Polly hovered, “‘e don’ look alright…”

John kept moving away from the scene. “Yeah, well, ‘e’s ugly. Always has been.” He said as they reached the top of the stairs.

Polly didn’t turn. Just kept dabbing Tommy’s forehead with careful, steady movements. His fever wasn’t breaking.

"Come on now," she said, tapping a small cup of tea gently against Tommy’s lips. "Drink it. You’ve got nothing left in you, boy."

Tommy stirred, sluggish and pale. His voice cracked, "Don’t want it..."

"I didn’t ask," Polly answered.

Arthur returned from the back room with every blanket in the house and layered them over Tommy’s shivering frame. 

“We need to keep him warm,” she murmured. “He lost too much blood. Keep the fire going. Keep him drinking. If he gets agitated, don’t let him thrash. If the wound starts to swell-”

Tommy stirred under the pile of blankets, groaning low and weak. “I’m fine…”

Polly leaned closer. “Thomas, you keep still, boy. You hear me?” She completely ignored his attempts at pretending to be well.

His lips moved and he opened his eyes desperate, starting to panic until he found Arthur. 

“Don’t you tell dad I fell behind. Don’t...”

Arthur stared at him. “You’re delirious,” he said finally. 

Polly ignored the exchange, just held the cup again to Tommy’s lips. “Sip.” He tried, swallowing small, slow mouthfuls. The liquid tasted like wet herbs and spirits. Not the best thing, but far from being the worst thing she’s made him gulp down.

Throughout the whole night, Tommy kept muttering and mumbling nonsense. Sometimes scared, sometimes angry. 

“Couldn’t get the train an’... The money. Bag’s n’ alley.”

“It’s all over,” Polly exhaled, dry and tired. She wrung the cloth out again and kept at it, not looking up. “You daft bastard.” 

She hated this part. Seeing him suffer through his head’s demons. Waiting to see if he pulled through. “Just keep him cool. Keep the compresses going. Don’t stop talking to him.”

“Dad’s not ‘ere, Tom.”

Tommy’s body trembled with a fresh wave of violent shivers. “I fucked it, Arthur… I- the priest and I set it on fire, the money...”

“Tommy, you’re not in a church. You’re home.” Arthur kept repeating. “You’re already home, Tom. With us.”

His body let out a sound between a choked up cough and a sob. “Don’ tell ‘im. The snow.”

“Alright. Alright, Tom, s’just us here. No one’s tellin’ Dad fuck all.”

Ada hurried in from the front door, cheeks flushed from the cold, arms full. “I’ve got it. Morphine, laudanum, clean cloths, and the nice whiskey,” she said quickly, setting everything neatly near her aunt. 

“Chemist on the corner said we have to pay our tab next time or else-”

“Good girl,” Polly said, not wanting to shift her attention right now. They can figure out everything later.

Ada dropped to her knees beside them and uncorked the medicine. “How much?”

“Just a little, dear, just enough to get his fever down and calm the shakes.”

Arthur reached for the whiskey, twisted off the cap and took a good swig, getting himself a nasty look from his aunt, but he didn’t care. He very much had the shakes as well.

Arthur eased Tommy up, getting his brother’s back supported on his chest and using his hand to lift his head just a bit. 

“Tom? We’ve got somethin’ for you. Gonna help.”

Tommy just moaned.

Ada held the cup to his lips and Polly took his jaw, forcing him to open up. “Come on now, love. Sip.”

He coughed and tried to turn his head, but she wouldn’t let him pull away.

“It’s just a bit of whiskey,” she lied. “Won’t hurt.”

He finally sipped, grimacing like a spoiled toddler and Arthur quickly put his hand over his brother’s mouth, making sure he wouldn’t spit out any of it.

Took a few seconds, but Arthur didn’t let up and eventually Tommy swallowed the bitter liquid down. Then coughed again.

Arthur never liked having to give Tommy medication. He didn’t enjoy being rough when his brother was already down, but it was usually what it took to get the job done.

“There you go,” Ada murmured, wiping his mouth with the corner of a blanket.

Tommy’s head lolled towards Arthur. “You’ll tell Charlie, yeah? The priest was alright... let me sleep in the... in the stair…”

“We’ll tell him,” Arthur said, voice rough.

Tommy didn’t answer that time. No more nonsense. His body went slack, eyes slipping shut.

“Is he…” Ada started.

“Just asleep,” Polly answered, hand on his head. “Let him sleep.”

The room finally quieted.

…

Tommy blinked awake to the firelight flickering low across the floorboards. He shifted, winced, and hissed between his teeth as his side throbbed, slow and deep. Everything felt stiff. Heavy. He was tangled in at least three blankets, and he could hear someone snoring faintly. Arthur, probably, crashed out in the armchair nearby.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, and Polly was already moving before he could sit fully. She crossed from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.

"You’ve got about as much common sense as a house mice, Thomas. Lie back."

“I’m not staying down ‘ere,” he croaked. “I can walk fine. I’ll go up to me own bed.”

Polly raised a brow. “Like hell you will.”

Tommy tried again, tossing the blanket off. He got halfway upright before Arthur stirred in the armchair as if his little brother had set off an alarm inside him. “Tom,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep, “shut up and lay back before you fall.”

While Tommy sighs and falls back, Ada walks into the room.

“you want to go freeze your arse upstairs in that draughty room?” She asks.

“I want a bed,” he said flatly.

“You’ve got one,” Polly motioned to the cot. “Right there. Pillows, covers, cushions, your brother’s awful snoring, what more could you want?”

“Privacy?”

"You’re cold. You have to stay here now." Ada said. The living room was the warmest place in the Shelby home. It had the best fireplace and the plus side? They could keep an eye on him.

Polly peeled back the blood-specked bandages from Tommy’s side. He didn’t make a sound, but his jaw clenched tight and his hand gripped the edge of the cot.

