note: there's some mature content in this chapter!

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
til death do us part

"Let marriage be held in honor among all." —Hebrews 13:4

Another day, another wedding. Trixie was running out of dresses nice enough for these sorts of occasions, and Tommy's assurance did little to quell her worries. "John doesn't know it's a wedding, no need to dress like it."

"You wear a three-piece suit to the stables, Tommy," she'd snarled in return. "I'm hardly gullible enough to be tricked into underdressing for the occasion."

Now, though, as they approached the Lee territory, John amped for a fight and the rest of the Peakys pleasantly boozed-up for the ceremony, Trixie felt silly in the dress she wore, an emerald-green thing she'd gotten the day before from a seamstress in the Chinese quarter.

It was the polite thing to do, she told herself. And anyway, Tommy was in a suit she'd never seen before, one that fit him so well that looking away became a challenge. She'd done the coward's thing and avoided him in the days since their negotiations, but now a confrontation was inevitable. She could tell on his face that he meant to have words with her, and Tommy was too accustomed to getting what he wanted to give up so easily. If only they wanted the same things; then she might be able to understand the deathless lack of fear among the rest of the gang.

"Ready, boys?" he asked, hands in his pockets. "John, ready?"

"Yeah, I'm ready." John clapped Beatrice on the shoulder and gestured to her gown. "Christ, Trix, you're not getting into a fight with that thing on."

"I'm here to seduce Erasmus," she deadpanned.

"Bloody likely," John laughed.

Arthur stuck his arm up between the two of them, extending a bottle in John's direction. "Have a drink," he invited.

As John sipped from the bottle, the rest of the boys eyed him nervously. No doubt John would be mad, but he had to go through with this anyway. Since Trixie had sabotaged Lizzie, and Esme was already in her veil somewhere in one of the Lee wagons, they didn't have any other option. "What the fuck's everybody staring at me for?" John demanded when the bottle parted with his lips. "What?"

"'S nothing," Trixie dismissed. "We're just waiting for a sip ."

He shoved it her way, not quite buying the excuse.

"Alright," said Tommy. "Let's go."

Up the cobblestone hill, a group of Lees Trixie recognized from the shop raid patrolled the territory's border, rifles at their hips. A woman in a pretty blue dress led a horse up the street, eyeing them carefully. Even with all the arrangements that had been prepared into making this day happen, Trixie felt tense. As though they were one misstep away from getting strung up and shot, or trapped like prey animals. "What's your plan, Tommy?" John mumbled. "We're at a shotgun's distance now."

Tommy slowed, and put a hand on John's shoulder. "John," he said. "Before you go into battle, there's something you're going to need. He reached for his pocket but, instead of a weapon, he found a white-rosed boutonniere. The rest of the men pulled theirs out too, Arthur making a conspicuous effort to wave his in front of John's face tauntingly.

"What are you bloody doing, Tommy?" John blanched. Trixie patted him on the shoulder, while Tommy took his face in his hands.

"Smile, John," he instructed. "It's a wedding."

"Whose bloody wedding?" John asked, but even he seemed to know the answer.

"Now, if we'd told you, you wouldn't have come," Tommy explained. "There's a girl in the Lee family who's gone a bit wild, and she needs marrying off."

John took a breath, half gasp and half disbelieving laugh, before shoving Tommy off of him. "Ah, fuck!" he shouted, pushing up against the wall of men that gathered to corral him. Trixie stumbled on her heel, tripping backwards into Tommy's grip, and he sent her a rather serious look as he set her aside and moved back to his brother.

"John!" he barked.

"You have no bloody right, Tommy!"

Tommy pressed his forehead to John's, hushing him as if he were a racehorse gone mad, same as he'd done to Trixie the other day. "Listen to me. John, listen to me. A girl who needs a husband, a man who needs a wife."

"Tommy," John said, eerily calm. "I'm not bloody marrying some fucking mushroom picker." He fisted a hand in his older brother's collar and a half-dozen hands shot out to pull him away from the city's crown prince.

"John boy, come on," Tommy instructed, unfazed. "Listen." Trixie had learned somewhere along the way not to doubt Tommy's abilities, but she still questioned how he planned on persuading John into this marriage. He grew quiet; gentle. "I've already betrothed you. So if you back out now, there's gonna be one fucking mighty war breaking out here that's gonna make the Somme look like a fucking tea party."

Memories of the war seemed to chill John to his bones, and he stopped the wild thrashing around. "Tommy—" he started.

