Like a Horse Made of Air

Chapter Fourteen:

"We're pregnant!" Arthur hollers as he walks in for breakfast.

Esme is beaming with pride from her place tucked into his brother's side. Instantly the noise at the table shifts. Ada leaps up to take Esme's hand and gush. While John and Keeva are perfectly content to voice their opinions from their seat. Pol has that smug look about her that says she knew long before everyone else. The kids clamor, debating on whether it would be better to have another boy or girl in the family.

His Wren finishes setting the plate in front of him then turns to face Arthur and Esme, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

"Congratulations," she says, her voice warm. "I know you've both been looking forward to being parents."

"Let us know if you need any help getting your place set up for a babe," Tommy adds as he lifts a hand to cover hers.

"Thank ya, Birdy," Arthur gruffs with obvious pleasure. "Thank ya, Tommy."

Then breakfast resumes as everyone settles at the table. The conversation drifting towards childhood memories and baby names. Then everyone scatters to go about their day.

His own mind drifts to the thought of his woman round with their child. They'll be married, his ring on her finger. Maybe they'll have more than one and she'll be holding on to the fingers of a little boy with his dad's eyes, or a little girl with her mum's smile. The ring he bought seems to grow heavy in his pocket.

A moonstone set in gold with tiny feather motifs around the band.

He knows Polly's growing impatient with him, and the rest are confused why he hasn't already. Even he isn't entirely sure what he's waiting for. He'd told her after he secured the deal with Kimber. He'd gone to Cheltenham with the mind to propose the same night when the damn thing was done.

Instead he'd been rattled. Both by what he'd witnessed of Kimber and the realization he could become something like him. And what he'd almost allowed to happen to the blonde.

"And you say you're a bad man," she shakes her head as she leans against his shoulder. "You know how many people—man or woman—would have let him do whatever he wanted if it got them what they wanted? Some of 'em would have even been willing to sit in that game room and watch. But Tommy Shelby? That Peaky fucking Devil that everyone's so scared of? He saw a bad man and wanted to be better."

She's spent so much time trying to convince him that he was perfectly fine exactly as he is. And he's made strides to making peace with himself. Can see himself as a dad now, believes he can be what his family needs. But she hadn't been wrong; he'd seen what Kimber had allowed himself to become and wanted to be better. He promised himself years and years ago, that he wouldn't be his father. That night, he'd promised her he wouldn't be Kimber.

He can be alright being a bad man, so long as he's also a good husband.

She'd told him that she believed in him, promised to help if that's what he needed.

She trusts him.

He reaches a hand into his pocket as he walks, fists his hand around the little jewelry box exactly where it's been for months. Truthfully, he's getting impatient with himself. Wants to hear people call her Mrs. Shelby. Wants to introduce her to people as his wife. Wants to see the glint of gold when she moves her left hand. Craves the weight of a ring on his own finger. Wants and wants and wants.

But the box stays in his pocket.

He's drawn out of his thoughts by none other than Freddie Thorne falling into step with him.

He hates how familiar, almost comforting, it feels to have the man at his shoulder. His former best mate, a man who fought beside him before France and in France and, for a heartbeat, after France.

But he remembers too well what he'd overheard that morning before the races, when he'd gone to see Wren to apologize for being an arse. He'd stood in the little entry way just out of sight and listened to his sister cry over this man. He thinks he could forgive Freddie many things—even some things he knows he shouldn't—but he doesn't have it in him to forgive him for making Ada cry.

"Well," Freddie says lightly, "if it isn't the King of Birmingham out for a stroll amongst his subjects."

Tommy says nothing as he pulls out a cigarette, rolls it across his lip and lights it.

"Look," Freddie sighs. "Can we talk, Tommy?"

"Been a long time," Tommy tells this man who used to be his friend, "since we've had anything to talk about. So far as I see it, that hasn't changed."

"You could help a lot of people, Tommy," Freddie pushes. "Used to be a time that would have meant something to you."

So, it was the guns after all. Tommy can't help the disappointment that washes through him even as he hardens his heart.

"I've a family to take care of," Tommy declares. "They come first."

"You used to call me family," Freddie reminds him.

And Tommy hates him in that moment, "that was before you chose a war you can't win."

Tommy stops and looks Freddie in the eye, "that was before you used me sister."

