His Girl Friday
Nicole Clevenger (November 2014)
Notes: A diversion, admittedly whump for whump's sake. My only excuse is that it's canon whump – so essentially, they started it. A few handfuls of words for Lizzie Stark, set toward the beginning of 2.02. You'll know where. Warnings for the same language and subject matter you'd get from the show. If you've somehow stumbled here by accident, go to Netflix and watch this beautiful series. (And then find a copy of His Girl Friday. A movie polar opposite. But a good one, and it stars Cary Grant.) Written for h/c bingo.
I make no money, because they don't belong to me. And because I certainly can't do them justice.
She can hear the jangling of the phone downstairs, the thudding of footsteps as the girls next door rush to see if the incoming call is theirs. She's grateful the bloody thing doesn't ring very often. Sounds like a heard of giggling elephants passing every time it does.
Lizzie sits at her table, staring vaguely toward the small window. The night outside and the light overhead blank the view to blackness, but this isn't much different than the sight through there during the day. The same smoke that clogs her skies perpetually coats thick smears across the cracked glass panes. She hopes maybe now she'll be able to save a little, with this extra money Tommy's going to be paying her. Get herself out of this dump. Into something better.
Lizzie's dreaming up curtains and white-washed wood walls, a parlor with a plush new settee. She pinches herself – best not to jinx things by wishing them up too soon. Tommy's only just given her the job, and she hadn't even seen him today. Showed up at the office like he'd said, but there'd been no sign of the man or anyone else. She wonders if the family even knows he'd promised to give her work. Most likely everyone would be happiest if she stayed far out of their way.
"Stark! Telephone!"
Her name shouted in the nasal voice of her landlady, muffled by a few walls and the angles of a rickety flight of stairs. It jars her from her fantasies, throws the familiar outlines of her rooms unexpectedly out of sync. She can't imagine who'd be calling her. The men in want of her services have other ways of making contact.
Free from all that, she reminds herself. Lizzie tightens the sash of her robe around her hips, picks her way carefully down the stairs. She ignores the questioning look the landlady gives her as she takes the receiver. It's cold and heavy in her hand.
"Yes?" She turns her back on the woman, willing her away.
"Can you drive, Lizzie?"
Tommy's voice, a low purr. Tickling at her ear, as if there's no space at all between the two. It's somehow richer over the hissing line, slowly reaching through her disorientation to pull her to him. She can picture his pale lips, brushing against the mouthpiece on the other end.
It's an odd question, without context in this dim hallway. "I do all right." The landlady behind her has retreated, but a glance over her shoulder shows the woman still hovering in the doorway.
Let the bitch listen then. She'll be out of here soon enough. On the other end of the line, Tommy coughs.
"Good. Need you to come and get me."
"Where?" she asks without thinking. The automatic obedience Tommy never fails to inspire. She hates it, even as she's constantly caught up in it.
"Hospital." She hears him take a drag off his cigarette, a long indrawn breath that weaves through the telephone line's background hum. Pictures those lips wrapped wet around the paper. Her body responds on its own to memories of him. Her brain scrambles to focus instead on his answer.
"Hospital?" she repeats, confused. "What 'appened, Tommy?"
He clears his throat. The line crackles. "Everyone should be at the pub. Go get the car, come and pick me up."
"Sure." Of course she will. "But –"
"Don't tell anyone where you're going, Lizzie. Say I'm sending you on an errand, if you're asked."
If she's asked. She shudders at the thought she might have to deal with the Shelbys tonight. Or ever again, after John. An unavoidable facet of her new job, but one she hasn't yet come to terms with. A part of her is hoping Tommy will find a way to hide her away in that upstairs office. Keeping her a secret because he wants her all to himself.
"Sure, Tommy. Just 'ave to get changed."
"Come and get me, Lizzie." It's the third time he's said it in as many minutes, and this time it's barely a sigh. It's been a long time since she remembers him sounding this tired. But before she can react, there comes the dull clunk of the call being severed.
