CHAPTER TWENTY
waiting game

"For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing, and they have no more reward, for the memory of them is forgotten." —Ecclesiastes 9:5

Tommy lay for several minutes on his bed after Trixie left, trying and failing to understand what the fuck had just happened. All these months with Beatrice and he still wasn't any closer to understanding her. It was not a problem worth worrying about—he'd solved it by exiling her in advance; but the part of him that cared about conquering the world more than conquering Birmingham worried that sweeping her under the rug would do more harm in the long run than good.

If he understood her better, he might know how to deal with the fact that he did not understand her at all, but it was a nonstarter. Tommy sat up and adjusted his trousers, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His hair was askew from her hands, his tie crooked. He looked younger than he could remember being, more like the boy that snuck back into the house after a tryst with Greta than the man who could clear a sidewalk by walking down it. "Fuck."

It struck him as odd that Trixie thought of him as someone who would've broken her heart before the war. Her faith was apparent in her apprehension towards certain crimes and her commitment to chastity—well, supposed commitment to chastity. Still, despite the naivety he typically expected from people of faith, he couldn't imagine Beatrice as acting a fool.

Tommy tried to remember who he'd been before the trenches. All those years of digging and fucking digging. People in the city might be afraid of him, but he overheard what they said about him. Tommy Shelby left for France and someone else came back. Some days, he thought that was fair enough; most days, he took issue with it: as far as he was concerned, nobody came back, just the fucking body. Tommy tried to recall who he'd been before, but could only come up with memories of his mother, the afternoon before she died.

"Take this," she'd said. In the months since giving birth to Finn, she'd grown gray. In her palm, she offered Tommy her wedding ring, polished and warm to the touch. "Of all my sons, you're the romantic, you know. You've got a kinder heart."

"Mum," he'd objected, inspecting the ring. "Stop."

She'd only smoothed his hair back, and he'd let her, though he'd been embarrassed at the time. She told him vaguely of his father's proposal, and the stolen ring, and how he'd slapped a cigarette out of her hand after they'd married, worried it would scuff the gold. She'd been smoking, then, but the ring was in Tommy's hand. "You'll give it another life, alright, my boy? Give it to that girl you love."

He knew she meant Greta, even if Greta was dying on the other side of town, but his mother was too far gone to remember those sorts of details. That night, his father had returned to Birmingham in search of the ring, and his mother had been pushed into the Cut. Across town, he gave Greta the ring and they pretended she wasn't dying; two weeks later, her parents returned it to him as she was lowered into the dirt.

Give it to that girl you love. Well—he didn't love Trixie, but he'd needed a ring. He might have let himself feel bad about it, if it wasn't clear that she felt the same. They were the same, like she'd said. Love was a first language they'd both lost somewhere in the fire. Now, Trixie was cold and Tommy was colder, and that sameness felt at times like honesty, but what did it matter, if they hadn't had a choice?

Tommy's reflection stared back at him. Another life. No, not another life. Same rotten circumstances, only a second chance. And look what he'd done with it.

"Fucking bacon," Trixie hissed under her breath. She'd spent a bit of time gathering fruits and bread for Ada, and jam, too, but now she was at the butcher in search of chicken for the girl only to find that bacon was on sale.

"Bacon?" the butcher asked, his pencil hovered over the order pad.

Trixie grit her teeth. "Why is it so discounted?"

"We accidentally over ordered," he explained. "We're trying to get rid of it so it doesn't go to waste."

Trixie considered, rocking back on her heels, before nodding. "Alright, then. A pound of bacon, please."

The man nodded, disappearing behind the curtain to the room where the more unsavory work took place. She'd ordered the bacon, yes, but that didn't mean she'd be serving it to Tommy. She wouldn't be serving anything to Tommy—it was already embarrassing enough that she'd let him see her like that.