Freddie says, almost like a reflex, "I love Ada. Have done since we were kids."

Tommy scoffs. He's no saint, he's fucked more than his fair share of women over the years. From whores he paid to women he loved. He's of a mind that Wren has the right of it. He might have been willing to fool around beneath the bridges with Greta as a young man, but even then he'd never have fucked her under one. And he's never once considered taking Wren beneath a bridge to fuck her in the mud.

"If you loved her," Tommy tells him coldly, "you never would have been willing to take her virginity by putting her in the mud and fucking her like a cheap whore."

Freddie jerks as if Tommy struck him. Tommy wishes he rather had done. Instead he puts his hands in his pockets and walks away.

Tommy looks at the telephone sitting on it's table in the corner of Wren's office. There's now one in the backroom at the Garrison and also in his office at the shop.

"It'll mean being able to get word quickly to the three places we usually frequent," Wren reminds him. "Or allow us to relay information when we can't be caught moving about."

"I agreed when you brought it up the first time didn't I?" he tells her as he turns to look at her.

"You keep eyeing it like it's a bomb," she tells him with a bit of amusement.

He says nothing to that because she's not entirely wrong. He doesn't regard it as a bomb exactly, he wouldn't go so far. He's just aware of the role it'll play in the future if things keep on track.

Tommy pours the man a drink.

The man throws that one back too. Can't say as he blames the man. He doesn't envy the IRA's current position, pinned down and penned in by the Inspector's ceaseless assault. Even here in the Garrison's snug the man's twitchy, checking the doors and looking over his shoulder.

"I'm afraid I have to disappoint you," Tommy tells him. "I don't have guns, for sale or otherwise."

The man nods jerkily and doesn't bother wasting time as he leaves.

Tommy leans against the wall of the garage as he watches Campbell pace as he rants.

Oh, he'd wager the man doesn't think that's what he's doing. But Tommy has stood in near this exact position off and on for months at this point. Each time it's the same theme. And every time Tommy watches the older man reach into his pocket and hold on tight to whatever he keeps there.

Tommy has a feeling he knows what it is in the Inspectors pocket, as his own fingers find the little box sitting in his.

"Your lot can't keep showing up like this," Tommy tells the man as he belly's up to the bar.

"Man can't get a drink?" The latest Fenian gruffs.

"Normally I'd say, so long as he pays, a man can have as many drinks as he wants," Tommy tells him. "But your sort bring a great deal of trouble these days."

"You unload that burden your carryin' and that'd be the last you'd see of us," the man states bluntly.

"If I had such a burden," Tommy persists, "and did as you ask, if the Inspector was in a charitable mood, the last thing I'd see is a noose. And he hasn't been in a charitable mood lately. Fortunately for me, I have no such burden."

"You're just going to keep on that line, are ya?" The man scoffs. "Everyone knows you have 'em, Shelby. Why the farce? You that afraid of one man?"

"Me? No," Tommy says as he ashes his cigarette. "Wasn't me or mine that killed the woman he loved."

The man goes still and then curses, "you're fucking joking."

"You ever notice the Inspector seems to clutch at something in his pocket?" Tommy asks idly. "That something? It's a ring."

The man scowls and then slams back his drink, makes a show of slapping coins down on the bar. Then he storms out.

Tommy watches his woman's face as they ride through the countryside.

A Lovely Dream, she's named the white stallion she now rides. She always looks so happy to be a horse, he wonders if it feels like dreaming to her. They're a pretty picture. Her hair bound up in braids like a crown about her head, with matching ribbons woven through the braid she's meticulously woven into the horse's mane. She has Finn in front of her who, while generally more excited about cars, seems perfectly happy to sit with her and play whatever little game they've invented.

He soaks in this happy moment while he can.

This is a little bubble of peace that won't last. He can feel the pressure of the stormfront building as Campbell lashes out and the IRA pushes back. He's lucky, he knows, that Wren's plan worked so well. That Campbell has no idea it's really the woman Tommy loves that killed the blonde. That she had the foresight to see a problem that would have seen the IRA coming for Tommy for a life he didn't take.

The IRA might be pushing at him now, but he's a means to an end. He knows it would be a very different situation if they believed he'd been the one to pull the trigger on their man.

