note: this chapter includes sex and kind of graphic violence (if you remember the original confrontation with the IRA from the show, it's pretty close to that)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
the name of god

"Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins." —1 Peter 4:8

Unlike the last time Trixie had confronted anyone with a gun, today, she had hours to prepare.

Initially, she considered this to be a good thing: she had dinner, soaked in the bath, and reapplied the chalk around her eyes that had a tendency to slip off over the course of her extra-long days. When that still left her with too much time, she finished Wuthering Heights and started to reread Pride and Prejudice, but the sweetness of the book had her drifting into the absolute wrong state of mind for all that was to come. She changed her clothes, tightened the waves in her hair, read the paper, and dusted the windowsills in her apartment, but still, she was left with too much time. All she could manage was devolving into a bundle of nerves.

Trixie knew that her feelings were absurd, but she couldn't help but feel as nervous about seeing Tommy as she did about the deal with the IRA. She had managed to make it through the afternoon with him just fine, but that was only because they'd been preoccupied with all the death threats and planning. What would they do after the cops came in? Would Tommy notice a change in her behavior? Had there been one to notice?

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Bea," she muttered. Trixie collapsed down on her bed, took a deep breath, and tried to relax. "It's no different. You've done this before."

She debated touching herself again, thinking of how well that had relaxed her the other night, but Trixie couldn't help feeling some sort of guilt over the fact. It's no different than what you did with Tommy. Except—when they had done it, it had been their burden to share. That had belonged only to her, and it was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

But still—Trixie remembered how quickly she had fallen asleep after her dreamtime-rendezvous, and that was certainly not what she needed a mere hour before she was expected to turn up and threaten insurrectionists with a pistol. Not at all.

Maybe she should have a drink. Trixie sat up with a sigh, and stalked over to the cabinets. The insides had been deserted by their previous contents, the only survivors were her salt and pepper shakers. "Fuck," she muttered. There had been gin in here somewhere, but—

But she and Tommy had finished it. Months ago. Right before she'd sold her soul.

If she were doing anything else, she might consult her Bible for guidance, but she could not bring herself to look God in the face; not with what she intended to do tonight. She might as well be early, Trixie figured, and get her gin from the Garrison instead.

"Father, forgive me," she mumbled.

Outside, it began to rain. Trixie tried not to take it personally.

"You're early," Tommy remarked.

"Business seems to be doing very poorly," Trixie replied, scanning the desolate Garrison. On any other night, it ought to have been booming with drunk men from the shipyards, Peaky Blinders, and ordinary dipsomaniacs, but tonight it had been cleared out to make room for the private meeting. "You should hire a better accountant."

He smirked, and held out his hand for her coat. "You have the gun?"

Trixie nodded.

"Where?" he asked.

Well. That was a bit of an awkward question. She'd stuffed the damn thing in her garter, like John said Esme had done at their wedding, and now she would have to hike up the baby-blue skirt of her dress to make the point. Trixie rested her hand on the outside of her thigh, pressing the satiny fabric down until the pistol's outline was apparent. "Here," she said.

Tommy blinked. "Alright."

She shrugged. "Doubt the police will take the time to look everywhere."

Instead of commenting either way, Tommy seized her by the shoulders. "Beatrice," he said, very carefully.

"Thomas," she returned, juvenile as it was. She couldn't stand to look at him like this, not when her departure from the city was ever-approaching.

His hands slid up her neck, and then to cradle her cheeks. Tommy was warm; oddly so. It took all her strength not to sigh into the touch. You are not a fool, Beatrice, and only fools get heartbroken over men like him. "Keep me safe," he mumbled. "I'm trusting you."

"You're safe," she said immediately.

He drew his thumb over the scar on her cheek. "Gun's loaded?"

"Yeah," she said, taking a step back so she could catch her breath, ideally without him noticing. "Yeah. Gun's loaded. Come on, Tommy, let's have a drink."

Instead of calling for Harry, or waiting for her to grab a bottle, Tommy stepped around the bar himself and located four glasses. He slid them across the counter and Trixie brought two to the table and set them down next to a pitcher of water, leaving two for him to fill with whiskey. She climbed into the barstool across from him, momentarily entranced by the crook of his fingers around the neck of the bottle as he poured.

Enough! she willed herself. It's getting ridiculous. Trixie grabbed for the first glass as soon as it was full and took a bigger gulp than she could handle. The burn had her sputtering into the back of her hand.

"You know, Beatrice," said Tommy. "You're traditionally meant to sip the whiskey before business, and only quaff it once the deal's done."

Still struggling, Trixie just offered a weak smile. "I know," she said, her voice hoarse. "I just…" Just what? I'm just being stupid. "Nerves. Liquid courage."