“Nearly done,” she murmured, voice low and focused. She dabbed gently with clean cloths, sweeping away the mixture of sweat and salve around the wound. His skin was hot to the touch, still fighting the fever. The stitches looked tight, but the bruising had darkened. 

“Tomorrow, we’ll get you properly cleaned. You smell like a chimney.” Tommy exhaled through his nose. “You’ll need a proper bath. We’ll wrap the wound, keep it dry. I’m not having you rot from the outside in.”

He gave a tired chuckle. Tommy was still trying to play his injuries down, but his face was pale. The blood loss and the infection that had set were both worrysome.

Arthur wrapped him in fresh linens, then settled the blankets back up to his chest. He slowly sank into them, too worn out to argue or joke anymore.

Hours later, when they are setting him up for a proper sleep at night, Ada sneaks into the room while Polly is checking his dressings. She brings with her one of her old knitted blankets. "Can I sleep next to him, aunty? Just for tonight? So he doesn’t go anywhere."

Polly looked up from the basin. Her eyes softened. “Alright, love. Just mind his side. Don’t kick him in the night..”

“I’m not gettin’ in with him,” Ada laughed. Sometimes it’s like Poll forgets they’re not tots anymore and there’s no way they can share a cot. Only Finn can still fit with them in a small bed. All the others would need to go to the main bedroom and get the big bed. “I meant the couch.”

Before Polly could reply, Arthur’s voice chimed in from behind them. “Was already planning to stay.”

He emerged from the hallway, then dropped a pillow onto the big chair and sank down with a quiet grunt.

“Wasn’t leavin’ ‘im alone tonight,” Arthur said, shifting until he was settled deep into the cushions. He let out a deep moan as if he was an old man who’d spent the whole day on the farm doing labour. “Not after all that bloody screaming and delusions from earlier.”

What Arthur was scared to admit to, was how close Tommy’s hallucinations and crazed, fevered mumblings reminded him of their mother before she passed. The both of them were quite similar in many ways that went way beyond looks. 

There were many times when Arthur looked at his brother and felt the painful tug of the terror that Tommy might also follow their mother’s fate.

Ada glanced at him, then at Tommy.

“Alright then. We’ll split shifts.” She gave a small nod. “You guard, I nurse.”

Polly watched for a moment and finished up sher handiwork while the kids settled, then dimmed the lamp. “Call me if he gets worse.”

“Alright,” Ada whispered, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and curled up, knees pulled to her chest, watching her brother’s chest rise and fall. His breathing was easier now. Thankfully, it looked like they tended to him in time to avoid a chest cold. The injuries and infections were already enough.

“I just… Did he tell you what the hell happened?” she asked Arthur in a whisper.

Her big brother didn’t answer right away. Just looked over at the boy on the cot. “Not really. Said the job wasn’t like dad said… But dad didn’t tell me shit, so I don’t know what ‘e meant.”

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” Arthur finally said. “Right now, ‘e just needs to sleep.”

Ada nodded, snuggling deeper into the blanket. Arthur leaned his head back, crossing his arms. For a long moment, the room was quiet again, silence only breaking when Tommy stirred, breath hitching, but didn’t wake. 

Arthur shifted forward and rested his hand lightly on his brother’s arm, hoping it was enough comfort for him to settle and not wake up. “You’re alright, Tom.” He turned to Ada. “I’ll take first shift.”

…

Ada stirred under her blanket, wincing at the crick in her neck. She blinked against the dim, blinking toward the cot and stilled at the sight.

Her brother was awake, brows furrowed and jaw tight. She could see dimly his hand gripping the blanket bunched up at his stomach. He was trying to breathe quietly, probably trying not to wake anyone.

She pushed the blanket off and crept closer, crouching beside the pale man in the cot. “Tom?”

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. You alright?”

“M’fine,” he said quickly, almost even before she finished the question, but then clenched his teeth and let out a shaky breath when he shifted. 

Ada reached out and brushed the damp hair from his forehead, careful not to touch the bruises. “Where’s Arthur?”

Tommy exhaled. “S-said to wait up.”

Ada stood, glancing toward the kitchen. She started rummaging through the small box Polly set nearby. Clean linens, bandages, clean water, salve, laudanum, the half-empty bottle of whiskey. She uncorked it and sniffed it, grimacing. “You need something for the pain?”

“Hmmm.” Tommy didn’t answer right away. “Wouldn’t say no.”

Just then, Arthur stepped in from the kitchen, clutching a small bottle. “What’s all this?”

“Was gonna sort him something,” Ada said, relieved. She had some knowledge on how to fix up an anesthetic, but she wasn’t too confident about it.

“I’ve got it.” Arthur crossed the room and handed Tommy the bottle. “Here. Took the edge off it with hot water.”

Tommy pushed himself up with a grunt, making Arthur stumble forwards, moving to support him up, as if he had forgotten Tommy’s side was stitched up and he wasn't supposed to be straining his muscles. When Arthur held him up, he took the bottle back and put it to Tommy’s lips.

Their brother didn’t seem too happy at the loss of independence, but he just leaned back, letting his big brother bear his weight and sipped. He coughed once but managed to hold it down.

Ada sat beside him again, eyes switching between her brothers. “How’s the pain?”

“Manageable,” Tommy muttered. “That’s the word, innit?”

She rolled her eyes. “Idiot.”

Arthur laughed, resting his hand lightly on the blanket near Tommy’s ribs. “You’ve been through worse,” 

She hesitated, then moved closer, brushing her thumb over the edge of the blanket.

“What happened, Tom?”

He looked at her, but didn’t answer.

“You were supposed to be gone one day,” she said softly, voice catching. “One day. And you came back bleeding all over and- Christ, Tommy-”

“Ada. Don’t.” Arthur cut in.