"If you marry her, our family and the Lee family will be united forever, and this war will be over. It's up to you, John. War or peace?"

He hesitated for such a long moment that Trixie realized she'd been holding her breath. "Let go of me," he said finally, pushing Scudboat off his back and stalking right past Tommy, towards Beatrice. He handed her his hat and kept on stoically. It had been a success, or something like it. Trixie clutched the cap in her hand, flipping the brim up curiously to inspect the razor blades, before shrugging and putting it on her own head. Just to see how it felt. A bloody crown. A war hers to win.

The Lees were cautious as the rest of the Shelbys arrived, filing into the chairs that had been set out. After they'd settled in their seats, Trixie spotted the man who had cut her and reached up to run her thumb along her cheek before she could stop herself. Tommy noticed, of course, and took her wrist in his hand. "What," she demanded.

He rolled his eyes, and reached into his jacket pocket again, this time finding another white rose, this one sewn to a ribbon. "Family wears flowers," he simply said, tying the corsage around her wrist. His hands weren't as cold as she'd grown accustomed to them being. Tommy burned like a fever, like an iron rod prodding the delicate skin of her wrist. "Don't touch the scar."

"Don't tell me what to do," she snapped, though her words lost their edge as she admired the rose, crowned by baby's breath. "You'll get me flowers for John's wedding, but not my own, hm?"

"Do you want flowers, Beatrice?"

She recalled when he'd asked if she wanted a kiss, so much fonder then than he was now. "No," she said. She only meant to be difficult. "I don't care for flowers, not when they die so quickly."

Tommy sent her an amused look, and then said, "We need to talk."

"I'm not sure that we do," she replied. "Anyway, it's your brother's wedding day."

"Oh, come on. John's not holding the damn day as sacred, he won't blame you if you do the same."

"What do you want to talk about, anyway?" Trixie demanded. "I thought all our business was settled."

"It's not business," Tommy returned through gritted teeth. "I need—"

He shut up suddenly, and Trixie followed his line of sight to where Ada was shuffling through the crowd, belly somehow bigger than it had been the last time they'd talked. "Am I late?" she asked, her question very pointedly directed to Trixie.

"Nice of you to come, Ada," Tommy greeted.

"I'm not here for you," she snapped.

"You're not late," Trixie said. "The bride hasn't come out yet."

"You look well," Tommy continued.

"Shut up," said Ada, dropping her purse onto the chair beside Trixie's, spinning to face her. "Who's he marrying?"

"Her name's Esme," said Trixie. "Erasmus' youngest daughter."

Ada shrugged. "How is she?"

"I don't know," Trixie replied. "I've never met her."

"Ada," said Tommy. "We have to talk.

"Tell Tommy I don't have anything to say to him," Ada instructed Trixie.

Trixie blinked, and looked over her shoulder. "Ada says she has nothing to say to you," she relayed, trying to mask her smile with a scowl. "I'm going to start charging per message," she scolded. "You're too old, both of you." With that, she pushed past Ada and moved up a row, between Curly and Scudboat. "Can I sit?" she asked, and sat down before they could answer. Scudboat made room for her anyway, and she focused her attention on the ceremony.

"She's here," Curly announced, elbowing Trixie. "Look, she's coming."

"She is," Trixie agreed, watching as the veiled woman took her spot at John's side, kneeling on the bench. Johnny Dogs stood before them, his bible in hand.

"We are here today," he said, "to join in matrimony this man and this woman, so they can live a life of truth, and harmony, and togetherness." He gestured between John and Esme. She pushed her veil up over her head, the lace giving way to a crown of dark hair and sly visage. "Which is sanctioned and honored by the presence and the power of these two families around us."

"She's pretty, she is," said Curly at Trixie's side.

"She is," Trixie agreed again. "Smart, too, I've heard."

John turned his head, searching for Trixie in the crowd and smirking when he met her eyes. "Do you, John Michael Shelby, take Esme Martha Lee to be your beautiful wife? To have, to hold, in sickness and health, until death do you part?"

She strained to hear his reply over the noise of Ada and Tommy's heated whispers behind her. He seemed to answer in the affirmative, because Johnny continued with the vows, turning to Esme. When she'd answered, Erasmus stepped forward to pass a dagger to John. A dagger? There'd been no daggers at Trixie's own wedding.

"There remains one more part of the ceremony," he announced. "That's the mingling of the two bloods."