"Perhaps in moderation," he suggested. "Need you conscious."

"I can hold my liquor," she promised. "It'll be fine." Nonetheless, her next sip was much smaller, and Tommy gave her a slight smirk as he sipped from his own glass. "You have the time?"

He pulled his watch from his pocket. "Minute to midnight."

"Alright," she said. She took both their glasses and the bottle of whiskey, and brought them to the table, Tommy following close behind. Four chairs had been arranged around it, and Trixie took her seat to the left of Tommy. Gun's loaded. It suddenly felt heavy in her garter. Was it slipping? What if it fell to the floor and gave their intentions away?

Well, there was no time to deal with it now. Just as the hand on Tommy's pocket watch hit twelve, the door swung open. Byrne stalked in, accompanied by a burly man in a flat cap. Trixie searched for the glint of a razorblade, but found none, just wool fabric woven together. Was that sort of thing permitted, she wondered? The uniforms had a purpose—and the Peaky Blinders were rather protective over all they claimed as theirs.

"Miss Price," said Byrne, loosening the scarf around his neck.

"Mr. Byrne," she replied sweetly, attempting to scoot the chair forwards without appearing odd. When her lap was shielded by the tabletop, she reached for the gun, holding it in place with a fistful of blue fabric.

As the IRA men took their seats and Tommy poured their drinks, Trixie began pulling the hem of her skirt upwards. Every inch it rose was more skin revealed, and though she knew revealing herself in public was something of an atrocity, she'd done worse. And so she wasn't as ashamed as she perhaps should've been as she finally gathered the skirt around the top of her thigh, leaving her easy access to the gun.

"Gentlemen," Tommy greeted, clearing his throat. "This is my accountant." He glanced over at her, eyes for the briefest moment darting down to her leg, and he let out a strangled noise that he quickly covered with a cough.

Trixie was quick to jump in. "Cold out there, isn't it?"

"We're not here to make small talk," the man with the hat dismissed.

"Don't teach manners in Ireland, do they?" Tommy asked, seemingly regaining composure.

Byrne stiffened. "Just show us where."

As if he had no stake in the matter, Tommy reached into his overcoat and pulled a folded-up map of the city from the blazer pocket. He held it up demonstratively. "Give us the cash."

Byrne nodded to his friend, who reached into his own coat. Trixie's hand went to her gun before she could help it, worried he might come out armed, but when he pulled a bundle of cash from his pocket, she found herself exhaling with relief. He slid the money across the table towards Trixie, and she smiled politely as she accepted it to begin counting.

The gun was balanced atop her thigh, and she leaned forward to hide it better under the table as she flipped through the stack of cash. It wasn't like she had anything to look for, necessarily, since Tommy hadn't shared with her the number he'd agreed to, and the police were due to burst in at any given moment. After thumbing aimlessly through the money for long enough to convince them that she knew what she was doing, she gave Tommy a silent nod and he dropped the map onto the table.

She wished, as Byrne covered the map with his hand, that she had asked Tommy for a number. At least then she would know if they had delivered, and she could try to make assumptions from that whether or not they were planning on cooperating or killing them both.

On the other side of the table, another silent conversation was taking place. Byrne inspected the map for a moment, and then turned to his associate, who smirked. Trixie only had a moment to piece things together before the man reached into his coat pocket again, this time drawing a pistol, and pointing it across the table at Tommy. "You thick fucking tinker," he laughed. "Did you really think we'd let you live?"

Tommy held up his hands. "It was worth the try."

Byrne joined in on the amusement, smirking at Trixie. "It's a damn shame he wouldn't leave you out of it. We can't leave any loose ends, Miss Price."

Well, she had her gun, and now was certainly an ideal time to use it. Police could be dealt with and paid off, but if she was shot dead, it would be a much more permanent fate. Trixie yanked the pistol out of her garter and shot up from her seat. As she brandished her weapon, she faintly recognized the clatter of the chair toppling over behind her, and the way Tommy had now stood too. "Great minds," she muttered.

The man grinned, almost thrilled, and shared a bemused look with Byrne. "Accountant, eh?" he asked. Trixie didn't answer. "Shoot her first," Byrne instructed.

Shoot her first. Where were the fucking police?

She was hardly even thinking as it happened. Was she shaking? She ought to be shaking. She was going to die, here, shot in the Garrison, and she hadn't been to confession in weeks.

Christ.

Byrne's associate shrugged. "Sorry, sweetheart," he offered. What followed: two gunshots, a yelp, and a body on the floor.