She hangs up the receiver; the landlady steps back into the hallway. Lizzie hurries up the staircase before the woman can begin her snooping interrogation. The front door bangs closed behind her as she flies through it; today's dress back on over her slip, her ring catching on the seam of the sleeve. Nylons, shoes, coat. She sweeps her hat off the hook by the door. Fastens it snug to her hair on her second trip down the stairs.
It's damp out tonight; Lizzie pictures her gloves lying on the sideboard. There aren't many people on the streets, and those that are move with heads down to shield their faces from the falling mist. She walks as quickly as she can.
Though the hospital explains Tommy's absence, she has no explanations for the hospital. She doesn't doubt the family knows where he is – no news travels faster around here than news of the Shelbys. And little surprise that no one bothered to come up to the office and let her know, assuming they had awareness of her presence in the first place. That lot's probably doing their best to forget her existence. Surely as she's wishing she could do them the same favor.
Strange that he wouldn't have called family to fetch him, though, or any number of people who spend near every waking moment just waiting for his summons. Tommy surrounds himself with those for certain. Up until recently, the only thing he'd ever called her for was a warm place to put his cock.
But she works for him now, a proper position. She wonders what else the word secretary entails.
There's no one waiting when she gets to the shadowy alcove housing the sleek new car. As Tommy had predicted. Lizzie lets out a slow breath as she steps beneath the brick archway; it turns swiftly to a curse as her shoe splashes in a dark puddle. The car starts up on the first go, and she sends a silent thank you to the sky. She hadn't been lying when she'd said she knew how to work one of these, but it's only been a handful of times she's had the opportunity to give it a try.
One was Tommy's last car, a brilliant summer day and him in a rare indulgent mood. They'd run into each other by chance across town. He'd smiled, and for once it had sparkled in his eyes.
It's a good job the streets aren't more crowded; things look different from this elevation and under cover of night. Trying to figure out which direction to go, she has to remind herself also to concentrate on the steering. But she makes it without incident, the car rattling to a stop in front of the big building. She's only a little shaky when she steps down onto the ground.
She asks after him at the front desk, and is immediately escorted off down the hall. Lizzie hears him before she sees him, still some distance from the door when his voice ricochets off the tiles of the empty corridor. "Then bring the fucking thing and I'll sign." Angry and dismissive and followed by a fleeing girl in white who looks impossibly young. She scurries past them, not looking up as she goes by.
Lizzie rounds the doorframe, a wary nod of thanks to the woman who brought her here. Her guide seems to have no desire to linger, and Lizzie doesn't blame her. She too can hear Tommy's unhappy tones echoing in her ears.
He's sitting slumped on the edge of the bed, one hand pressed flat to his chest whilst the other grips hard around the metal frame. The end of the cigarette dangling between his fingers wavers precariously close to burning a hole in the thin mattress, only centimeters away. He's breathing hard, his head bowed. He looks up at the sound of her entering the room.
One eye is completely swollen shut, she sees now, the other squinting and glazed. There's no part of his face that's not bruised, misshapen. "God, Tommy…" He's not wearing a shirt, his torso lost under its bandages. She's seen him marked and battered plenty of times. Tracked wounds old and new as they healed across his skin. But never like this.
Tommy blinks at her languidly, with his one working eye. "Lizzie." The way he shapes it makes her wonder for a moment if he remembers having called. His lashes flutter as the lid slips closed, opens again to liquid blue. "Good."
Now he's struggling to push himself up, an effort so seemingly difficult that her gaze darts away. It's a big room, obscenely spacious even were the other bed occupied; no surprise that he's arranged to have it all to himself. She has no idea how much such a feat would cost.
Tommy groans as he falls back onto the bed, reclaiming her attention. "Give us a hand," he grinds out through his teeth, an arm flung impatiently in her direction. Lizzie wraps her fingers around his bicep before she can think not to, helping him get upright.
Tommy sways, and they almost end up back on the bed. He drops the cigarette on the ground; his free arm curls tightly about his ribs. Lizzie's eyes fall to the smoldering stick of paper on the floor. She realizes now that it's blood wetting her puddle-dunked shoe.
She's quick to glance away. Tommy leans into her, looking barely on his feet. He's feverishly hot under her hands, his skin slippery with sweat. "So now you're up," she says. "What's the plan then?" It comes out sharper than she'd normally speak to him. Much nearer to the daring of demand.
