CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
creator, destroyer


"I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world." —John 16:33


On a table at the Garrison, Tommy Shelby looked death in the eye.

It was a vulture, then a rat, then a little girl's porcelain doll. He heard himself shouting, felt his hand tightening around Beatrice's, saw himself curling up into a knot in an effort to get away from the pliers in his chest. And then he closed his eyes again, and the doll began to dance. "Ring around the rosies!" it cheered, its small glass mouth opening into a circle. "Pocket full of posies!" Tommy gritted his teeth. The doll became a baby, a snake, a lion, and an eel. "Come on, Tommy," it goaded, Greta's voice soft from its gills as it slithered around the chandelier. "Follow me where I've gone. Don't leave me alone."

He shouted again as the pliers dug deeper. His brothers were giving him orders, but all he could see was the eel, drifting down towards him, wrapping a coil around his fist.

"Will you come?" it asked. It was an eel. A vulture. A doll. Himself, as a little boy. "Will you rest?"

No, he shouted, to death, to the pliers, to the bullet. No! No! I will not cross that line.


Trixie's hand had acquired a certain looseness that it had not previously possessed since the extraction of the bullet had begun. The might of his grip had reminded her again of his strength, all he'd held back when he touched her. "No!" he shouted, gasping for breath, the closest she'd seen him to tears Jeremiah continued to dig around his chest.

"Take it, Tommy," Arthur instructed. "There you go, come on."

She bit her tongue rather than mention her concerns for infection again—that had previously resulted in Curly dumping a full bottle of whiskey over Tommy's bare chest, which had elicited a cry of pain she'd never heard from him before and hadn't even thought possible from a man who bore such stoicism. The sanitation of the wound hadn't been her concern anyway, but rather the state of the pliers that had been dug up from a box under the Garrison's bartop.

"Hold him still," Arthur instructed, and a half-dozen hands emerged to hold Tommy down to the table.

"You're alright," Trixie murmured, though she doubted he could hear her over the sound of his own misery. Tommy squeezed her hand tighter.

After a few seconds more, Jeremiah pulled the bullet free. "There!" he proclaimed, dropping it into a shot glass half-full of whiskey. A proud grin on his face, he continued, "I still have the knack."

Arthur knocked Tommy on the back of the head fondly and placed the bottle of whiskey in his hand. Trixie stepped back, disappearing into the fray of the crowd as Tommy took a swig straight from the bottle. "Alright," Arthur instructed. "Deep breath." And then he poured this bottle down Tommy's abdomen too. Trixie flinched at his agonized groan. "That's it," he said, in a way that made Trixie wonder how she'd ever forgotten that he was the oldest brother. "There you go, Tommy." Arthur grabbed the suture kit off the table and shoved them to Trixie. "Can you do them?"

"Um," she said, feeling stupid. "Yes?"

"Good enough." Arthur put both hands on her shoulders and nodded. "We'll be in the back," he said, leaving out the rest of the sentence—we'll be in the back, with Danny's body.

Settling at Tommy's side, Trixie inspected the supplies they'd left her. A needle. Floss. Yet another bottle of whiskey "Will this hurt?" she asked him, knowing that the answer didn't matter.

He nodded and lay back on the table. Trixie drew the string taut, laced the floss through the eye of the needle, and leaned in. She could stitch—dresses, that was, or tears in the lining of her coat. Not a person. The point of the needle hovered over Tommy's chest, and she shivered. "Beatrice?" he grunted.

"Yeah?" she asked, straightening Say someone else will do it, please, please, please—

"It hurts worse if you wait."

Dammit "Right," she said. "Sorry It's just—I've never done this before, really."

"First time for everything."

"Maybe if you talk…" she suggested. "Unless it hurts Actually, it's alright I'll figure it out." Trixie doused her hands in the whiskey to clean them, rearmed herself with the needle, and poked it very tentatively through Tommy's skin. There was a sharp intake of breath, but she continued on the other side, humming to cover the sound of needle puncturing flesh. "Do you mind if I talk?" she asked "The sound…"

"Go ahead," he grunted.