Trixie dropped her gaze to her stomach. Shock, certainly, was what had prevented the initial pain from the bullet. But even though her pretty blue dress had been splattered with blood, there was no wound.

Not possible, she thought, pinching at odd parts of her stomach, waiting for something to sting. He'd been too close to her to miss, and—she checked over her shoulder—there was no damage to the wall.

Which meant that it jammed. His gun had jammed.

And hers hadn't.

The bullet had punctured the center of his skull, and now he was splayed out on the sticky Garrison floor, head pillowed by a puddle of blood. Trixie gasped, and looked up at Tommy for confirmation that the man was, in fact, dead, and that it had been her who pulled the trigger. Tommy, however, was preoccupied when her eyes landed on him, lunging across the table and wrestling Byrne's pistol away. She brought her arm, her trembling arm, up, and tried to aim for Byrne, but the two men were tangled together now, stumbling back over the body on the floor and crashing into the bar.

Their bodies collided with glasses, mugs, bottles, glass shattering all over the floor before they collapsed atop the shards, one of them struggling for breath, knotted together so tightly that Trixie couldn't tell which.

Guns were easy, Trixie thought. This was harder. The wheeze in someone's windpipe, elbows kicking back, the frantic scrabble for mercy as they suddenly broke apart and began rolling across the floor. She wanted to shout at them to stop moving, just so she could get a clear shot at Byrne and finish this mess up, but she couldn't find the words. Where were the police? Why hadn't they come? How had a dozen officers all been late?

They tangled together again, this time with a clear winner. Byrne held Tommy's neck in the crook of his elbow, both men on their backs, Tommy's legs scrambling out as he struggled to catch his breath. Trixie didn't need the gun, suddenly. She just needed to—to stop seeing this. Tommy on the floor, gasping violently for air.

Without giving it much thought, she stalked over to them and gave Byrne a swift kick in the head. And again. Tommy took advantage of his momentary distraction and slipped out of the chokehold, but Byrne didn't give up. Seizing Trixie's ankle, he yanked her down to the floor with force that sent her slipping backwards, knocking the wind from her lungs and the gun from her hand.

Byrne climbed on top of her, wrapping a fist around her throat, and oh, Christ, this was far worse than the gunshot would've been. Let me go back, she prayed, trying to pry his fingers backwards as his grip constricted. Let me go back and die the faster way.

Trixie gagged against the hand around her neck. Where were the police? Her legs were twitching now too, her vision blurring, and then there was a loud bang. Air rushed back into her lungs and Trixie scrambled backwards, coughing as she sucked in as much oxygen as she could manage.

When her vision cleared, Trixie realized what the noise had been. One of the new cleaning buckets, now held high over a kneeling Tommy's head and brought down onto Byrne's face. Over, and over, and over again. She watched, horrified, fascinated, vindictive, as Tommy bludgeoned the man to death. The banging grew duller, softened by the blood and brain tissue lining the bucket's rim, before it finally fell from his hands, rolling across the floor and leaving a spiral-shaped line of blood as it went.

The world was suddenly very quiet in the absence of guns, or bucket, or fighting men. Where there had been four people, there were now two, and the fact hung undeniably from the silence.

Trixie watched as Tommy leaned back, unsure of what to say. It's my first time. A clicking noise started up, and Trixie thought maybe it was the beer hose acting strange, or the electricity, but then she realized that Tommy's teeth were chattering—his whole body was trembling, hands rolling into fists and smearing blood across his palms. "Tommy," she said, soft. She crawled towards him. "Tommy?"

Her hands found his shoulders and his face found the crook of her neck. They shook terribly, both of them, covered in blood. He gripped her waist with enough force to bruise, like they might get swept away by the current if they didn't hold on tight. "Now you see me," he rasped. His desperate whisper was muffled by her skin. "Now you see me, Beatrice. Now you see me."

She shook her head. "No. No. Tommy," she pleaded, searching for the sides of his face with her hands and pulling him back to look at him. The blood on his face seemed like nothing next to the blue of his eyes. "Listen to me, Tommy. I have always seen you. I have always seen you."

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. Trixie sucked in a breath. "They'll come for me," he said. "This wasn't an accident. They'll come for me."

"No," Trixie disagreed. "I made promises, Tommy, and I am a woman of my word."

As much as it killed her, Trixie found herself pushing him back and standing up on her feet. He followed, and she searched for her gun, switching the safety on, and pushing it into his hands. "Go back to the office. I'll wait for them here."

"Beatrice."

"I was working a late shift," she said. "It's the end of the month. I stayed late to work on our purchasing budgets. Two men came in here, drunk. They got into a fight."

"Beatrice."