“I just want to understand,” she said quickly. “He was gone for five days, Arthur. Dad said- I thought he was-”

“Yeah. So did I.” Arthur’s voice wasn’t unkind, but firm and tired. “Let him rest.”

She wasn't settling. Eyes going from one brother to the other, wanting to keep pressing. After a few seconds, Tommy had already closed his eyes. Either from the medicine taking effect or just evading the conversation.

From the big chair, Arthur repeated. “Ada, let him rest. He don’t need to be diggin’ through that right now.”
 
She swallowed hard and nodded, defeated. Neither brother would back her up now. Her eyes stayed on Tommy. She leaned forward, placing her hand over his.

“I just… I was scared.” When he opened his eyes, she leaned over and hugged him,
Tommy’s eyelids drooped, the pain dulling again with warmth, medicine, and quiet. She continued to hold him for a while. Could feel his breathing eased as the pain faded.
He went still for a second, caught off guard. Didn’t hug back. But she didn't care. Just proceeded to bury her face in his chest.

"Careful, Ada! He’ll split a stitch." 

“S’alright,” he breathed, trying not to grimace. “Not ‘urt. Just a bit... sore.”

After the death of their mum, Ada was petrified of having to attend the funeral for another loved one. These past few uncertain days, Tommy’s disappearance had made her know a new fear. The fear of not even having that privilege. Not even getting to say goodbye.

She blinked at him, eyes already stinging again. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“You’re gentle like a fucking ‘orse. That’s all.” Tommy laughed. It was the first time she heard it in what? Six days now was it? 

Arthur watched them both with his arms crossed, eyes quiet.

“Alright,” he said after a beat. “No tears now. He’s back. That’s all that matters.”

Ada didn’t answer. She nodded, but her position stayed the same for a while longer, holding her brother like she hadn’t ever since they were very little.

“Apologies,” Tommy said. “Didn’t want you cryin’, Ada.” 

…

Early in the morning, Finn stood quietly at the edge of the hallway, clutching the wooden bannister with both hands.

He’d crept down the stairs as soon as he woke up, still in his nightclothes, hair sticking up on one side. The house smelled like boiled medicine and smoke. He’d heard voices murmuring, Ada laughing softly, the fireplace crackling.

Then he saw Tommy.

Finn froze halfway down.

His big brother was curled up on the cot in the sitting room, wrapped in thick blankets, face pale while Ada pulled bandages away from his torso. One arm was resting outside the cover, bruised and scabbed. It looked like John’s leg that one time he stepped into the campfire during an outing.

Ada spotted him first. “Finn? Come here, love.”

He didn’t move. Still too startled at the image of his brother. “Is it… Tommy?” 

Tommy stirred at the sound of his tiny voice. He opened one eye, heavy-lidded, trying to focus. “Oi,” he called, offering a ghost of a grin. “You’ve got taller?”

Finn didn’t smile. Actually, he didn’t react. He just stood there, shaking his head slightly, eyes shiny, trying to process.

“No…”

“Oh, I know, I know,” Tommy said, trying to sit up more, only to grimace and fall back a little. “Not my best look, eh?”

Ada crossed over to Finn and crouched beside him. “He’s gonna be alright,” she said softly, resting a hand on his back. “He’s just tired, and sore. But he’s fine. It’s just Tommy.”

Finn didn’t answer right away. Then he whispered, “Is he gonna die?”

“No,” Tommy answered hoarsely, before Ada could speak. “Takes more than a few bastards to kill me, y’know.”

Finn looked uncertain. After a long pause, Ada nudged him forward. “Go on. Say hi.”

The boy took one step forward. As soon as his eyes found the basin full of bloody cloths from Tommy’s recently changed bandages, he turned back and ran to his room as fast as little legs could move.

It’s not that Tommy didn’t think that his family wasn’t going to worry about him. It’s just that he miscalculated how much they would be affected.

Chapter Text

Telling by the light coming from the window, it was soon going to be mid-day. So he must be alone now, everyone’s got their chores and school and stuff.

The fire had burned low, but there was still enough warmth clinging to the walls and blankets to make the air comfortable.

Tommy stirred under the pile of covers, groggy and sore all over. Fever still lingered, but it wasn’t trying to boil him alive anymore.

He was grateful for waking up exactly where he wanted to be for the last few days.

Across from him, curled up on the couch with a blanket over her legs, Ada blinked awake. She was stiff from the awkward sleeping position, but the second she saw her brother shift and grunt, she was upright.

“You stayed ‘ome?”

“Didn’t want you waking up alone.”

Tommy didn’t answer. He looked drained, eyes still glassy. Night and early morning had been rough on him. There were some better moments, but his fever was relentless.

She tapped his cheek lightly. “You in there, or do I need to go out to fetch Polly?”

“M’fine,” he mumbled.

“You kept muttering nonsense. Told me to tell a nurse something about a chain and... matches?” she said softly, standing up and crossing over. 

“...Sounds about right.” Tommy blinked like he barely remembered. 

Ada knelt by him, resting a hand on his cheek. Still warm, but less alarming. “Fever’s down. A bit.”

She got up. “Stay there a bit, I’ll be right back. 

When Ada returned, she had a bowl of something in one hand and a small bottle of medicine on the other. She helped him to the couch, sat down right next to him and got ready to feed her older brother.

“I can eat by meself, Ada!” Tommy tried to reach for the spoon, only to grab at air. No match for Ada’s much faster reflexes.

“If you could, you would have eaten yesterday’s dinner instead of hiding it!”

“It’s because it tastes awful.”

“Is what you deserve after being gone,” she muttered back. “Could’ve written us a letter, couldn’t you? Open up.”

He eventually gave in, letting her feed him. She spooned the broth into his mouth slowly, making sure he was eating like Polly ordered.