"Alright," she said. "Well." What was there to say? So much. How much of it was she allowed to admit? Almost none. "I've never been shot before, and I know you say first time for everything, but I'm sincerely hoping I can go without that particular experience. I tried on the cap you gave me, but I think it looks funny on me, quite honestly. It doesn't go with any of my dresses, but maybe if I had a coat to go with it." She cleared her throat. "Keep talking, Beatrice. For once, keep talking," she muttered. "I can't believe you think I would ever leave you to fight that sort of battle without me. I don't know if it's because I'm a woman or what but—I mean, come on, Tommy, after everything, do you think I care so little about you?"

Her hand stilled as she reached the end of the wound. For the first time since she'd begun, Beatrice looked up and met Tommy's eyes, and found them staring back at her with a sort of curiosity that made her cheeks heat up.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out. "I'm nervous. I don't like to hurt you."

Tommy made a great effort of lifting his hand and using it to cover Trixie's. "You're alright," he said quietly. "It's not as bad as getting shot You've only the knot left, yeah?"

She nodded. "Yeah, erm—yeah."

He watched, propped up on his elbows, and she tied off the suture and set the needle down. Done. The battle, the war, the wound—done. Now they were no longer just the Peaky Blinders, they were something else entirely.

"Are you going to resent me for this?" she asked. "I should've factored it in more. I shouldn't have spent all that time goading Campbell. I got cocky."

"You learned from me," said Tommy. "And anyway, it worked out. Kimber left the tracks undefended, and so the Lees were able to take what we needed without a battle. It was two bullet wounds here when it could've been far more."

Though she recalled his speech about a swift and easy victory at the tracks, Trixie did not complain, or disagree. She was just—she was just so glad that Tommy was alright, and beginning to sit up, and thinking about business. This was the Tommy she loved, cool iron exterior and flame inside. "Can I help you with your shirt?" she offered.

He glanced over at the fabric, seeming to weigh how painful it would be to do on his own, before nodding. Trixie gathered the bloodied fabric around his shoulders and slipped his arms in one at a time, wounded side first. His gaze bore holes in her as she bowed her head to reach the bottom buttons, working her way up to his neck. Was his breathing quickening because of the bullet or her touch? Was he watching her for lack of trust or for the chance to look? "Thank you," he rasped, when she finished with his collar.

"It's the least I could do." Her voice was only a whisper. Better go, she thought. Better go now before you humiliate yourself. Gathering her things in her arms, Trixie said, "I know you have to see Danny, I'll leave you to that But if you need anything—"

"Wait," said Tommy. "Beatrice."

"Trixie," she corrected out of habit, though she had grown fond of the way his voice shaped her name in his mouth.

"Trixie," he whispered, giving a gentle pull that had her stumbling back towards him. She caught herself on his shoulders before she could think about it, and he grimaced.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed, moving to pull away "Oh my God, Tommy, I'm so—"

"Stop it," he said, pulling her back, her face balanced carefully in the crook of his neck, where she could smell whiskey and cologne and the faintest hint of blood. "Don't apologize, don't go, just don't—don't leave, alright?"

"Okay," she whispered into his shoulder "I won't go anywhere." And then, persuaded of bravery by her hiding spot behind his eyes, she admitted, "Somewhere along this I started to care for you, you know. And I know what kind of man you are, and I know that fucking's just fun, and being tied down to a woman is a burden more than anything else, but I see you, you know? I just see you." Trixie swallowed. "You ruined me for everyone else but not like I thought you would. Nothing else now is just—it'll never be as good. Everybody else flinches, Tommy, but not you. You don't flinch."

He said nothing, and Trixie was prepared to die like that—in his arms, over his bloodied shirt. Then—a hand found her face. A kiss found her cheek. "I've always seen you," Tommy confessed. "You frightened me."

Trixie drew back and looked him in the eye quite seriously. "I frightened you?"

"'S right," said Tommy. "I knew you would be something. I didn't want you to be. I wanted you to be a nice accountant who went to church and followed orders, but you were never that." The corners of his lips quirked upwards into the slightest bit of a smile. "Wanted to keep you all for myself," he murmured, his hand finding the side of her face. Tommy drew his thumb over her bottom lip. "Can I kiss you, Beatrice?"

Her stomach turned to butterflies and bees. The parts of her heart that she'd long pronounced dead were suddenly lighting back up. This was the moment: she loved him. She was in love with him. And there was nothing she could do about it, except nod. "Yes," she whispered.

Tommy dipped his head to meet her lips, his mouth soft and warm and tasting of whiskey. "Stay," he murmured between kisses. "Stay with me, I'll build you a house here, I'll give you anything you want. Just don't leave me, Beatrice. As long as you don't leave."