"I don't need proof," she continued. In the scuffle, the money had gone flying, but it landed somewhere near the windows, untouched by blood. Trixie crossed the room to retrieve it, her heels suddenly very loud. "I just need something for them to write on their reports, and money to reimburse them for the ink."

"Beatrice," he repeated, growing frustrated. She put a hand on the side of his face.

"Tommy," she begged. "Let me take care of you. Please. Go back to the office."

He stiffened, clearly resentful of the prospect, but when he nodded, Trixie had to bite back her pride. If he was the most powerful man in the city and he was obeying her orders, what did that make of Trixie?

Alone at the bar, she let out an exhausted sigh. This had not been the night she was expecting. She slipped behind the counter, grabbing the first clean rag she could find and wiping the blood from her face. When she'd scrubbed it from her hands, Trixie tossed the fabric back down to the floor. There were bottles of liquor stashed at the bottom of the counter, and she was reminded of Tommy's words. Sip the whiskey before business, and only quaff it once the deal's done.

Well, she thought, looking down at the two dead men. About as done as a deal can be.

Just as she was reaching for the whiskey bottle, the front door swung open, Sergeant Moss and a handful of patrolling officers strolling in like they'd arrived for a drink and not a job. "Running a bit late, are we?" she asked.

"Where's your boss?" Moss demanded.

"Arthur?" Trixie asked. "Arthur's not here. I was just working late on our budget for next month."

Moss nudged Byrne's friend with his boot. "Then what the hell is this?"

Leaning over the counter, Trixie feigned surprise. "Oh, you see—I was finishing up inventory of the whiskey, and then these two men—they got into a fight. Think they were drunk."

"A fight, eh?" Moss asked, clearly not buying it. He pointed to Byrne. "See, I don't really get that. Because this one here is IRA." He pointed to the other man. "But so's this one."

"Maybe you're mistaken," Trixie suggested innocently.

"I'm not mistaken," Moss snapped. "That is Malachi Byrne, and that one there's Declan O'Neill. Both IRA."

"Lots of blood," Trixie suggested. "Might distort their appearances."

Moss sent her an irritated look before bending down and inspecting Byrne's body. "This one here—he looks like he was killed by a wild fucking animal."

"Put that on the report," Trixie suggested, sliding the wad of money across the counter. "You know, two IRA men killing each other makes your job much easier. Perhaps you ought to thank them." She cleared her throat. "Or maybe you ought to ignore the report altogether. You know how the Irish are, don't you, Sergeant?" Trixie shrugged. "Kill one, and a dozen more come looking for revenge. Imagine the mess you'd have on your hands."

He scowled, approaching the counter of the bar, and Trixie worried for a moment that she may have misjudged things. Maybe he would arrest her. Maybe she should've let Tommy take care of it, with all his influence.

But Moss said nothing, just pocketed the cash. "Get the bodies out of here," he called back to his men. "This never happened, and they were never here."

Trixie smiled, pleased. "Have a good evening, officer. If you don't mind, I'm going to finish up that work I mentioned earlier."

She pulled a bottle of whiskey from under the counter as she went. Even if they had little to celebrate, she doubted that Tommy would mind a drink. She certainly needed one.

He was at the desk when she found him, and he'd already located a bottle from Arthur's stash, drinking directly from the neck. "I see you beat me to it," Trixie said. The desk faced the wall—at Arthur's insistence—so there was nowhere for her to sit besides the already-occupied chair and the table itself. She leaned against it and inspected Tommy.

"They're taking care of it?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Never happened."

He nodded. "Guess not."

Trixie pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket and unfolded it. While she dabbed at the blood on his cheekbones, Tommy watched her carefully. He took a handful of her dress into his fist.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

She pulled her hand away, but not her face. It was nice to be near him, while she still had the chance. Trixie wished she hadn't given it all up so easily. "For what?"

"Your dress is ruined."

Trixie considered denying it, but she knew the blood wouldn't come out of such pale fabric. Still—the dress was nothing. They had both made it out alive, which meant there were plenty of opportunities to stop by the dressmaker in the foreseeable future. "It's alright, Tommy."

He let out a breath. "I've done that before."

Trixie said nothing, just leaned back the slightest bit to get a better look at him.

"When you're digging, your paths sometimes cross with theirs, and you have to finish things there," he explained. "I wasn't a child when I was in France. I'd shot men before. Some died. But—" Tommy seized her hand, and pulled the handkerchief from her, dropping it on the floor somewhere beside the chair. "I didn't have a gun the first time. One second, it was my shovel hitting dirt, next there was—" He took a heavy, labored breath, like the memory was boxing him in the stomach. "I wasn't always—" Tommy cut himself off.