"Going." If it weren't so choked with pain, the word might sound less ridiculous.
"You're joking," she says, though it's plain he's not. He's already got his shoes on, had managed that before she'd arrived. An escape, this is, and she's brought the getaway car.
"Didn't telephone you for your fucking opinion, Lizzie."
No. Of course not. Besides, she doubts there's a power on this earth that can stop Tommy Shelby once he's set his mind to do something. Lizzie looks around the room again. "Where's your shirt?"
He shakes his head weakly. "Ruined."
She helps him into his coat. Supports him as best she can as he hobbles out of the room, down the hallway. The corridor feels far longer in this direction. At this pace. As they pass the desk the young nurse tries for his attention, a tiny nervous squeak all that she gets out; Tommy doesn't look that way as he grabs the offered pen and scrawls his name in the book that she holds. He's discharging himself, Lizzie realizes, though she can't read anything from his other side. The nurses tend to keep people around when they can't even stand on their own.
Lizzie has no idea why he's in such a hurry to get out of here, but it's obvious he won't appreciate being asked. She doesn't trust hospitals herself, her mum having gone in to give birth to another child and neither of them coming out in the end. Their progress to the Bugatti is a slow one. It's raining lightly by the time they get outside.
Tommy gives the car a long look before he opens the door and hauls himself into the passenger seat. She's grateful he makes it on his own. Lizzie crosses around the bonnet to get in behind the wheel. There's a long silence, broken up by the patter of rain on the roof; Lizzie watches the drops slide down the windscreen glass. She wonders what happened to him.
There's water coming in onto her sleeve, rain not content to stay outside. Lizzie turns to the lump of Shelby trembling in the seat beside her. "Where we going, Tommy?"
"Office first." She can hardly hear him, though the rain's not that loud. The cuts scattered across his face are rents of dark shadow; he's twisted in on himself, breathing raggedly. He stays that way as Lizzie starts up the car. Throughout the entire drive. A few times it sounds as if he's mumbling something, but she never catches the words.
There are no lights on inside the building when they get there, and she thinks Tommy's fallen asleep. The car stops with a jerk, harder than she'd intended; his head comes up as his body is rocked abruptly forward and back against the leather seat. He blinks at the world around them.
Lizzie's reminded of the beginning, the months shortly after France. There'd been a few times then, after he'd had his fill of her, when he'd collapsed onto the narrow bed instead of immediately taking his leave. As if his exhausted body, given the window of opportunity, had seized upon its rare chance for rest. She'd gotten the impression he wasn't sleeping much, in those days. The naps never lasted very long, shattered by dreams or a sudden noise from next door, but when he woke he always looked a lot like he does now.
Uncertain. Alone.
Minus the useless, puffy eye. The split skin. Tommy coughs, fumbles with the door handle. He almost tumbles out into the street when it unlatches and swings open.
By the time Lizzie gets out of the car, he's already moving purposefully toward the door that leads to the back set of stairs. She doesn't have to walk too quickly to be able to catch him up. Tommy pounds on the wood with the heel of one hand, the other still clutching at his ribs. He straightens as it's cracked ajar by some cousin or another. A name Lizzie's sure she knows.
"Are you the only one 'ere, Michael?" Tommy asks. The door is opened wide enough for them to slip inside.
It's quiet downstairs. Michael nods, gaping at Tommy's face. "Yeah. You want –"
Tommy waves away the unfinished offer. "Jus' passing through. Back to work, eh?"
"Sure, Tommy." He locks the bolts behind them. Fades into the darkness like he'd never been here.
Lizzie follows Tommy up the stairs; he drags himself over them, with the banister as his crutch. When he stumbles, the thud of his knee against the next step is startling loud in the wood paneled space. She's amazed Michael can't hear it, wherever he's scarpered off to. That, or the swearing that comes after.
But the boy doesn't reappear, and after a moment Tommy makes it back to his feet. It seems like half the night must have passed before they reach the second floor landing. It's difficult for her to say nothing, to bite back the ineffectual words of pointless comfort. To see him like this.