She nodded. "Yes," she said, "yes." I love you, she thought, and didn't say it. "I'll stay You can keep me." It meant about the same, didn't it?

He buried his face in the side of her neck. "Come with me to the back. Be here for it."

The idea of being in the same room as the body of a man who had been alive an hour ago—who had died because she took a stupid risk—made her sick. But Tommy was asking her, openly, and she would not deny him this. Drawing back, Trixie held out her hand to help Tommy up. He grunted as he stood, squeezing her hand tighter. Once he was on his feet, Tommy spent a moment looking at her, and Trixie laced her fingers behind his neck, standing on her tiptoes and bowing his neck so she could press a kiss to his forehead. She wanted nothing but to take him home and make sure he slept through the night.

But first they had to bury Danny. Tommy led her to the snug, where his brothers and his men were gathered around the table. At first, the body remained shielded from Trixie's view by the broad shoulders of the surviving Peaky Blinders, but then the ring parted to make room for Tommy. She cowered behind him and caught a glimpse of Danny's forearm, before swallowing thickly and stepping out in front of Tommy to face it head-on.

Immediately, she wanted to wretch, but then John spoke up. "Now we can finally bury him. In the grave we dug." Danny Whizz-bang, it had said—memorialized for the fight he had held in his body.

"Yeah," Tommy agreed. There was a sad sort of laugh in his voice. "It's high on a hill—he'd like that." Then, after grabbing for a bottle from the table, Tommy pulled the cork out of the neck with his teeth and held it high. "To Danny Whizz-bang."

"To Danny," echoed the others.

"May we all die twice." Tommy took a gulp from the bottle and passed it to Trixie, who nodded and took a swig too. By the time it had made its rounds, it was empty, discarded somewhere in the snug. "Well," said Tommy. "The day is ours. Let's celebrate."


It only took an hour to get everyone drunk enough that they forgot all about the grief and the wounds. The Garrison was loud with filthy songs and cheers, sticky from whiskey all over the countertops. Couples danced. The world hadn't ended at all, actually. It had only become more alive since the day's events, so bright and happy that Trixie expected the table to grow legs and begin walking, the windows to open and sing, the bar to start weeping out of joy. In a corner booth, Trixie nursed a gin with Ada and Freddie, little Karl in his arms reaching greedily for fistfuls of his mother's hair. "I can't get enough of him," Freddie said, grinning at the little boy.

"Perfect," said Ada. "Because I've about had my fill."

"You make good parents," Trixie said, a lazy smile on her face as she watched the baby. All the violence, but it had been to make sure that John's kids, Finn, Karl, Jeremiah's children—all so that they could walk the streets free of fear.

"Are you next?" Ada teased, nodding her head towards the bar, where Tommy was drinking with John and Arthur.

The thought almost made her laugh. A mother, Trixie? "Absolutely not," she gasped. "My own—situation aside, I'm sure Esme's already pregnant by now. You know how John is. He'll have me beat."

"Who's watching those kids now, anyway?" Ada asked.

Trixie shrugged. "If I knew, I'd tell you."

Ada finished her drink. "So what is your situation?" she asked. She poked her husband. "Tommy got married, you know."

"That's the rumor," said Freddie, still fawning over Karl.

"It's not a rumor," Ada disagreed. "He married our Trix. Can you believe it?" With a snort, she continued, "You could do far better than my brother, you know. I wish you'd let me set you up with one of the boys from the Party meetings."

"It might be a little late for that," said Freddie. "If she's married to Tommy Shelby, I think we'd better not set her up with any other men, right?"

Ada shook her head. "The marriage was for the coppers. They're getting a divorce now that this robbery business is all over, and then—do you think Trixie would like Rupert?"

Freddie made a face. "Rupert wouldn't like her."

At that, Trixie perked up. "Why not?"

"It's not about you," Freddie said. "It's more on account of the fact that you are not a man."

Ada gasped. "No! You don't know what you're talking about—"

"He and Elia aren't roommates, Ada—their flat has one bed."

As the two argued on and on about Rupert and Elia and which communist they might like to fix Trixie up with, she watched Tommy at the bar. It only took a moment for him to notice and look back at her, a cocky grin on his face. Still, she wanted to take him home and make him soup and wrap a blanket around them both just to see him safe, for once. She would lay awake all night watching over him if she had to. But the day was not yet over, and the business not yet done. Trixie rolled her eyes at him fondly and went back to her glass, finishing the rest in one burning shot before sliding out of the booth and mumbling some excuse to approach the bar.