"Don't," Trixie said.

Tommy blinked. "What?"

She shook her head. "War is a terrible thing, Tommy, and when you—" Trixie swallowed. "When you care for someone, you don't let them go back."

For a long moment, he didn't react. Had it been the wrong thing to say? Should she have waited for him to continue? Or perhaps she shouldn't have said she cared for him. Trixie opened her mouth to backtrack—care, as in, partnership. Care, as in, I need you to stick to the plan—but then Tommy's mouth was on hers, slow, startlingly uncertain.

God, he tasted like whiskey and salt. Trixie cradled his face as she kissed him back, thumb moving gently over the blade of his cheekbone, fingers soft over his jaw. One of his arms snaked around her waist, tugging her forward gently until she was lowering herself into his lap, ankles crossed like a proper woman, despite everything else going to the contrary. This was not like the time in his car, or John's wedding. There was no anger, just his arm loose around her waist and her fingers running through his hair.

When he broke the kiss, Trixie chased his lips before she could stop herself. Tommy pressed his forehead against hers, as if to assure her that he was not gone.

Trixie kept her eyes closed, the prospect of looking at him too intense to be bearable. He would have none of that, though, whispering, "Beatrice," once, so sharp against the quiet that she felt a heat run through her whole body that was immediately washed over with ice when she met his eyes. "What is it?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Can we just—" She leaned back in, desperate to avoid the mortifying ordeal of speaking, but Tommy held her an arm's length away, fixing her with a stern look. This was it, then? Trixie would either have to spit it out, or climb off his lap and let the adrenaline fade—and who knew what kind of guilt lay on the other side of that line? "It's just that," she said, clearing her throat. "I want you, Tommy," she blurted out. This was hardly the time to admit it, what with them both being covered in blood, and she wouldn't blame Tommy if he exiled her to the countryside this very minute. This was hardly the time to admit it, and yet, Trixie continued. Her next words were soft, but her voice was steady: "It's you for me, Tommy. It's you."

"Beatrice," he warned. "No."

"I do," she insisted.

"You don't," he dismissed. "You've seen the type of man I am. I'm cruel and I'm selfish. You'd let a bad man like me between your legs?"

"It's the only way I can be sure," she said slowly. "If I have seen you at your cruelest, and want you nonetheless. That means something."

"I killed that man," he mumbled hoarsely.

"I killed his friend," Trixie countered. "We did this together. I am as bad as you, Tommy. I've only been lacking in opportunity."

His eyes sank shut, one hand groping blindly until it caught the back of her knee. Tommy dragged it forward, towards his hip, until she was straddling his lap in the chair, bracing her weight on the edge of the table with one hand and holding his chin in the other. "You should be more afraid of me," he said, and kissed her anyway, hungry and impassioned.

Trixie melted into his arms, his warmth. If she could have this, she would take it. She wanted him to belong to her, and she him, and she wanted the marks to prove it. Tommy held her waist tight, pulling her back down, and she bucked against him. He was half-hard, the tent of his trousers growing ever-more apparent the more she rolled her hips against him. God. God. A moan escaped her lips and he swallowed it down just as quickly, sliding his hands to her hips and then the backs of her thighs.

With a push, Tommy stood and perched Trixie on the edge of the desk. She hooked her ankles together behind his back, one heel slipping from her foot and falling to the floor. He was pressed tight against her, and Trixie was flushed all over, her hands making fists at the lapels of his jacket. Tommy bit down on her lip—hard—and Trixie sputtered at the sting only to forget about it when he swiped over the spot a moment later with his tongue.

It was all so much—the sweet way his left hand toyed with the strap of her dress, while his right gave her thigh a pinch; the dig of the table into her back, the warmth of his body. She wondered if the little aches should bother her more, but—it wouldn't be Tommy if it didn't hurt a little.

She had no idea what she was doing, but Tommy had seen her through so many firsts that she couldn't find it in her to be ashamed of her inexperience. Trixie found his belt with her hand and yanked him forward, sending him stumbling hips-first into the sweet ache between her legs. "Christ," she whimpered, and Tommy let out a shuddery laugh.

When Trixie tried to lean into his lips again, he stopped her with a hand on her collarbone. "Beatrice," he said. "Just—" He glanced at the door. "Not here."

"So take me home," she said.

Tommy ghosted his hand over her throat. Trixie leaned into the touch and sighed. "You know I'm not a good man," he threatened.

"I know, Tommy," she said, covering his hand with her own. "I know."

Their decency lasted until Tommy's bedroom door was shut and locked, and not a moment after. The waiting had been bad enough: she had spent a painstaking amount of time checking the locks on the doors while Tommy discussed specifics with Moss outside. In the quiet of their walk home, she almost wondered if he would change her mind. Or if she would decide to turn back.