“There’s more dignity in death.”

…

He hoisted him up again and yelled, “POLL!”

Arthur hadn’t been long home when Ada told him Tommy was still somewhat out of it, but she managed to get some food in him. Kinda pointless, because hours later, it seemed like he was vomiting more than what he ate.

“She’s not in. Gone with Finn to the shops get more bread!” Ada shouted from the kitchen where she was boiling water for them to give their brother a proper clean before he catches the plague with all the filth he came home with.

“Easy- easy now,” Arthur said, trying to be comforting, though he wasn’t the softest person. “Let it all out, yeah? Nothin’ left in you anyway.”

He’s still burning up. Arthur places a fresh wet cloth on the back of his neck while his head is down, getting sick in a bucket.

“Who of yous let Ada cook?” Tommy shouted despite his aching throat, teasing his sister who was somewhat nearby.

“Polly did it! You wanna complain, you take it up with her.”

Arthur and John snickered as Tommy’s answer was another retching sound thrown into the bucket before he fell back into the cot dramatically when it passed, shivering, teeth chattering from fever and strain. Arthur moved and pulled him back up, shifted closer and muttered, “Bloody hell, Tom. What’ve you done to yourself…”

“Think you done?” Arthur asked after a few minutes. John had just managed to get the bathtub in the living room and was going to the kitchen with Ada to fill it.

Tommy nodded, looking absolutely pathetic despite the attempts at hiding it.

Ada and John got the tub filled with warm water. Just enough to be relaxing while still not all that warm that would bring his fever up.

“Alright. Up you get.”

“I can do it m’self,” Tommy said, clearly lying.

“Don’t,” Arthur warned. “Just let us help, eh?”

Arthur crouched beside John and helped ease Tommy gently into standing up. His undershirt clung to him, half-soaked in sweat, blood and soot. It had been a clean one they’d got him in before he went to sleep, but him being filthy and sick, it was quickly dirtied up. 

John got under his arm and kept him upright, letting Tommy lean all his weight.  “Christ, you’re heavier than you look,” John complained. “How the hell d’you still weigh this much?”

“Solid muscle,” Tommy smiled.

“Solid bollocks,” John laughed and Ada slapped his shoulder. 

He was actually lighter than he should be, Six days of no food had taken away more than what he thought they could. Not only the weight, but his brother’s skin was clammy and pale. 

John held him while Arthur and Ada peeled off the sweat-soaked undershirt. Underneath, dark bruises still bloomed across Tommy’s ribs, yellow and deep purple. 

John then removed off what was left of the bandages and his pants.

The bandages had been recently changed by Ada, but Poll had already said before leaving that he needed a proper clean, so they wanted to get it done while the pain medicine was still fresh in his system.

The stitched wound on his side was red, puffy and ugly, but holding steady. Didn’t look worse than before, that is. His back was raw in places. Looked scraped from stone or brick, and his arms bore patches of irritated, blistered skin where the burns had started to scab.

Tommy just looked away when he saw John’s brow furrowed. “Jesus, Tom…”

Before Tommy knew it, He was completely naked in the half-full bath with Arthur standing behind him, sleeves rolled, and a basin of warm water ready on his side. Ada had set around them towels, a clean change of clothes, loads of soap, and salve laid out before leaving the room to do who-knows-what. 

“Tom. Come on,” Arthur muttered, starting at his neck with a wet cloth. “Let’s get this filth off.”

In the wash basin, steam rose faintly from the warm water they’d prepared. Arthur grabbed a cloth and went from the neck to the shoulders while John helped Tommy get his hair wet.

Arthur was slow and gentle, but he wasn’t so calm. Fully removing his brother's clothes and getting so close to his injuries with this bright lighting was a harrowing sight. 

Tom’s just 15 for fuck’s sake! He’s not supposed to have a stab wound already. He knocked his head, that’s dangerous. There’s men out there that go mad after that sort of thing. On top of it all, why’s he got burn marks on so many random places? Scabs and scratches… Looks like someone fucking tortured him, that’s what he looks like.

Dad said it was simple. Just collect some cash. How does that go sideways?

He remembers the third day. When Poll asked him where he sent Tommy to. Dad refused to give ‘em the location. Said Tommy was likely gone already. Either got himself dead or ran away with the money.

Nobody would ever believe Tommy would run away.

But dad just refused to let up where Tommy was. Ada begged and begged. Arthur tried his best too, but none of them managed to get a word from the man. Just a beating.

Fourth day, dad took off. Said he had better things to deal with and couldn’t wait for Tom's return. Truth was, they were sure Polly was ready to shoot him on the face while he slept. 

When he was gone, everything was calm on the outside, but they were also left with no hope of figuring out Tommy's location. They were completely doomed, trying to think of where to look. He had clearly left Birmingham. Could be anywhere.

The water turned murky fast. It took away all the coal dust, dried blood, caked-on grime they couldn’t manage in yesterday's hurried frenzy, when all they wanted was to locate and treat injuries.

Arthur let his mind wander while he washed Tommy’s arms gently. The burns didn’t look too bad, though his baby brother flinched and tried to take the cloth, saying he could do it. “Don’t fuss. I used to do this when you were a baby.” He said when Tom tried to pull away. 

“Don’t remember you ever was this motherly.” His touch was gentler than Tommy expected. Gentler than Tommy remembered.

Eventually, maybe the warm water or just the feeling of being clean, but he finally feels his tense muscles relax. He moans and leans back, panting and knackered. John goes to his side with a new cloth and tries to clean his face, “Knew you were fine, Tommy! Where’d you go?“ John finally sees an opening and decides to take it.

He is so happy his brother’s home, he just beams. Tommy’s got the best stories. Always. 