Tommy searches his pockets for the key, leaning heavily on the doorframe. It falls from his fingers when he finds it; Lizzie picks it up off the floor. Lets them into the office. She turns on the electric light, bathing the rooms in a yellow glow.
The bin beside the desk – her desk, she reminds herself – is overflowing with crumpled paper, evidence of her meager efforts to fill the earlier part of the day. She'd had nothing to do here without his instruction, and had spent several bored hours practicing her typing skills. Correspondence class exercises repeated again and again. She wants to be ready to take his dictation. To prove she can fill this new role as well as her last.
Tommy staggers away from the doorframe, toward his smaller private office. Unsure what to do with herself, Lizzie perches on the corner of her desk and lights a cigarette. Her exhale curls about her hair in the still air of the room.
"Don't get comfortable," he throws over his shoulder. "Jus' need a new shirt and we're off. Got to make a good first impression."
She thinks the fever may be muddling his brains. She has no idea who he's trying to impress, here on this patch of land where everyone knows who he is. But he's closed the other door behind him before she can ask. Lizzie listens to him moving about as she smokes, trying to picture his actions on the opposite side of the wall.
She absently taps a few random keys on the typewriter, still enamored with the thwap sound they make as the bars slap against the clean white paper through the ribbon. A far better noise than that of a punter grunting above her as he takes his due. She loves the control she has with this machine, ink blots appearing as if by magic to form words from her head to her fingertips. Punctuation and all. Like she's creating them syllable by syllable.
A dull bang from the other room, the crash of flesh finding furniture. Another. Now the ugly sound of retching, wafting its way under the threshold to her ears. Lizzie crushes out her cigarette, nearly tiptoes her way to the door. She isn't sure he'll thank her for being disturbed.
The knob turns easily under her hand. Tommy's behind the desk, one arm bracing himself on the polished wood as he hunches over the bin. Lizzie crosses to the basin by the window. Wets the cloth she finds there. She moves to his side, drapes it over the back of his bent neck. His breath comes thickly, almost a sob. She can't resist running her fingers through his damp hair.
"Oh, Tommy…" A low moan as he shifts just enough to rest his forehead on the blotter. "You should be in bed."
"Things to take care of," he murmurs, his lips whispering over the smooth paper. "Need to get to Camden Town."
"What, tonight?" She's heard tell on the streets of the Shelby boys involved recently in a dust up at some fancy London club. Glorified imagery with no real detail. She wonders if his business there is related.
"Drive me to the docks, and you're done for the day." He doesn't move.
She imagines she can see steam coming from the washcloth where it lays against his burning skin. "Tommy, I think –"
"Don't pay you to think. Pay you to do as you're told."
Keep your mouth shut. Know your place.
Tommy groans, gags without bringing anything up. He slumps back into the desk chair, the cloth dropping to the floor. "Be wary of fucking Italians, Lizzie." It's a mumble, his working eye closed as firmly as the other. Uttered as if advice for the ages.
She doesn't know any Italians.
There's a bit of blood trickling its way from his nose. It doesn't look entirely out of place amongst his battered features, and it takes her a moment to register. She retrieves the rag from the floor. Tommy swipes at his nose with his sleeve.
He's gotten himself into a new shirt, though the buttons haven't yet been done up. There's a dark streak now marring one of the cuffs. Lizzie dabs gently at his face with the wet cloth; Tommy leans into her hand, clearly savoring the coolness against his skin. It's an odd thing to see him this vulnerable, a sense only ever vaguely caught in fleeting expressions during a few moments unguarded. So different from John, with his awkward sweetness. John had wanted to marry her. Had been able to envision her as part of his life.
Lizzie pretends it doesn't still sting a little, even after two years. Telling her he loved her, only to marry that whore gypsy with his next breath. She's got no doubt that the family was behind it. Likes to imagine that he'd had no say. There's a part of her that hopes no man will ever again say those words to her. Not if it holds up as such a flimsy promise.