Tommy offered a shot glass almost immediately. "Hey, Trix," said John. "Having fun?"

"Most fun I've had since Campbell came to town," she retorted.

"I'll drink to that," Tommy agreed, and the round of shots went down. Trixie leaned into his side, and his hand found the small of her back. The memory of his plea possessed her—don't leave. He held her like he needed to make sure, and she pressed back into the touch.

"You were an idiot for thinking you could get rid of her and we'd all be fine with it, you know," John piped up. "She's one of us. Belongs here."

"I know," said Tommy. "For once, John, you were right, and I was wrong."

His brother grinned and socked him in the shoulder. "There you go! Wasn't so hard, was it?" Tommy grunted.

"What's our next move?" Arthur asked. "We still supposed to show up to work tomorrow?"

Tommy shook his head. "We'll need a better office. More safes. More men. We're moving up in the world, brothers, we need to look the part." He turned to Trixie. "You wanted a coat? You'll have a coat. You can have a whole seamstress on our payroll. We'll take care of you."

John nodded. "You're one of us."

Trixie smiled. "I can take care of myself."

John slung his arm around her shoulder. "But you don't have to, you know? You're a Shelby now, Trix, like it or not."

"I'm...something," she conceded, reflecting on Ada's words about divorce. The wedding papers had been confiscated before they could be registered; divorce wouldn't be necessary. But they would have to terminate the marriage somehow. Even though Tommy had asked her to stay, she didn't think he'd want to be tied down to any one woman. Not when his fun was just getting started, with the tracks now his.

The thought of another woman squatting on Tommy's lap and biting his lip lit up a fury she couldn't stand. She had not been the first, she knew, but it was time she came to terms with the fact that she would not be the last, either. "Cigarette?" asked Tommy.

Trixie nodded, finding a tin of matches in her pocket—well, Freddie's pocket. He'd loaned her his coat earlier when she complained of the cold, and now she watched as Tommy inspected it. Wordlessly, he passed her a smoke, and she puckered her lips as he lit a match and held it up for her.

"Esme's waving you down," Arthur snickered, pointing with his beer mug at John's wife.

John rolled his eyes. "She's mad we got cut short this morning. We didn't even get cut that short! She's insatiable."

"Not like you got five kids by being a saint," Trixie muttered.

"Oi!" John barked, but Tommy's half-grin was all the approval she needed. "I better go," John said, finishing the rest of his drink. "What can I say? Ladies love a man in power."

Once he'd gone, Arthur turned to Trixie. "That true? Is that what women want?"

She furrowed her brow. "I think women want power, man or not."

"Fair enough," said Tommy. "That's what makes you happy, isn't it?"

Trixie smiled. "Among other things."

As the dancing slowed and the drinking waned, the Small Heath Rifles began to return to their homes and their families, their would-be widows and moon-blue kitchens. Trixie remained at Tommy's side in one of the booths, enjoying his warmth, wanting to check on his stitches but refusing to ask. "Today was a good day," he remarked, when Esme returned with a bottle of champagne. She and John had disappeared into the office for too-long to not notice an hour ago, and come back with their hair mussed and their clothes somehow even more wrinkled.

"How good?" John shouted, far too loud for the fact that only the Shelbys remained in the bar, with even Ada and Freddie having retired much earlier.

"Couldn't have gone better if we planned it." Tommy held up his glass of champagne and stood up in front of the booth. "Shelby Brothers Limited are now the third-largest, legal racetrack operation in the country."

"Cheers," slurred his brothers. Esme planted herself in John's lap, kissing him wetly on the cheek as she pushed his beer out of reach.

"Only the Sabinis and the Solomons are bigger than us, boys," said Tommy, sipping from the glass and then passing it to Trixie. It tasted foul, and the bubbles made her cringe, but she was too drunkenly happy to be bothered by it. "And all my family is here to celebrate."

Trixie watched him, trying to understand without the humiliation of asking where she fit into all that. She wasn't family, really, but she was more than an employee of the Shelby Company. Just when she opened her mouth to remark, Tommy set the glass back down on the table and turned to her. "I'll walk you home."