John extended his hand, as if he'd known this was coming, and Johnny Dogs drew the blade across his palm. When Esme had done the same, the couple clasped hands, fingers interlaced, bound now by more than legal code or family honor.

"I now pronounce you man and wife!" said Johnny, and John flashed one more grin over his shoulder, before leaning in and stealing a kiss off of Esme's lips. When she turned her head, her beauty was even more apparent in the swell of her cheekbone and the glint in her eyes. She was trouble for the Lees, maybe, but trouble wasn't always a bad thing as far as the Peaky Blinders were concerned.

Trixie joined in the applause as she turned to check on Ada and Tommy. They were smiling now, the animosity faded—or at least momentarily put on hold—and Trixie felt for the first time that the Shelbys were a family in a real sense, and one that she belonged to. A fist encircled her heart, squeezing hard, and she jerked her eyes back to John and Esme at the altar. Her wedding had come and gone. Today was for John.

The sun fell somewhere below the horizon as the ceremony came to a close, and Trixie's efforts to escape were met with a grip on her arm. Tommy. "We need to talk," he insisted, voice a low rumble. She yanked her arm away.

"I disagree," Trixie murmured, smiling broadly at Ada in the distance and lifting her hand to try and wave her down, only for Tommy to seize her wrist again.

"Beatrice," he said, and she smothered a shiver. The way he said it felt taunting, like a reminder that he knew her name, like, I am possessing some part of you. You will remember me, whether you like it or not. We are bound to each other. Names were serious business—and a name in the mouth of a man like Thomas Shelby either meant love or certain death.

"Fine," she conceded. "You have ten minutes."

Satisfied, he shifted his hand to her waist and guided her past the barricades of people, out to the encampments of caravans, now deserted by wedding guests, all the way to the wall bordering Lee territory.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked.

"No."

"Any other reason you're taking me to the darkest fucking corner of this place?"

"I'm not trying to kill you," he said, which was the answer to a very different question than the one she'd asked. "I just need to talk to you alone."

"Thought we were uniting the Shelbys and the Lees," she muttered. "Are you meant to keep secrets from family?" It occurred to her that she'd done most of the talking, when Tommy was the one to ask for her time in the first place. She shut her mouth resolutely and waited for him to explain himself, but he just paused by the wall and pulled his cigarette tin out.

"Beatrice," he said, tab in his mouth, and she fished in her purse for a lighter before he could ask. "You never fucked anyone before, right?"

Humiliation burned in her stomach almost instantly. "What the fuck!"

"It's a question."

She pressed her back to the wall to give herself an excuse not to meet his eyes. Tommy seemed to have expected that, and waited patiently, the sounds of his breath the only noise. Somewhere, further out, his family was celebrating, cheering, laughing, drinking to new love and beginnings. Meanwhile, all Trixie had to keep her company was a cloud of smoke and a man who seemed set on burning her to ash.

He knew the answer, was the worst part of the fucking question. What did he want by asking? To humiliate her. An assertion of power. Perhaps he was upset about their negotiations. Trixie narrowed her eyes and swore to herself that she would not answer. "Give me your cigarette," she said, and Tommy handed it over lazily.

Instead of taking it for herself, Trixie flicked it aside and caught his face in her hands, leaning up on her toes and kissing him firmly on the mouth. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered that her purse had gone flying, but it didn't much matter, because Tommy was holding her waist like a lifeline and sidestepping her to press her flat against the wall. Their mouths, wet, pressed together, pinched and pulled, smacks echoing against the wall, loud in the dark and quiet, all Trixie could manage to process in the dark.

She realized then that her eyes had never closed, and she was staring straight at Tommy, his own eyes glued shut as his hand found her breast, rolling her nipple under his thumbs, the silk of her dress falling away at his touch. Her lips faltered, and he returned his hand to the small of her back. Polite. Gentlemanly. "Beatrice," he whispered.

Names were serious business. Names were dangerous business, in the mouth of a man like Thomas Shelby, and it was suddenly very unsafe to be kissing him like this, any kind of tender and sweet.

He pulled back and pressed his lips chastely to her brow bone, and then to her cheek. "You're cold."

She shoved him back. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Tommy stumbled, his strength rendered useless by surprise. "What—"

"Don't do that," she snapped, drawing away from him and bending over for her purse. Don't do what? Lovers might not owe each other honesty, but partners certainly did, and Tommy had no business touching her like she mattered to him. Don't lie to me.

"Alright," he said, and she could tell that he was struggling to even his breaths. "Are you alright?"