With Tommy, the only time she ever felt close to important was when he was inside her, more often than not dismissed from his attention the minute he was through. Though maybe things were changing, what with her new position. He'd said she could stop the other work. Shaping her legitimate, their interactions no longer limited to time spent on her back. She'd see him for hours a week now, dressed and doing business upright by the light of day.
It may not bring with it his respect. But at least she'll be able to form some respect for herself.
Lizzie sets the rag on the desk, and settles on the edge to button up his shirt. When she gets to his collar and lifts her eyes, she finds him watching her. It seems a speculative expression, one with focused thoughts behind it. Perhaps she's only imagining this. Tommy licks his lips, a flicker of pink tongue.
"Tie," is all he croaks out, a flip of his hand toward some point across the room. His eye closes again. His head a dead weight against the padding of the chair.
There are two in the drawer; she choses blue over purple. He doesn't stir as she returns, as she loops the silk around his neck. She knots it loosely. Adjusts his collar over the fabric. He must be trying to look good for someone – she can't remember the last time she's seen him bothering with a tie.
A flash of compassion makes her bold, her fingers coming up on their own to trace their backs along the line of his jaw. The muscles there tighten under her feathery touch. Tommy opens his eye best he can. Swallows and pulls in a deliberate breath.
"Time to go." He pushes himself up with shaking arms.
She wants to stop him. Convince him to stay. Maybe he'll let her in a little now, give her more than a glimpse at that man she sometimes catches lurking behind his eyes. Lizzie almost laughs aloud at the thought. Tommy Shelby, letting anyone close. Might as well dream of blue skies.
The rug trips him up; he's saved by a clumsy half-lunge for the support of the coat rack. "Tommy…" she begins.
"Jus' drop me at the docks, Lizzie. Not up for debate."
As always, Tommy gets the last word. Soft spoken and final. He grabs a spare cap off the peg, pulls it down over his hair. Struggles into his overcoat, holding it tightly closed with a pale hand. His breath whistles disturbingly though his parted lips.
He doesn't look back as he exits the office. Simply expects that she'll follow.
Which, of course, she does. Lizzie's practically holding her breath the entire painful trek down the stairs. Tommy says nothing more. It's stopped raining already, shallow puddles in the cracks of the street. They get back in the Bugatti, Tommy slouching into almost the exact position he'd been in on the journey here.
With the same conversation. Dozing or delirious she can't determine, though this time she can decipher a few of the murmured words. Curly. Sabini. And at one point open air. There had been one of those impromptu catnaps too, back after the war, where his dreams had given way to mumbled speech; most of it then incomprehensible and urgent, and a couple of random phrases in what may have been French. The violent expressions dancing over his features had been startling, chased by an even darker look when he woke. She'd been afraid to ask him a single question.
She can't see his face now. Lizzie spends the drive alternating her glances between the road and the top of his cap.
He's trembling hard enough that she can hear his teeth clattering together, but he raises his head when they get to the gates without her having to rouse him. She thinks he might be warmer than he was when they set out. "On your own for a few days then, Lizzie. Be a good girl." Tommy slides out of the seat more than steps down from it, but he stays on his feet. "Go on. I'll be in touch when I get back."
As near to a thank you as she's going to get from him. She hadn't expected more.
Lizzie turns the car around, but slows near the end of the block. She watches the tall slender gates wobble all the way to their peaks as Tommy fights with them; his coat suddenly seems at least a size too big with the way he's huddled inside it. He finally gets the lock undone and moves through, out of her line of sight. She doesn't want to just leave him here.
But he's told her to go, and she needs to get the car back before anyone realizes it's missing. She doubts the family will thank her either, for her part in this. Besides, she's never known Tommy not to have a plan. Cool and always calculating, that's him.
Lizzie sighs. She starts back for Jamaica Row, her thoughts filled with Tommy Shelby.
End Notes: On the random off-chance that you're reading this as my Yuletide Secret Santa with a Peaky Blinders request, please don't despair. I know it's confusing – why would I request something it seems I've gone and written? – but my prompt still stands, if you want it. (I hadn't seen this episode then. I couldn't resist once I had.) I'm never happy with my own stuff anyway. I'm sure you can do better. Or something entirely different. Any fic for this fandom will be greatly appreciated.