“Was two towns over… that place with the church bell Ada kept asking to see once, yeah?” Tommy said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

It did explain why he took so long, but this just wasn’t enough.“I know you’re knackered, but... what the hell happened?” He pressed as he cleaned Tommy’s other arm. There were long streaks of soot embedded in his skin, fingers bruised and knuckles split. He threw some good punches alright.

Tommy blinked slowly, fever-dazed, but now John thinks he’s more guarded than what he initially thought. 

“Was blackmail… Dad was blackmailing a guy about a deal, I think? I didn’t know about it. Just… fucked up, had me guard down and got outnumbered.”

"So, what the fuck happened to your face? Was it a fight? How many blokes? Did you win?" He doesn’t wait for an answer before poking a bruise, making Tommy flinch, but he knew it was mostly for show. He doesn’t moan when he’s in actual pain, just when he wants to be annoying. 

“Bloody hell, Tom… you’re covered in burns.” Arthur interrupted while he started pouring water down his back with the help of a rag. 

"You look like shit, Tom." John continued, eager to know about the trip.

“John. Not now.” Arthur starts, but, surprisingly, Tommy answers.

“I... I got the money, set a house on fire and escaped” he said hoarsely. “Wasn’t meant to go sideways.”

“That ain’t an answer,” John snapped when it was clear Tom wasn’t going to say anything more. 

He wanted to hear the full story. The fight, punches, Tommy’s plans, how he’d outsmart and win… It had been five days. He was very much owed a proper adventure account. Especially now that he had been teased with the prospect of a house fire? Things must have been drastic for him to decide to not fly under the radar.

“Let ‘im rest, John! Fuck’s sake!” Arthur exploded, looking fucking angry.

There’s a tense beat and then he stood up and moved to the other end of the tub. “Feet too,” Arthur said. “Up.”

They helped him lift one foot at a time. John’s breath caught when he saw the state of them. Blistered, cracked, and bruised. That’s what you get when you walk deliriously through the whole town.

He so desperately wanted to prod for more… But for some reason Arthur had been on the edge lately, so John didn’t want to get into a fight.

Tommy was trembling by the time they were almost done, body clearly overworked and barely holding itself upright anymore. John moved behind him, steadying his shoulders and they helped Tom up again, wrapping him up in a nice towel and moving him to sit on the couch.

His skin, now clean, looked even worse in the morning light. Every muscle seemed strained, like his whole body had been stretched too far and was now fraying at the edges.

...

When Polly came back home, the house was far from noisy like it usually was, but she was delighted to see that the heavy silence that had been plaguing them was gone. 

She entered the living room, releasing Finn’s small hand and letting him run off. Her focus shifted into breaking up John and Arthur’s fight. It was almost a reflex by now.

Looking around, the room is a right mess. 

The cot in the way of the hearth, the tub was downstairs and empty, but there was water on the floor. Towels were thrown over the chair, clothes all around, bandages, trash, bottles, chairs… All scattered everywhere. She needs to tell the boys to fix this. Having an invalid home is no excuse to let things get this bad.

Her eyes quickly catch sight of something unusual underneath a chair. The bags, heavy with the very thing that had almost cost Tommy his life, sat unceremoniously under that chair, by the wall, gathering dust.

Tommy. Her nephew didn’t look much better yet as far as she could tell. Those bloody bags. To think that she could have lost another child just like that… because of whatever was inside of those damn things.

The boys called her attention, saying they got Tommy bathed and dry. She nodded and told them to put the groceries away while she bandaged him back up.

“What took you so long to come back home, Tom?”

“Was just takin’ m’time,” Tommy joked, “Sightseeing, eh?”

“Shut up. You’re not funny.” She frowned. This boy and his secrets. “You look like a bloody ghost.” 

“Don’t fuss. It’s embarrassing,” he muttered. “Let me die in peace.”

She rolled her eyes. “Lie still and let me work.” It was clear as day he wasn't going to talk to her. Her sister in law’s death had weighed very heavily in each one of the kids. Tommy changed a lot with it. Didn’t tell Polly as much as he used to. It seemed he had taken a step back from his life. 

Sometimes he still looked like the cheery little boy she knew, but it was rare nowadays. Mostly, Tommy either joked around, avoiding being serious, or he kept to himself his feelings.

Well, at least kept them from Polly. Maybe his siblings or Charlie had been privileged with the boy’s emotional side. She couldn’t know.

“Don’t be mad, Pol… job’s done… I did it…” Her face must have been particularly stern. Or maybe her words were harsher than she intended, because Tommy’s not one to try and get her to cheer up.

Boy’s not gonna tell her what happened, but wants her to be happy about the job being done.

“It’s done, Thomas. But if this is the cost, I wouldn’t say it was worth it.”

...

Ada found Finn sitting on the stairs, tucked into the corner. His knees pulled to his chest, a half-eaten biscuit clutched in his hand.

He had his arms wrapped so tight around his knees, chin pressed hard against them. His small face was blotchy, eyes puffy, and red-rimmed. He didn’t even look up when she stepped close. 

“Finn? You hiding?” she asked, crouching down beside him. “Been lookin’ for you, love.”

Finn shrugged, not answering. His lip wobbled a little.

“You want to tell me what’s got you like this?”

He mumbled something into his knees.

“What was that, love?”

“I don’t like how he looks,” Finn whispered, thin and wobbly.

“Tommy?” Ada’s chest tightened, she took a quiet intake of breath. Part of her already expected it, but it didn't make this any easier. “Looks a bit different, yeah?”

Finn nodded, biting his lip hard and still not looking at her.

Ada exhaled slowly, then reached out, her fingers gently smoothing his tangled hair away from his face. “He’s a bit busted up, yeah. He looks rough now, but he’s gonna be okay.” She paused, her hand resting on his head. “You got scared?”

Another shrug, this time tighter, his whole body tensing. Finn sniffled, a sharp, choked sound. “He looked… bad. Really bad.” 