"Don't do that!" she hissed. Realizing how little sense she was making, Trixie raked a hand over her face. "Fuck. Christ."

"Right," said Tommy, unamused. "Are you having a fucking stroke?"

She screwed her eyes shut, tuning him out. "Don't talk to me like that."

He put his hands on her shoulders. "Beatrice."

"Trixie," she corrected, knowing it was futile.

"Have you lost your bloody mind?"

His eyes were dark, no nearby fire to swallow and throw back at her. If the Tommy she'd grown accustomed to was cold as ice, this one burned to the touch. She wouldn't be surprised to find his palms seared into her skin where he touched her, two great weights pressing her closer to the floor. She shrugged him off. "I'm fine. You want to know if I've ever fucked anyone, Tommy? I haven't. You're the only person who touched me like that. Fucking happy? You've got a kingdom and a girl to conquer."

"Stop it," he snapped, reaching for her wrists. "That's not why I asked."

"You knew the answer!" she shouted. "Do not lie to me, Tommy. This doesn't work if you lie to me."

"I never lied to you," he growled, putting his index finger to her clavicle and pushing her back against the wall. "I was fucking asking if you were alright, Beatrice."

She stopped thrashing long enough for him to catch her hands. "What?"

"You said before you wanted it to be someone you loved," he reminded her, his voice softening as the words fell out of his mouth. "Do you regret it?"

Trixie clenched her jaw, and debated saying yes just to be cruel about the whole thing, but she supposed that it would come off as disingenuous given that she'd thrown herself at him only moments ago. "There's nothing to regret. We don't mean anything to each other. It doesn't count. You don't count."

"Alright," he muttered, stepping back, rubbing his thumb at his jaw.

"Alright," Trixie repeated, eager to sound as if she had any clue what she was doing. She scratched a patch on her wrist that wasn't otherwise particularly itchy, and debated leaving for the wedding reception. She was hungry and cold, but something had looped around her ankle and kept her anchored to the spot against the wall. "Do you regret it?" she asked, realizing that it was a possibility that this was his attempt at rejecting her.

"Nothing to regret," he said.

"Fair enough," she mumbled. "I ought to ask for another bedroom in my house, for your trouble."

He looked up at her under the shadow of his lashes, almost pained. "Don't talk to me about the house right now."

"House was your fucking idea," she muttered. He hadn't liked her joke, after all.

He hissed in a breath, dipping his head back and letting his eyes slide shut. Tommy's pensive pauses were nothing new, but after a few minutes had passed without him moving, Trixie cleared her throat.

"Tommy," she said, some force beyond her control shoving her towards caring. "It'll be alright. You've solved it with the Lees, you'll soon be through with Kimber, and then you can deal with those guns. It'll be over."

When he looked at her, he was somehow more alive and more dead than she'd ever seen. Was this how he was before the war? Was this the ghost of the man she'd just missed? "I'd tell you where the guns are if I didn't think it would get you killed."

Trixie wasn't sure what to make of that, so she reached out a hand and rested it on the side of his face. His skin was unbearably cold. "You don't need to tell me," she said, not so much a consolation as a desire not to die. "Let's go back," she offered.

"In a minute."

"Right."

They sat in the quiet dark, Trixie shivering against the wind in her pretty emerald dress, wishing she'd worn something more practical for the weather. She only faintly understood what had just happened between the two of them, and didn't even trust her findings that much. Things would never be simple so long as she stayed here; she might as well get started on wanting the unavoidable future.

The hand that had gripped her heart so forcefully before was quick to object, taking her into a bruising hold that almost had her cry out. Oh, the things she had taught herself to want; the hold she had to learn to loosen. Trixie sighed, and imagined herself in the country, married to a kind man, carrying his child. Poor husband of hers; Trixie struggled to imagine a man who could withstand her coldness.

Wordlessly, Tommy extended his arm. Trixie took his hand in hers, recalled John and Esme's blood ritual, and followed him back to the light.

Pleasantly drunk, Trixie didn't think very hard about it when Tommy turned to her and said, "We ought to dance."

"Alright," she'd replied with a shrug.

She was still not much of a dancer; maybe even worse than she'd been before. After a few minutes attempting to mimic the quick steps of the other couples on the floor, Tommy had given up and let her just sway against him. His jacket smelled of cigarettes and pine, and she rested her cheek against the breast pocket to get closer to it.

"We never did the mingling of the blood," she said, muffled by the fabric.

He managed to understand. "You wouldn't have wanted that."