Evidently, neither had happened. Tommy backed her up against the door as soon as she was inside and took both her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head. She felt wet and hot, grinding helplessly against the thigh he used to partition her legs. "Can you be quiet?" he asked.

No. I don't know. "Yes," Trixie said. Whatever she needed to say to keep him going—and anyway, with Arthur gone and John half-moved into his and Esme's new house, the house was deserted enough. Her knees trembled as Tommy began gathering her dress and dragging the hem up to her hips, exposing her legs and the short white underthing she wore below. Eyes still on hers, Tommy reached down and ran the tip of one finger against her slit. She let out a whimper.

Tommy dropped the skirt of her dress and stepped away. She followed without thinking, but her legs were getting weaker, and she ended up tumbling back into his arms. He hoisted her onto her feet, and then they were eye to eye, bodies lit up by the light outside his window. "Are you afraid?" he rasped.

Defiant as always, Trixie shook her head. "Not of you." She shifted under his stare, and considered the other factor in all this. "I've never done this before."

He nodded and lifted one of her hands to his mouth, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her knuckles. Then, he guided her fingers down to the buttons of his waistcoat . It took a moment, but she eventually pushed it from his body. She yanked on the bottom of his shirt next, and he worked on the top buttons while she fumbled with the lower half, their hands eventually meeting in the middle of his chest. He let the shirt drop to the ground before sitting on the bed, and gesturing for her to join him.

Trixie stepped out of her heels and climbed into his lap. This was familiar; this, she knew how to do. The bulge in his pants had grown more obvious since they were at the Garrison, and she tried not to be too proud of herself for being wanted. Her hands fell everywhere she could touch—his hard stomach, his warm chest, his broad shoulders. Tommy started riding her dress up again, eventually pulling the whole garment from her body. In nothing but the white slip, Trixie felt suddenly like the virgin she was. Shy. Clueless. But when she glanced down, she found that it, too, had been stained by the blood.

The sight of it made her stomach twist in a way that wasn't necessarily bad, though she knew it should've been. It had to go, but Tommy hesitated, also mesmerized by the blood. She reached down and pulled it off herself.

Bare chested, Trixie lunged forward, seizing Tommy's lips between her teeth, too busy wanting to bother with moral reflection. The man was everywhere—a palm on her breast, and then gripping her hips, an arm thrown around her to pull her closer against him until she was planted firmly against the crotch of his pants, that fabric all that separated the two of them.

In one smooth motion, Tommy twisted their bodies, Trixie falling backwards onto the mattress while he crawled atop her. "Oh my God," she mumbled against his lips. "I—I need."

He settled between her legs, pulling her knee up so one foot was flat on the blanket, and reached between her parted thighs, fingers slow as they teased her. It was better than her dream had been, better than the last time he'd touched her. She arched into his hand, sighing pleasantly, almost relieved that she was finally getting the friction she'd craved. When he quickened his pace, she gasped, the sound catching in her throat and coming out strangled. From his spot lower down the bed, he watched her, unfaltering, as the muffled moans fell from her mouth and her eyes rolled back in her head.

Trixie let her head fall back against the pillow. This was good. Tommy, hot and heavy on her, the ache from the way he'd pushed her leg up, soothed over by his fingers crooked up inside her, his—"Fuck," she hissed. Winking one eye open, she found Tommy burying his head between her legs, bobbing up and down as he laved his tongue over her clit. She could die like this, Trixie thought. She'd already killed for him. What was a little more death?

Vaguely, she registered that she was speaking, some mixture of Gods and Tommys rolling off her lips. Her core was tightening, heating up, and Trixie felt impossibly close to the edge. She inhaled sharp, ready to let go, only for Tommy to—

"Where are you going?" she whined helplessly, her heart racing, legs trembling.

Even in the dark, she could make out his wicked grin. Trixie's heart kicked harder in her chest, half-terrified and half-thrilled by him. Tommy lifted her calf in his hand and pressed a kiss to it. He sat back on his knees, setting Trixie's foot back down on the mattress, before asking, "What comes next, Beatrice?"

What comes next? She wasn't finished. He hadn't let her finish. "Please, Tommy."

He leaned forward so that his face hung over hers, hands bracketing her ribs. "You'll have to do better than that."

Oh, Trixie realized. He wanted her to say it. In the dark, no blush crept up to her cheeks, even though she was positive he was searching for it. Trixie loathed to do what was expected of her, so she let out a little laugh and asked, "Fuck me?"