She nodded. Trixie still didn't have her coat, but she didn't have to ask—Tommy wordlessly draped his over her shoulders as they left the Pub, a cool spring breeze rushing over them. Summer never made much of a difference in Birmingham, it just got muggier, but she was anxious for things to start moving again. "How are your stitches?"

"Ah," said Tommy. "Can hardly feel 'em."

"That's good?"

"That's good."

For once, Birmingham seemed actually, legitimately peaceful. The coppers were still stood down, the pubs had mostly closed, and the fighting had quieted. Trixie smiled to herself. "We won, didn't we?"

"We did."

She gripped the lapels of the coat and pulled it tighter around herself. "Well, then." She cleared her throat. "I guess it's time we got divorced."

Tommy looked over at her. "Are you joking?"

She had no idea. "Only because I feel we got married too soon. There was no—courtship. You just hated me, and then put your mother's ring on my finger. Oh!" Trixie stopped walking and slipped it off. "You should have this back. It's worth too much for me to be carrying around for the facade. Why didn't you just get me something cheap from a pawn shop?"

He shook his head, closing her fingers around the ring again and pushing her hand back towards her. "Keep it, Beatrice." Tommy gathered both of her hands in his and stepped forward. "I told you. I wanted to keep you for myself."

"I want a proper courtship," she said. "I want you to—I want you to bring me flowers and buy me dinners. Take me dancing."

"Whatever you want," said Tommy. He slipped the ring back onto her finger and then laced their fingers together. "I'll take you to the tracks. We'll eat so much caviar we get sick of it."

Oh, how she loved him. Beyond reason and beyond doubt. But like any smart woman, she kept that secret buried, taking it out of its little secret-box only every so often to hear it whisper, before returning it to its spot under lock and key. She might tell him someday, but not yet. Not when she was shivering from the cool breeze, on her way home—their home. "You can't leave me either, you know," she told him. "I want to be courted, but I don't want to be left behind when you have to go to work."

"You're the company treasurer. Can't leave you anywhere, and besides—" He dipped his head and kissed her sweetly. "—wouldn't ever want to."

"Good," she said. "I would go out of my mind wasting away in a house all day, timing everything so that dinner's hot when you get home."

"We'll have maids for all that," Tommy dismissed. "You won't have to do a thing. You can read every book in our library and then I will buy you another."

"That's a lot of books," said Trixie.

"I have faith in you," he replied. They were home now, at 5 Watery Lane, horseshoe blinking back at them in the silver-dark. As Tommy pulled the door open, Trixie said her prayer out of habit and drew the curtain shut.

She loved him, and they called the same place home, and though Trixie had spent the last six months ricocheting between names of different want, she couldn't think of anything else now but this: she, her husband, a tiny warm bed, and a blanket for them both.

At the base of the stairway, after shrugging off Tommy's jacket and hanging it on the hook, he turned to her and gestured up the stairs. "After you, Mrs. Shelby," he said, before following her up to the bedroom, where the door clicked shut. There were no happy endings for people like them, dark-hearted and ravenous and hopelessly in love, only this: soft lips, deep sleep, night long, hands interwoven.


A/N: hiiii oh my god we are? mostly done ? this chapter made me so emotional i am so happy for them but also so. so deeply sad. why are you sad, ava? you might be wondering. well. that is for me to know, and you all to find out in the epilogue! which is coming next tuesday i think along with the prologue of from embers.

okay news ! as a sort of ritual whenever i finish a writing project, i like to order a printed copy of it for myself to keep on my shelf, but i'm thinking of doing a giveaway of copies on each site i've posted the fic (wattpad, ao3, and ffnet). entering would just require you to comment, but i wanted to see if anyone would be interested before i wrote out a whole thing about it? it would be formatted and bound like a real book and feature a subtle cover if that makes a difference for anyone.

okay: back to your usually scheduled author's note programming: thank you so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter! every comment getting mad about the preview for the next chapter was so funny, i'm glad you are all as anti-divorce as i am, but you guys all literally sounded like this lol

but anyways. thank you to EleanorJames, Idcam, wandertogondor, NotSureHowToMingle, and RachelLynnnexx for commenting last chapter! please let me know what you thought of this too, and i'll see you all soon!


Epilogue / Blood and Water

"I'm looking for Beatrice Price."

The secretary's brow furrowed. "There's a Beatrice Shelby here, sir, but no Beatrice Price."