He was right, but she was a contrarian. "How do you know what I want?"

"What would you have wanted, then?"

Trixie considered. "A real dress. A pretty veil. Dessert wine and a big dinner. A cat."

"A cat?" he said. "At the wedding."

"Maybe I just want a cat."

"Alright."

"What do you want?" she asked. "Big floral arrangements? A fucking waltz?"

He didn't laugh, but she could hear the rumble of its beginnings in his chest. "Yeah," he said. "Live orchestra, fireworks."

"You'd ride in on a horse, if you had it your way," she said, willing herself the strength to pull back and look him in the eye. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong," he said. "Wouldn't want a horse in the fuckin' house."

"You want a horse somewhere in the ceremony," she amended. "And a pretty blonde wife who'll wait around while you're off winning a crown for her. Cook you dinner." Before she could dwell on it, Trixie laughed. "It's a miracle that there've been three Shelby weddings in the last few months and nobody's gotten shot."

He put his thumb on the scar on her face. "You almost got shot."

"Not at a wedding, though."

"There's still time," he warned, casting a glance over her shoulder, but all Trixie saw were circles of dancers, children running and playing, glasses being filled and emptied and filled. Nobody here was in a state to shoot at a moving target, and all the targets were moving. Except her, she supposed. And Tommy, but Tommy wasn't the kind of man who died, much as he set his mind to it.

"Where are the rest of you?" Trixie asked. "I have a feeling that if anyone were going to cock a gun, it'd be a Shelby."

"John and Esme are dancing," he said, turning them so that Trixie could see. She pushed up on her toes and found John and Esme spinning in circles, impossibly fast, elbows linked. If one of them slipped, the other would go flying, but they were knotted together. Trixie didn't feel as guilty for what she'd done now, not when he looked so fucking happy. Maybe it really made no difference who John married; maybe he was just lonely.

"I see Arthur," she observed. "He and Johnny Dogs are in a drinking contest." She raised an eyebrow as Arthur poured the remaining contents of his mug onto his own face, shouting as he went. "And—"

"Polly," Tommy interrupted.

"Where's Polly?"

"Here." Trixie turned and nearly burned herself on the tip of the woman's cigarette.

"Christ, you scared me," Trixie gasped.

"It's not me you should worry about," Poll said, pointing with her tab at where Ada and one of the Lee boys were shouting and twirling. Her toe caught on the cobblestone and she nearly tripped, but Ada merely laughed it off. "She needs to slow down."

"You think she's gonna listen to me?" Tommy retorted.

"Well I tried, but she's been drinking. She's going off like a bloody firecracker," Polly hissed. "And can you blame her? Locked up in that basement for weeks."

"Whoo!" Ada cheered, her hand slipping from the Lee boy's and sending her spinning out on her own.

"Oh, Christ, somebody please stop her."

"I can try," Trixie volunteered. She took a deep breath, hoping the cold air would sober her enough to carry the conversation, but the drinking and dancing had made the whole area suddenly humid. She didn't really have a choice, though, so—sober or not, she approached Ada, plastering on a smile that was passably cheery and putting a hand on her back. "Ada!"

The Thorne girl beamed. "Oh, Trixie! Let's dance, come on." She hooked her elbow into Trixie's and took off, sending Trixie stumbling. Normally, Ada might have a slight advantage in terms of strength, but with the weight of her pregnant belly, it was an unwinnable battle. Trixie sent a panicked look in Tommy's direction as she half-heartedly matched Ada's steps, but it was impossible to keep up.

"Ada, come on, have a rest," Tommy interrupted. "Sit down, eh?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Tommy." Ada stopped, to Trixie's relief, but started shouting instead. "Take a look, Esme!" she hollered. "Come and look at the family you've joined!"

John stood up, pushing Esme behind him. He approached Ada with the caution that one might use when approaching a bomb.

"Look at the man who runs it!" Ada continued. "He chooses his brother's wives for them, and forces his accountant to marry him, just so he can ship her off in the middle of bloody nowhere."

Trixie soured at the mention of her name, and tried to step in front of Ada. "Ada, please—"

She was unmoved, shoving Trixie out of the way so she could slap Tommy on the chest. "Hunts his own sister down like a rat, and he tries to kill his own brother-in-law!"

Tommy put his hands in the air, taking one step back for every Ada's pace forward. "Ada," Trixie repeated. "Ada, stop."