"Christ," Tommy muttered. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

To do that, he'd have to get slightly more naked, so Trixie reached for his belt and began undoing the buckle. Tommy cursed under his breath, pulling it from the loop once it was loose, and she began palming over him through the fabric. Was this the right thing to do?

His hips bucked forward, one hand flying to her shoulder as he bowed his head and let out an uncharacteristically emotive, "Fuuuck." Something about what she was doing was working. Tommy undid the button and the zipper of his trousers, and Trixie shifted back to give him the room to slip them off. His cock was hard—she may not have done this before, but she could put that much together. "Can you get the tin from the drawer?" he asked.

Trixie raised an eyebrow. "Tin of what?"

"Says Ramses on it," he grunted, one hand fisting his cock. The movement mesmerized her; it was so rough. "Beatrice," he said, and she pulled her eyes away. "If you watch like that, I won't want to go slow."

She blinked, startled, and twisted around to reach for the drawer. Inside, Tommy had all sorts of things—tins of cigarettes, boxes of matches. But the Ramses box was easy to spot, shaped more rectangularly and decorated with blue and pink candy stripes. As she handed it to him, she said, "So don't go slow."

He let out a disbelieving kind of scoff, but took the box from her anyway, removing a packet from inside and tearing it open. Trixie wasn't exactly sure, but as Tommy slid the disc on, she guessed that it was some sort of contraceptive.

"Do you want to turn around?" Tommy asked, his voice suddenly serious; restrained.

"What?" Trixie asked. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Might not want to think about it being me."

Even though he looked entirely unperturbed, Trixie thought she might cry at the sentiment. She pushed herself up onto her knees and kissed him fervently, his mouth sticky and tasting of something metallic—her, Trixie realized, hooking her elbows around his neck. "Don't be stupid."

Tommy seemed to understand what she meant. He lowered Trixie onto her back and drew her knees back up, parting her thighs and swiping a palm between her legs; she jolted. "Sorry," he said, but she could hear the smirk in his voice as he used her wetness to slick up his cock. "Alright?" he asked, his hands on the backs of her knees.

Trixie nodded. "Yes. Christ. Yes."

He lined himself up and began pushing into her, slower than she'd expected but just right. Nothing bled, nothing stung enough to bring tears to her eyes. There was no way around the ache, but it wasn't anything as bad as she'd expected. By the time he'd bottomed out inside her, she'd begun to relax into the feeling, pain replaced by hunger.

"Alright?" he asked again, and Trixie tried to give the question serious thought, but she was too distracted by the way her legs had already begun shaking and Tommy fucking Shelby had his cock buried to the hilt inside of her and she was enjoying it to do anything other than nod.

Tommy was gentle at first, pulling out slowly halfway and then pushing back in again; she didn't feel particularly either way about it, really—it didn't hurt, the stretch becoming more comfortable as he moved, but it wasn't enough to send her over. "Harder," she begged, struggling to keep her voice quiet. "Please, please. Faster."

"Jesus," he said, and then he delivered, pulling out almost all the way only to thrust back in hard, and Trixie choked on a moan. He fucked into her without mercy, which she'd expected, which she'd imagined. He'd warned her to stay quiet but the bedsprings were hardly complying, and the sound of skin against skin between them was so loud that Trixie worried the whole city could hear it. Tommy, though, was silent, face betraying nothing, entirely focused on the rhythm of his thrusts.

Once he'd found the pace, Trixie began rolling her hips up too, curiously. The first time, he hadn't expected it, bumping awkwardly into her knee, but the second time she pushed up, Tommy slipped an arm under her ass and held her like that, body at a slant above the bed. He fucked into her again and—

"Oh, God," she sobbed. Tommy said nothing, just raised an eyebrow, before doing it again, eliciting another cry. "Tommy," she said, her voice coming out strangled. "Just—wait. Wait."

He withdrew, and immediately, she regretted stopping him. Trixie made quick work of reaching over the bed for something—anything. Her fingers found his shirt, and she pulled it to her naked chest.

"Yeah," she said. "Alright, uh. As you were."

Though he seemed confused, Tommy didn't object. He lifted her hips back up, dragging her down the bed and resting her on the tops of his thighs. When he began sliding into her again, Trixie brought the balled-up shirt to her mouth, burying her face in it and muffling the sigh that slipped out. He laughed, disbelieving. "Is that how it is, Beatrice?"

She made an honest effort to come up with an answer to that question, but then he started thrusting harder than before, and Trixie's mind went entirely blank. His shirt was in her mouth, and it smelled like cologne and salt, and he kept hitting that spot that had her vision whiting out.