Shifting the food basket over her other arm, Trixie tried to force the image of Tommy bowing his head between her legs out of her mind. She'd been right, of course, about his talents in that particular field. His movements had been measured and deliberate, his eyes watchful as they always were, and she'd wanted it. She'd wanted him. Maybe she still did, if the persistent weakness in her knees was any indicator.

How was she supposed to go back to that house, later? Just sit down with Polly at the dining room table as if she hadn't humiliated herself only hours earlier? Perhaps Tommy would gloat, or mark it down as another woman he'd conquered—or maybe he would pretend it had not happened at all. It wasn't noteworthy to him, after all. It hadn't been his first.

The butcher exited the curtain, giving Trixie a brief glimpse at the carcasses in the back room, and began bundling the parcels together in the same bag. "Actually—" she interrupted. "Could I have them separately? One is for a friend."

Once she'd tucked them away into her basket, Trixie began making way down to the bathhouse. Her plan had been to get there a bit after Ada usually went, so that the Shelby girl wouldn't see her waiting outside and dodge her, but she was on route to be on time. Trixie slowed her paces and spent more time taking in the cobbled street, despite its decided gloominess. If she couldn't get a clear sky, she'd at least settle for rain to wash the soot off the city.

A young boy on the corner, so frail he might drift away in the wind, held out a cup for coins. "Kid," Trixie called. "Do you have an oven at home?"

He blinked at her, as if he didn't quite understand the question. "My mum does."

"Here," she offered, pulling the package of bacon out of her basket. "You like bacon?"

He nodded, but raised his eyebrow. "You're always with Mr. Shelby," he said warily. "Mum says it's a bad idea to owe men like Mr. Shelby anything."

Trixie shook her head. "It's my bacon, and I'm giving it to you, free. It'll be our secret, alright?" Still looking dubious, he accepted the package. "Now go home. Streets aren't safe for young boys."

After he'd skittered off, Trixie stood up straight and sighed. Sometimes, the smoke over the canal grew so thick she could imagine it was an ocean, with fresh air coming in and ships leaving for better places, but not today. Now, she just found herself staring at the bursts of rubbish fires on the opposite side.

You're leaving soon, she reminded herself, but the thought only made her feel more dejected. Sure, she was leaving soon, but it wasn't like anything better would be waiting for her. Maybe she ought to ruin her own life here, and squash any of Tommy's hopes for peace with the Lees. Why not?

Ducking into the bathhouse, Trixie made quick work of skimming the occupants for Ada's familiar face. She found the Shelby girl submerged in one of the private tubs, dressed in her underthings, her stomach extremely swollen. She set off towards her, but was cut off by an arm across her stomach.

An older woman with pursed lips stood waiting. "There's a designated time for women like you, dear. Window opens at 7."

"I'm not here to bathe," she said. "I'm here to see her."

"Doesn't matter," the attendant argued, shaking her head. "Come back at 7."

Trixie rolled her eyes. "I don't think I will."

"I don't think it's up to you. Leave now and come back at 7, or the police will escort you out."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Trixie hissed. "My name is Beatrice Shelby. My husband is Thomas Shelby. Let me by or this building will not be here by 7 tonight. Do you still want to call the police?"

The woman paled, drawing her arm back suddenly. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Shelby."

"I will cut you if you don't step away from me right fuckin' now," Trixie threatened, though she lacked any sort of blade to follow through.

Nevertheless, the woman skittered away, leaving her path clear. She took a deep breath. Using the Peaky name to protect herself was always helpful, but it had gotten irritating after a while. In fact, if everyone just let her by without giving her reason to invoke her—well, in laws now, she supposed—it would be far preferable. "Is that Engels I see?" she called, her heels echoing around the empty room. Ada shot up in the tub, looking around at the mention of Engels.

"Tri—" Ada started, before cutting herself off. "How the hell did you find me?" she hissed.

Trixie searched for somewhere to sit, and found only the bucket Ada had used to fill the tub. She overturned it and settled atop it, concentrating very hard on maintaining her balance. "Tommy," she answered. "How else?"