Arthur and Polly echoed the sentiment, each grabbing onto one of her arms while Trixie again stepped between Tommy and his sister. "And now, after all that, he won't even let me have a fucking dance." A tremor ran through her body, and Trixie thought she might sob, until something wet hit her shoes. Her first thought, shamefully, was to wonder if Ada had somehow pissed on her, before Polly gasped.

"Holy shit." Polly pressed a gloved hand over her open mouth. "Water."

"Not now, Ada!" Arthur moaned.

"Bloody hell," John snapped. "You do pick your times."

"Alright," Trixie interrupted. "Both of you, shut up."

"She's having a baby on my fucking wedding day," John squawked.

Trixie rolled her eyes, wrapping one arm around Ada's back. "You didn't know it was your wedding day until three fucking hours ago. And Ada can't very well hold the damn thing in until midnight." Beside her, Ada winced in pain. It would be too far to walk her back to the doctor. "Get the car," she ordered Tommy. "Go. Quick."

Perhaps Tommy was not in the business of taking orders, but the series of events had momentarily stunned him to the point that he took off running. "Ah, fuck!" Ada grunted, her grip tightening around Trixie's hand.

"Come on," Polly said, sidling up to Ada's other side. "Let's get you home."

"It's not my fucking home anymore," Ada snapped.

"Do you want to give birth right here, then?"

"Enough," Trixie objected. "Let's go."

After Polly had dragged Ada inside, contractions wracking her body and sending her shrieking for most of the car ride to the house, it was just Tommy and Trixie outside, waiting for John to arrive with Esme in the new car Erasmus had given him.

"Shouldn't you be helping?" Tommy asked.

"I know fuck-all about babies." Trixie tapped the end of her cigarette; ash floated down to the street. "It's better for everyone if I'm out here."

John's tires squeaked as he rounded the corner, almost drowned out entirely by the sound of Arthur's shouting. "Slow her up!" he ordered. "There you go, nice and easy."

Trixie doubted that Arthur knew anything about cars, since he seemed to live in the realm of drunkenness that made driving unacceptable, but men and their egos were a force. There were bigger things to worry about now, anyway, with Ada's pained cries drifting out the window. She wished she could help, honestly, but the car sickness from the drive was clinging to her stomach, and Trixie feared she might vomit if she had to pull a human out of another human, and she assumed that that would make the whole ordeal much worse.

"Story of your fucking life, Arthur," John guffawed.

She wished they would stop wasting time and get on with it. Even if Trixie knew nothing about birth, Esme had mentioned on the trip to the cars that she'd helped deliver a half-dozen babies, and Polly would need all the help she could get. She decided to say as much. "Get on with it, boys!" she shouted.

"Nice car, John," Tommy remarked, and Trixie elbowed him.

"Enough about the car," she snapped. "Hi, Esme."

"Hello," Esme said, smiling nervously. She was still in her white dress, but had bunched the skirt up in her hand so she could hurry inside. When she disappeared into the house, Trixie turned to the Shelby boys and frowned.

"Ada's giving birth, and you won't stop thinking about the fucking car?"

John shrugged. "Not much us men can do now."

Trixie cast another glance up at the window. "What about Freddie?" she asked. "A man deserves to be there for the birth of his child, politics and ambitions aside."

Arthur and John seemed to retreat, leaving Tommy to answer. After a moment of hesitation, he acquiesced. "Fine." He inspected the street once and continued, "Truce until sunrise. We'll phone Freddie at the Garrison and tell him it's safe."

Trixie nodded. Satisfied, Arthur and John set off towards the Garrison while Tommy held back to keep in step with her. "Careful," she warned. "Or word will get out that there's a heart in that chest of yours."

"Anyone who believes that is mistaken," said Tommy, like a promise. "And those are the types of mistakes that get men killed."

A/N: welcome back! this chapter was such a blast to write, i love seeing trix and tommy hash out their issues and struggle to communicate, but as we move into episode five i promise we will see them beginning to understand each other a bit better and move towards something that they both see is real. it's gonna hurt! but it's gonna be fun too

now that i'm on winter break, i have a lot more time open for writing and i'm hoping to make serious progress on this fic before next semester, so hopefully i can have updates coming out a bit faster over the next month or so. in the mean time, i want to thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter: celia, MoonlightShine, scars from the sun, EleanorJames, Idcam, 23, and wandertogondor. and thank you Stephanie for taking the time to beta this chapter !

thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you thought :) i will see you next time!

Chapter 22 / Wanted Man

"I never lied to you," Tommy swore. "And I'm not lying to you now."