“I know, love, he got hurt. But he’s home now, yeah? He’s warm, he’s clean, he’s got Polly bossin’ him about and Arthur feeding him broth like he’s an old man.”

Finn didn’t laugh. He just rubbed his eye roughly with a fist, trying to push away the image of Tommy's bruised face. Ada let the moment hang in the air for a moment, letting the silence settle around them.

“Tommy missed you, you know,” she said after a long pause. “All five days he was gone he said. He asked about you earlier too.”

“Really?” Finn’s head lifted, his puffy eyes finally meeting hers, wide with surprise. 

“Course he did. More than once.” Finn blinked hard, then quickly wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“He didn’t look at me when I came 'ome.” 

“Well, he didn’t think you wanted to see him. You ran off, didn't you?”

“I got scared. I... I didn’t mean to run off.” Finn squirmed, his knees digging into his chest. “He scared me…” 

“I know, love,” Ada said, her voice full of understanding, pulling him closer. She opened her arms, inviting him. “He knows too. He’s not mad at you.”

She remembers the first time she saw Arthur all battered. The boys had gotten into a fight with some blokes from the other street. They all limped home noisy and smiling.

The tree of them, idiots, wrecked and tattered, saying they gave a good beating back. They were all busted, bloody and scraped. None of that was new.

What was new was that someone got Arthur's eye closed and so swollen that it looked like it was about to pop out of his face, so big it got. 

Ada, the youngest back then, immediately ran off. Much like Finn had just earlier. Back then, it was her mum that came up to her, trying to soothe her and explain what was going on. 

She wonders if mum also did the same for John... Tommy... Arthur...

Were the older boys ever scared of this too? Or were they just fine with it? Considering they were usually the ones who came home looking mangled.

“C’mere.” He called Finn when he didn't move. He looked at her just for a second, then scrambled into her lap, burying his face against her chest. She wrapped her arms around him, rocking him gently, rubbing small circles on his back. The warmth of her made some of the tightness in his chest ease.

“I think you’d make his whole day if you went downstairs and said hi.”

“Will he be mad at me for bein’ scared?” Finn mumbled into her shirt. 

Ada leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “No, love. He’ll be glad you came.”

“Even if I cried?”

“Even if you cried. He was real excited to see you, and when you ran off, he thought maybe he looked too bad. He said after he didn’t mean to scare you.”

Her baby brother lowered his head, still didn’t look like he was gonna comply.

“Tommy’s gonna be sad if you don’t go see ‘im. Wasn’t you the one saying just yesterday how much you missed ‘im? Now he’s ‘ere and you don’t even give your big brother a hug?”

Finn chewed on his lip, guilty, but Ada knew that it would do him good to get over this. She didn’t want to force him, but she was getting desperate.

“Want to come with me? Just to say hi? You don’t have to stay long. You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want. Just sit with him a minute?”

Finn hesitated, his body rigid in her lap, then gave a small shake of his head.

“Okay, you don’t have to go see him yet,” she said, “But when you’re ready... he’s in the living room. I know he wants his little brother close, even if he don't say it.”

Finn didn’t answer, just stayed pressed to her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart for a long while.

“I don’t want him to see I was scared,” he whispered after a long pause, his voice still small. “I don’t want him to think I don’t like him like that.” 

“Oh, Finn.” Ada smiled and squeezed the small boy. “He was upset you didn’t come see him, you know. Been looking around like he’s expecting you to show up and tell him how things have been.”

Finn blinked at her, eyes round. “He was?”

“He missed you. A lot.” She tilted her head, gently trying to catch his eye. “You can still be scared, you know. It doesn’t mean you don’t love him. You just didn’t expect your big brother to look like that, yes?”

He didn’t answer, but she saw something shift in his face. 

“I'm going downstairs now. Just sit with him a little. Must be bored out of his head being told to keep off his feet. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. But he’d just be glad you’re there.”

She stood up and Finn hesitated, his eyes flicking towards the living room doorway.

He didn’t follow her out.

...

When the water was finally drained from the room and his wounds redressed, they helped him into the softest shirt they had, worn from years of washing. John dried his hair with a towel while Arthur wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

“Would you look at that, Tom?” Arthur took his brother’s face between both of his hands and pulled it, kissing the top of his head and then wiping his face, getting rid of the moisture from Tommy’s wet hair. “Cleaned and fed, eh? Like a proper invalid.” Arthur jokes and Tommy’s answer is a punch on his stomach.

Ada, John and Arthur managed to get the living room all sorted following Polly’s shouting fit about the mess. For the first time, Tommy didn’t seem bothered to be too hurt to be up and about.

Tired, the siblings all settled down on the couch, who didn’t want to lay back down on the cot. Wanted to be awake with them for a while.

Before sitting, Arthur neared the armchair where Tommy lay bundled under a mountain of blankets. wrapped now in clean clothes and warm blankets. 

"Here. You earned it. Don’t tell Polly." He said, pulling a small bottle from his pocket and handing it to Tommy. 

She knew very well that Arthur spent the last days on edge, worrying Arthur Sr. had gotten Tommy in some serious trouble alone. He likely did. Ada knew her dad, even though most days she wished she didn’t.

It took both Ada and John’s incessant questioning to get Tommy to agree to tell them what happened. Even tougher, Arthur to allow them to bother Tommy.

He hesitated at first, but then forced the words out.

“Our dad lied. Again. Said I just had to pick up a bag, shake a hand, and come home. It wasn't just a pick up. They were posh cunts who were being blackmailed. They hit me right away. I was outnumbered. Got stabbed...”

A stunned silence hit the room. Ada’s mouth opened, but she said nothing. John’s brows furrowed. “And?”

“I ran. I ran like a coward.” He was pale. Didn’t look proud.