Ada rolled her eyes. "I'm leaving now, anyway."

"Wait," Trixie objected, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I have news for you."

"Bigger news than your marriage?" Ada asked. "Congratulations, by the way, since we're sisters-in-law, and all that."

"Thank you," Trixie replied. "We're going to Italy for the honeymoon. Seven nights of love—"

Ada smacked her on the shoulder. "Please stop."

Trixie sighed. "It's about a wedding, but not mine. John's. And it's a real wedding, you know, not like Tommy and I."

"John?" Ada cried. "Who the fuck is marrying John?"

With a snort, Trixie braced one of her hands on the edge of the tub. "The funny thing about that, actually, is that it's up to me who John marries." Ada narrowed her eyes. Trixie glanced around, but figured that the noise of water and women's voices would drown out her words for anyone trying to overhead. "He's engaged to Lizzie Stark. But Tommy's arranged for him to marry one of the Lees to make peace. John doesn't know about that, though." She sighed, remembering Lizzie's words to her. He's one of my customers. "I'm supposed to break off the engagement with Lizzie."

"We can't talk here," Ada interrupted. "It's—there's too much. I can barely hear you."

"Where can we talk?"

She glanced around, and sighed. "Help me up, and I'll find us somewhere to go."

Trixie offered her arm as support as Ada pulled her body up, revealing an even more pregnant belly than Trixie had expected. "Jesus fucking Christ," she muttered.

"Yeah, I fucking know," Ada retorted, grunting as she stood up straight. "Hand me my towel, please?"

When she was dried and dressed—in a widow's costume, again, complete with the black veil—Trixie cleared her throat. "You can't tell me anything about where you live, alright? Or where you're staying, or anything like that. That Inspector has his mind set on Freddie, he'll beat the information out of me if he knows I have it."

"No offense, Trixie," said Ada. "But I wasn't going to tell you, anyway."

"No offense, Ada, but you and Tommy are more alike than you think."

Ada's mouth opened, offended, but she said nothing as she led them out of the bathhouse. Trixie found the air outside biting, and couldn't imagine how much worse it was for Ada, with her wet hair. "We have to get inside," Trixie fussed, taking Ada's bag from her. "You'll catch a cold, and you're caring for two now, you know."

"I know," Ada insisted, leering away from Trixie. "Sorry," she said immediately. "I'm in a bad mood most of the time these days and I'm sexed up the rest of it." Immediately, she flushed, and Trixie wanted to hurry to tell her that it was alright, and she'd done plenty of embarrassing herself on that front today alone. But Trixie did not want to invite anyone else to bear witness to that, and she especially didn't want to tell Tommy's younger sister about what happened. I almost lost my virginity to your brother earlier this afternoon after finding out that he's been paying your other brother's fiancée for sex for a year.

No. No, that wouldn't work at all.

Feigning self-possessedness, Trixie simply nodded her head and said, "It's understandable."

"And hungry," Ada added. "Unless I'm nauseous, of course. Then I'm not."

"I brought you food," Trixie offered. "Stopped at the market. Tommy worries the Communists aren't feeding you well enough."

"Do you have bread?" Ada asked.

"I do," said Trixie. "Do you want to eat it on the sidewalk?"

"No," Ada replied. "No, I know somewhere we can go."

Of all the places for Ada to take her, Trixie had not expected the docks. Ada took careful steps down the rocks, her white heels slipping every so often in a way that made Trixie want to drag her back to the stable ground of the shore. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"There's a tunnel down here," Ada called back, pointing up ahead. "I don't know what it used to be, but it's abandoned now."

"And nobody else is going to be in an abandoned tunnel?" Trixie asked dubiously. The Peaky Blinders were the largest and most powerful street gang in Birmingham, but there were younger boys out there keeping busy with pettier crimes. An abandoned tunnel near the docks would be prized territory.

"The only people who used it were me and Freddie," Ada said, leading Trixie inside. It spit them out near the dingy water, and Ada settled with her feet hanging over it. "Here we are."