Her core tightened and Trixie arched up, not sure if the words falling from her lips were prayers, curses, or both. All she knew was that it hurt in a way that felt absurdly good, and Tommy's breathing had gone labored, and then she was frozen in place. "Oh—"

The orgasm seized her almost violently, unfurling like ice to soothe her burning skin. Tommy was relentless, his speed never so much as faltering as she came apart, and then Trixie's limbs went loose and easy, her head falling back against the pillow with relief. "Yeah?" Tommy asked, his voice hoarse.

Trixie nodded, her arm falling down to the bed and leaving the shirt draped sloppily over her breasts. "You're not—" He was still hard inside her. "Keep going."

"What?" Tommy asked. "You—"

"I'm going to watch you come," she said, bumping her hips up into his tentatively. Tommy hissed, his hand buckling and dropping him onto her. Trixie buried her grin in his shoulder, delighting in the way he reacted to her. He had seen her at her most vulnerable; she would only have him if he gave her the same. "You watched me. Your turn."

Tommy pushed back up. "Fuck, Trix," he panted.

Trix. It sounded better in his voice. Tommy started back up again, bracing his hands at her sides. He fucked with a selfish urgency, like he couldn't get enough of her. Without knowing why, Trixie bit down on his shoulder, eliciting a sudden jerk forward from him that had her writhing beneath him.

She raked her nails down his back, testing out a theory that had begun to take shape somewhere between the way he was choosing to cope with the guilt of what they'd done and the way he reacted to her teeth on his neck.

Judging by the way he groaned into her ear and began bearing down even harder, Trixie guessed that she was right. She laughed despite herself and clung to him desperately, almost worried that the force of his thrusts would have her rolling off the bed. "You're gonna make me come," he warned.

Trixie fisted a hand in his hair, rough and mean, and Tommy pumped into her once, twice, again, a final grunt ripping itself from his throat. He dropped his head to her chest, and Trixie raised her knees again and wrapped her arms around him, just needing something to hold onto. Neither of them moved, his body a pleasant weight blanketing her.

By the time Tommy rolled over, Trixie was on the verge of passing out. She'd seen the world, for the first time, as it was, and she didn't know what to do with it. Something was—something was wrong with her, but at least the same thing was wrong with him. They had each other.

"I should go to Church," she mused, pulling the sheet up over her shoulders. Now that they'd broken apart, the chill in the room was impossible to ignore.

Tommy, somehow already lighting a cigarette in his mouth, dropped the match into the ashtray on the bedside table and turned back towards her. "Second thoughts?"

She shook her head. "I'll talk to Campbell. See if he wants to explain his men's poor manners."

He snorted, and she reached up to pluck the cigarette from his fingers. "If you want your own, you'd be better off just saying that."

"I don't," Trixie insisted. "Unless you mind me taking hits off yours."

"I've never minded before," Tommy said, but took the tab back anyway.

Neither spoke for a moment, and Trixie wondered if she was meant to leave. He didn't seem the type to spend the night with a lover, even if she only had knowledge of Lizzie to back up the claim. Even if she wanted to—which she didn't, because it was cold—she couldn't. Tommy had taken the outside of the bed, and to leave she'd have to crawl, still naked, over his own naked body.

"I thought you were a nice girl," Tommy remarked. "'S what Polly said after I came back and saw you in her office. 'Leave her be. She's a nice girl.'" He turned to her, illuminated by the glowing end of his cigarette.

"I was a nice girl back then," Trixie insisted.

"Back then," Tommy enunciated. She eyed him, admiring the lines of his abs. "So what happened, Beatrice?"

You, she wanted to say. There was no other answer. She'd become who she needed to be to avoid being swallowed up by the jaws of his great ambitions.

But he looked at her with such painful endearment, heavy-lidded and calm, that Trixie couldn't bear to say anything that might change that. She would never have Tommy Shelby like this again—she would never have him at all, and she wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. "I don't know," she mumbled, resting her head on his chest and letting her eyes slip shut. "I just know there's no going back."

A/N: hi hello! so we've finally gotten to the chapter i've been looking forward to since i planned it out six-ish months ago, and i couldn't be more excited. there's a long way to go for trixie and tommy but they've also come so far :')

thank you so much to wandertogondor, NotSureHowToMingle, RachelLynnexx, 23, Idcam, AlienfromNorth, EleanorJames, and scars from the sun for reviewing the last chapter :) and shoutout to stephanie again for betareading this. please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well if you feel so inclined and i will see you soon!

Chapter 26 / A Hen in the Wolfhouse

"I heard your husband has taken a lover," Campbell sneered.

"Perhaps." Trixie shrugged. "But I have a feeling, Inspector, that this is going to be a much bigger problem for you than for me."