“You’re not a coward,” Arthur said, but Tommy kept going. “I found a place to hide for a while.”

John squinted at him. “Alright. So what went wrong?”

Silence.

“Was just a bunch of… It-” He sighed. “Everything. Everything went wrong. I did all wrong from start to finish and left a big mess behind.”

“Start from the beginning, Thomas,” Polly’s voice piped up from the doorway and that’s when they noticed she had entered the room. 

Once again outnumbered, Tommy had to tell everything that came to pass.

“So I burned the bloke alive.” Tommy’s voice was defeated as he continued the story. “I beat the other two men with the chain I got. One of ‘em was the old man.” He took a deep breath. “Might’ve killed them. Left them in the house knocked out while it burned. I don’t know if they made it out… Don’t think they did.”

No one in the room breathed. “-then I took off, passed out on the street and woke up in a hospital two days later...”

Ada put her hand on his shoulder. He didn't react, just rubbed his forehead and continued. “-hid in a church. Priest let me sleep in. I stole a sewing needle from his desk and stitched myself up.”

Polly covered her mouth with one hand. He could have gotten a real nasty disease from that sort of thing “-caught a coal train. Got off. Walked the rest of the way.”

“You walked all the way from the station?” John remembered the state of his brother’s feet. 

Tommy’s throat worked. He looked away again, jaw tight. “I did what I had to.” The whole story was just one huge tale of defeat. He should have left home prepared for the worst. Shouldn't have believed his dad, should have kept things in the down low, not called attention, should have made so many different choices, but all the way, he was stumbling from bad decision to bad decision.

“I told you we should’ve gone looking!” John says looking at Arthur, who was clearly evading both of his brother’s eyes.

“No money in the world’s worth this. No money. You hear me?” Polly’s voice approaches the wounded boy. Her tone teetering between rage and worry. “I’ll kill him. I swear to God, I’ll kill that father of yours, that bastard!”

“That bastard sent you into a slaughterhouse.”

“He knew,” Ada whispered. “He must’ve known.”

“I’m fine,” he stopped them. As much as his dad fucked up by lying, Tommy knew that it was his responsibility what had come to happen.

“You should’ve come home sooner,” John muttered, more pained than angry. “Could’ve left without the bags, so you wouldn’t bleed as much an’ all.”

“Had to-” Tommy coughed. “Had to come back with something.” 

Ada can see it in Tommy’s eyes. In the words his brother wasn't saying. He’s clinging to this stupid idea that if got it done, then his suffering was worth it. Then it was fine. That if he succeeded, he earned his place in this family. 

Sometimes being a Shelby is kinda fucked up. 

"You should’ve left the bloody bags," Ada snapped, nodding and pointing to John. “You should’ve come home.”

He couldn’t say it. That he’d been too scared. That coming home empty-handed after everything would’ve been worse. That the shame would’ve buried him alive anyway.

So he held firm.

“We’re fucked out of money-”

“Five fuckin’ days, Tom. We thought you were dead. You know that? Dead!” Polly continued. She lifted his face with one hand and looked him in the eye. “You don’t see? This family can't take another loss.”

…

The argument slowly died and Polly left, setting out on a hunt for her brother, in hopes of sending him away from the city, just to make sure he’s not going to bother them again.

Tommy shifted under the blankets, wincing as he adjusted his arm. The room had gone quiet again, save for the fire crackling in the hearth.

“Did you… put the money somewhere safe?” he asked suddenly, voice still gravel-thick with sleep.

Ada looked over from the couch. “What?”

“The bags, the ones I brought in.” he nodded vaguely toward the hallway, wincing as it jarred something. “Where’d you lot put ‘em?”

Ada blinked, caught off guard. “Dunno. Think John shoved them under the table.”

Tommy stared at her.

“Under the chair there,” John pointed out to where both bags were still lying. Untouched.

The bags were forgotten. Still sat where John dropped them. Nobody even opened them since Tommy arrived. No one had touched them since.

“What?” she asked when Tommy wouldn't stop staring at her.

“Under the-?” Tommy stared at her, baffled. “You didn’t check it?”

Arthur glanced over, shrugging. “Forgot they were there.”

“But...”

No matter how much they say it, Tommy just doesn’t see how irrelevant the money is next to the fact that he nearly died. Yes they need the cash, but Tommy’s always going around trying to earn approval he never needed to. 

He has a place in this family. Always did. Sad thing is that he thinks he’s just a provider. Just someone who gets the job done.

Doesn’t see he never needed to be that. Tommy’s already their brother

Ada frowned. “No.” Ada blinked. “No? Tommy, you were half-dead. Everyone was a bit more worried about the stab wound and fever, y’know?”

He sat up a little too fast and immediately regretted it, his face twisting in pain. “I risked my life for that money, Ada.”

“We know you did.”

“No, you don’t.” He coughed. “You didn’t even open it? No one even fuckin’ looked in the bags? I- ” his voice cracked mid-shout, half from the strain and half from something else bubbling up behind the anger. “I did it for us.”

“Tommy, you were bleeding out on the floor. Nobody gave a damn about a bag,” Arthur said, defensive.

His eyes narrowed. “I nearly died getting that.” He pushed himself up, wincing and getting everyone up as well, wanting to push him back to the sofa.

“Come on, back to the cot,” Arthur said, getting up and trying to calm Tommy down. “You need some more sleep, you’re swaying like a sailor, yes?”

Tommy brushed him off and took one stumbling step backward. 

“I had to run through the whole fuckin’ city with a gut wound.” he snapped, turning to John, then Ada, then Arthur. “You lot- you’ve been running all around and- What? What was the point of all that if it’s just gonna sit there?”

Ada’s arms were crossed tight over her chest. “Why do you think that’s so important?”