"Here we are," Trixie agreed, settling down next to her. Her legs were longer than Ada's, but her heels weren't as high, and she only grazed the top of the water. "Bread and jam, yeah? I got strawberry."

"Strawberry's good," Ada said, already tearing a piece of bread off the loaf. She rushed to dip it in the jam, humming with satisfaction as she chewed. "God, that's good. I mean—fuck Tommy, and fuck Polly for trying to run us out of town, but I miss Polly's jam." Ada sighed. "How is everyone? Finn? How's Finn?"

"Finn's good," Trixie replied, tearing off a piece of bread for herself. "He's been going to school, though I doubt he's doing his homework. Arthur's alright, keeps leaking Tommy's plans to the cop who's spying on us."

"Huh," said Ada around a mouthful of bread. "Well, what's all this business about John, then?"

"He's engaged," Trixie explained. "To Lizzie Stark."

"Who's Lizzie Stark?"

"She's one of the brothel girls from Cheapside."

"Why did John want to marry her?"

"He says she's good with the kids, I think. And she wants to start typing courses at the technical school, you know, so she can stop that kind of work."

Ada snorted. "And what do you make of all this?"

Trixie sighed. What did she make of all this? Against her better instincts, she did trust that Tommy had devised a plan that would protect them from at least one of the several enemies he'd made for the family, whether that be Campbell, the Lees, or Kimber. But this leverage was hers, and she would cling to it until it became opportune to give it up. "I like Lizzie," she said with a sigh. "But John isn't the only one of your brothers she's had business with, I don't think. She said Tommy was a former customer of hers."

"Stop!" Ada gasped. "That's—oh, I don't want to hear any more about that!"

"There's nothing more to tell," Trixie assured her. "Don't worry. But Tommy wants me to tell John about it so that he'll break off their engagement and Tommy can send him off to marry one of Erasmus Lee's daughters." She coughed. "But John doesn't know about that."

"When are you gonna tell him?"

"I don't know." Trixie took a bite of her bread, and tried to add casually, "I don't know if I will."

Ada gaped at her for a moment, before barking out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Oh God, Trixie. You're a Devil. If anyone was a match for Tommy, it would be you."

The names of the other women in his life immediately came to mind. Greta Jurossi. Lizzie Stark. She was just another name on a list. "I'm supposed to be here to invite you to the wedding."

"Which one?"

"Whichever one happens. Either way, it'll be on Friday."

Ada scowled. "You know I can't come, Trix." She put a hand on her stomach. "For my baby, and Freddie, it's just—too dangerous."

Trixie didn't know if she said it because she was committed to Tommy's orders, or if she meant it as a warning. "Ada. There's something else."

"How much did I miss?"

Taking a deep breath, Trixie said, "I might not see you again after this."

The other woman blinked. "What do you mean?"

Avoiding her eyes, Trixie stared down at a bottle floating down the canal. "I—um, your brother has made arrangements to have me exit the business. Says he'll set me up somewhere out in the country, close enough to visit, but—whenever this copper gets off our backs, I have to leave Birmingham." She flicked a piece of gravel into the water, and watched it disappear. "I don't know what'll happen to you, or if we'll lose touch, but there's a chance this is the last time I'll see you and I want you to know."

For a minute, Ada just surveyed the water, hand still resting atop her pregnant belly. Then, she turned to Trixie and said, "Absolutely not."

Then, it was Trixie's turn to be surprised. "What?"

"Tommy can't just—tell you what to do. He can't just make us bend to his will."

"I want this, Ada," Trixie said, but it felt like a lie. "It's—you know—I was content with my life before the war. I got into the business to make ends meet."

"To make ends meet." The distaste in Ada's words was palpable, and Trixie hurried to remedy it.

"It's not that I regret it, Ada, I don't. I would have nothing without you and Polly and—and John, dense as he is. But you're trying to get out. I'm just trying to do the same. I don't want to be a pawn in a game anymore, if it's a game that's not mine to win."