“It is! What else?! You think I wanted to sleep on train floors and crawl through alleys? Think I wanted to kill three men for nothing? You think dad’s not coming back to collect what’s his? Second he gets through the door, he’ll take it all and leave us with-”

“He’s not coming, Tom.” Arthur’s face shifted at that. The anger softened into something else. 

“What are you saying? You know what he’s like with money, he always shows up-”

“He left!” Ada screamed. “Days ago. Told us not to waste time waiting you. Said you were dead and that he had better places to be.”

“You think we give a fuck about that money?” Arthur barked, stepping forward. “We thought you were dead, Tom.” 

John nodded, “You’re standing there stitched together by string, barely holding up, and all you care about is the bloody job?”

Tommy doubled over. “Oi, oi, easy. Sit down. Sit the fuck down-” Arthur said, but Tommy stepped away from him.

When Ada approached he pushed her away as well. He’s still too wounded to go about like this. All she's worried about now is if he pulled a stitch. She keeps saying his name like that’ll maybe calm him enough to let them set him down. “Tommy... Tommy... Tommy, sit down, please,  you’re scaring me...”

“-all you lot did was throw it under a chair.”

Ada froze, unsure whether to go stand beside him in case he fell or keep some distance. “Because we were too busy trying to stop you from dying on the rug, Tommy!”

“That money-” he growled, jaw tight.  

“Shut up about the money, you daft twat- look at yourself!” Her voice cracked out, loud. “If you were hurt, you should’ve come home without it!”

“You don’t get it. If I’d come back with nothing-”

“We’d rather be skint than bury you, Tommy!” He flinched from her tone.

She took a breath, steadying herself. “We needed you, not the fucking money.”

He looked away, jaw tight. “It wasn’t for me.” Tommy sat back down hard. More like fell down, his body finally catching up with him.

“No, it never is,” she said, softer now. “But you don’t get to decide you’re expendable just ‘cause Dad treats you that way. You’re not the one who keeps this family standing, you know. You don’t have to throw yourself into a fire just to prove you’re worth something.”

Tommy didn’t look at her. “I’m the only one dad sends on jobs like that.”

“He’s the problem. Not you.”

Tommy didn’t reply. His breath was a little shaky, but he didn’t let it show too much.

“You brought the money, fine. But we don’t need it more than we need you breathing.”

She hugged him, wincing as he flinched in pain. “We just wanted you here, you sod.” 

Ada didn’t manage to hold herself from crying, but Tommy did. Arthur and John slowly got him to settle back, covering him up and urging him to go to sleep.

Tommy blinked slowly ad Ada. “...You’re sure no one’s touched it?” She nodded.

“Go to sleep, yeah? Arthur’s gonna put it away.”

He didn’t say anything back, but he let her ease him down into the pillows, eyes half-lidded, jaw still tense. She crouched down, adjusting his pillows gently. “You did good. But next time, if it’s life or money—pick you. We’ll sort the rest.”

Ada returned to the couch, rubbing her temples. They didn’t press him for stories anymore.

…

As the sun was setting, when the fire crackled low and Tommy lay half-asleep with his head propped on a pillow, the blanket shifting with every shallow breath. Finn crept in. Quiet as a mouse.

The boy shuffled over slowly. When he saw Tommy, Finn froze, Ada gave him a nudge forwards.

Carefully, Finn padded over. He crouched beside the cot, watching Tommy. 

“Sorry I ran.”

Tommy blinked slowly, then shook his head just a bit. “Don’t be sorry. I’d run too if I had to look at me.”

That got a small giggle from Finn, who inched closer. 

“You lost the fight?”

“No he didn’t. He just got hurt. He’s tough, you know that.” John chimed in.

Tommy reached out, weakly ruffling Finn’s hair. “Scared you, huh?”

Finn nodded, eyes full.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Tommy coughed. The small boy flinched, but Ada kept her hand on his shoulder, not wanting him to bolt.

“Didn’t I say he’s okay, Finn? Just looks uglier than the usual.” 

She tickled his belly and giggled as her baby brother let out a hearty laugh.

Tommy cracked a smile, but tried to hide it. “Cheers, Ada.” That earned a tiny smile. After a pause, Finn reached out and grabbed his brother’s hand with both of his. “You not scared now?”

Finn shook his head, “I missed you,” he whispered.

Tommy squeezed back. “Missed you too.”

As soon as Tommy throws a half-smile toward him, Finn bolts forward and throws his little arms around Tommy’s waist—completely ignoring the blood, the bruises. “Tommy...” Finn scoots forward and leans carefully into Tommy’s side. Tommy winced a bit, but didn’t say anything. 

“Not now, love, not now-” Polly tries to drag him away. but Finn clings stubbornly, not leaving his big brother’s side.

Tommy tells Polly it’s fine and pats Finn on the head. The younger boy just shifts, slowly, and holds him close. “He’ll fall asleep soon ‘nough, let ‘im be.”

…

And as it turns out, his brother was right. Their father truly was nowhere to be found

No sign of him. Off drinking or maybe gambling. No thanks, no check-in, no apology for what Tommy endured. Tommy doesn’t care. None of the siblings bother to look for him.

Months later, when he knocks on their door and forces his way in, he stares his second-born in the eyes. Startled.

He keeps his eyes fixed on Tommy like he doesn’t recognise him… Or as if seeing someone that’s come out right from the grave. Says nothing at first. Then just mutters, “The devil’s child…” Tommy doesn’t answer. 

“You’re not dead, then?” He laughs and shakes his head. “I must’ve done something right raising you.” He lights a cigarette and doesn’t even have the decency to acknowledge the danger he put Tommy in.

That he was clearly willing to risk his son’s life. 

Tommy wishes he could say that was the last time he followed his dad’s orders.

Arthur Sr. puts his hand over Tommy’s shoulder and pulls him closer roughly. “Son, there’s a pub down the street near the river that’s going to be out of business soon…”