Ada pursed her lips, looking still like she was rather upset, before surprising Trixie by lunging at her. She jumped back on instinct, but Ada wrapped her arms around her anyway, squeezing her in a tight embrace. "Oh my God, Trix. I'm going to miss you so much."

Trixie matched the hug, careful not to press onto Ada's belly. "You are a light, Ada. I love you."

When she pulled away, Trixie saw that Ada was crying. "It's because of the pregnancy," she dismissed. "I'm—oh, Christ." She grabbed Trixie's shoulders and pulled her back into a hug, sobbing into her shoulder. "I wish Tommy hadn't ruined everything. I would've asked you to be godmother."

"Really?" Trixie asked. "I thought religion was the opium of the masses."

"Well, it doesn't need to be religious," Ada dismissed. "I just—" She sniffled and pulled back. "I thought we'd grow up together, you know? Now we're both married and neither of us was at the other's wedding, and I'm having a baby in secret because my stupid brother had to invite an Inspector into the city, and you—you're leaving."

"I'll come visit," Trixie swore, even knowing it might not be possible. Even if she did come back, who could say whether or not Ada would be able to come see her without risking the baby's safety? "I'll write letters."

"You swear?" Ada asked. "Swear it to me, Beatrice Price."

"I swear."

Ada sniffled, and rubbed at her eyes. "I love you too, you know."

This time, it was Trixie's turn to cry, and she buried the tears in Ada's shoulder.

The light in the kitchen was off when Trixie got home, and she knew that Polly wouldn't be making dinner. She set out the groceries Ada hadn't wanted on the counter. If Polly was out, it only made sense that the boys would be too, especially with how much business had been disrupted by yesterday's nuptials.

Over the hiss of vegetables cooking in the pan, Trixie couldn't hear the door open and shut. All she knew was that one second, she was waiting for her onions to caramelize, and the next, a hand was on her shoulder. Trixie whipped around, lunging immediately for the basket on the counter, where her gun was buried beneath the cabbage.

Tommy's hand was on his own gun by the time she got a grip on her pistol, but he didn't draw it. "It's alright," he soothed, as if she were a wild horse. "It's just me."

"Don't sneak up on me!" she snapped, pointing at him with the gun. He nudged it out of the way gently and Trixie pulled back, setting it down on the countertop. "There's no bacon," she informed him, pointedly. "Good deal at the butcher, so I bought some, but I gave it away."

"You know that's not what I'm here for."

Trixie returned to the stove, attending to her onions with more focus than was probably necessary. "Get me the oil."

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught his look of disbelief—nobody ordered Tommy Shelby around, and he certainly looked out of place in such a domestic setting, but Trixie held the leverage, and she would use it. He bent down to the bottom shelf of the cabinet, retrieving a bottle of olive oil, and passed it to her. "Beatrice," he said, like he was warning her.

"I'm in a better mood after I've eaten," she said. "Perhaps you want to take that into consideration before we enter negotiations."

Tommy pursed his lips, but relented. While Trixie continued her cooking, he mulled around the house. He was home too early—so was she, to be fair, but her workday usually didn't bleed far past five. He, on the other hand, did most of his legitimate business by day, while managing his illicit affairs by night. There was nothing to retire early for; the man didn't sleep.

"Don't you have work?" she called.

There was no response, and she thought he might have left, or been in another room, ignoring her. But he returned to the kitchen a moment later, missing his blazer and his tie, holding the paper in his hand. "What?"

"Don't you have work," she repeated.

Tommy shrugged and cleared his throat. "Took the evening off. Don't recall needing your permission for that."

"You don't," said Trixie, scooping the food from the pan onto her plate. "It was a question, Tommy."

"Business can't move forward until I know how you're handling things," he stated, tossing the paper down onto the table. "Where's my plate?"

Trixie blinked as she pulled the chair out. "I didn't move it."

"Not enough for me?" he asked, gesturing to her own dinner.

Was he serious? He'd spent twenty-nine years coming up with dinner without her help, and now, a day after their fucking wedding, he'd somehow forgotten how to cook? "Make your own," she said, slicing into the chicken on her plate. "Or hire a maid, if you want someone to do your cooking for you. But it's not my job."

Now he squinted at her in disbelief, rubbing at his bottom lip with his thumb. Trixie ate, ignoring his stare, until he relented with a shrug and a concessional, "Alright."

"So," she said. "Business you want to take care of."

"Yes," he answered, irritated. "John. You'll tell him?"

Trixie pointed at him with her knife. "Let's talk business before we talk family. Your plan is to go legitimate, yeah? Legitimate betting, legitimate races. The successor to Kimber's throne."

He pointedly brushed over the last part. "Legitimate, yeah."

"Right. And ownership—it'll be divided between you, John, Arthur, and Polly, right?"

"Correct."

"Twenty-five each? Or are you chief owner?"

His face twitched, like her cheekiness might cause him to flip the table. "Twenty-seven me," he said carefully. "Twenty-four for the others. Was I supposed to ask your permission for that, too?"

Trixie took her time chewing on her food and washing it down with water. "You don't need permission, Tommy. Thought that was your philosophy. Take because you can, barter for what you can't." She smiled. "Think of what you could have if you weren't worried about the stray bullets of a war that's yours to win." He seemed unamused by her quotation, so Trixie moved on. "Anyway, when I leave, I want ownership in the company. Minority ownership. Ten percent, and executive voting rights."

"There will be no voting rights. It's a company, not a democracy."

"Then I want fifteen percent."

He stood up, nearly knocking his chair back. Trixie continued eating, until he returned to the table and braced his hands on it. "Five percent, voting rights."

She grinned. "Ten percent."

"If you want ten, you don't get a vote."

"Ten percent. Voting rights."

Tommy sat back down. "Eight."

"And a vote?"

"No."

"Yes," she disagreed. "Eight percent, voting rights, or you can look forward to Lizzie Stark as your sister-in-law. Got it?"

She trusted that Tommy hadn't actually needed a reminder of the stakes, but he seemed to reconsider nonetheless. "Fine," he said. "We'll write up a contract. You get eight. Poll and the others get twenty-two, I get twenty-six. In exchange, you tell John about Lizzie. Tonight. Wedding's on Friday. Deal?"

Trixie set her fork down. "Deal."

Their hands met across the table, clasped to seal the deal, and Trixie was suddenly hit with the memory of gripping his hand earlier that day while he laved his tongue over her clit. She yanked her arm back and sat back down. He watched her for a moment as she ate, and she considered offering him some of her food—not out of spousal obligation, but kindness—but just as the thought occurred to her, he backed his chair up and went to the coat rack. She made an effort not to watch as she shrugged his overcoat on and placed his hat atop his head, but she did wonder, vaguely, where he was going.

Before she could ask, he'd disappeared out the door. Trixie pushed her plate away, no longer hungry. All she could do was wait for John to return home.

A/N: Hello! Thank you so much for reading :) and shoutout to Stephanie for betareading this chapter! We're almost done with Episode 4 and then we're going to see Trixie and Tommy unlocking new and unheard of levels of emotional vulnerability, which I'm very excited for. Next up, we've got John's wedding, Ada's baby, and the aftermath of both for the family.

Thank you so much to RachelLynnexx, dee, NotSureHowToMingle, scars from the sun, Idcam, wantertogondor, Kate, and EleanorJames for reviewing the last chapter! I'm so happy to hear that you all enjoyed it, and please let me know what you thought of this one as well. I will see you all soon :)

Chapter 21 / Til Death Do Us Part

"You ought to settle down next," Trixie teased, trying not to jump at the way Tommy's hands tightened around her waist. While the rest of the wedding party skipped and spun, they were left swaying, Trixie still not much of a dancer.

"Maybe I will," he retorted, like it was even a possibility.