They have a plan, they're almost there, he just needs to hold it all together a little longer.

"I told the last man that was sent," Tommy says with forced calm. "I don't have 'em."

"The factory workers says it was you. The commies says it was you. The coppers says it was you. That's an awful lot of fingers pointing at you, Shelby."

The Fenians are getting desperate, Tommy muses, as he stares down the man trying to lean into his space. This is the third man this week they'd sent to try to get Tommy to sell the guns. And while he understands their desperation—the Inspector's rage has yet to show any signs of cooling—that doesn't mean Tommy's willing to fuck himself over by giving them what they want.

It'd have been bad business before; it'd be death or worse for more than himself now.

"And I'm sayin' they're jerking you 'round," Tommy holds firm. "Pointin' a finger the way you want so they can take your coin."

"Look, either you talk to me," the man gestures to himself, "Or they make a call up the food chain and bring in one of the higher ups to deal with you."

Tommy lifts a brow and levels the man with the look that comment deserves. Even still, his mind spins with the implications of the IRA moving on him just to get at what he's hiding. He resists the urge to clench his jaw, refusing to offer anything that might smack of weakness.

Danny Owens is currently on the way to London with a very important packet of papers.

He'll be getting rid of the fucking guns soon, but not yet.

"At this point," Tommy tells the man coldly, "I'm glad I don't have 'em. More trouble than their fucking worth."

The man shakes his head and finally leans away from Tommy.

"Have it your way then," the man shrugs and leaves the snug.

If that were the last Fenian he ever saw, he'd be damn glad of it. But he knows he won't be that lucky.

He's walking down an alley when he feels the gun brush the back of his head and hears the hammer cock. He stills, but doesn't remove his hands from his pockets, smoke drifting around his head from the cigarette between his lips. He can hear harsh breathing, feel the faintest tremble in the gun. He doesn't think the man behind him is IRA.

He turns his head slowly and looks over his shoulder.

Freddie stands behind Tommy with his finger on the trigger.

"The Cause needs those guns, Tommy," the other man grits out.

"So I keep hearing," Tommy says idly.

They stand in silence for long seconds, Tommy can almost imagine the tick of the clock.

"I love Ada," Freddie blurts out like he can't help himself. "I do. I never meant to treat her poorly. I never wanted to hurt her. You know that, don't you?"

He lets the quiet rush back in then he says, "you're gift—and you're problem—has always been you don't pause to think. It crosses your mind, you say it. You see it, you react. No hesitation, no doubt. You just…do it. Even if you shouldn't."

"Like in France. When we were in those tunnels," Tommy speaks softly. "Any other man would have seen the gun and hesitated. You saw the gun and moved. Took the shot meant for me. No hesitation, no doubt. You just did it.

"I know that you believe what you're sayin'," Tommy reaches up and takes his cigarette between his fingers and lets out a long stream of smoke. "The same way I know you're not goin' to shoot me, Freddie."

"Yeah, you really think so?" Freddie blusters.

"Because if you were goin' to," Tommy says, "you'd have already pulled the trigger."

"You're the only one who knows where you hid the damn guns," Freddie snaps. "I shoot you, nobody gets 'em."

It isn't true, but in this instance his reputation for playing his cards close to his chest serves him well.

He'd take dealing with a gun to his head every day, if it meant that gun isn't pointed at Wren.

"Aye," Tommy agrees. "Like I said."

Then he faces forward and walks away.

Tommy sits across from a man who drinks cordial and water.

"The other men say this is a war started over the death of a woman," the man says

"I would agree," Tommy allows.

"That woman killed me cousin," Byrne says flatly. "Family is important. Don't you agree, Mr. Shelby?"

Tommy pulls on his cigarette and releases the smoke, "Aye, I do."

"The men tell me you won't sell us the guns," Byrne continues.

"I've told every man 'as walked through these doors," Tommy says, "that I don't have the fucking guns."

"Problem with that, Mr. Shelby, is that you're the only one saying you don't," the Fenian replies mildly. "And I don't believe you. Else, why would the Inspector spend so much time talking to you?"

"Because he wants you and your lot," Tommy doesn't hesitate to answer. "And I'm more than half convinced he started the damn rumor to use me to lure you out."

The man drinks down his glass all at once before setting it back on the table with a click.

"You seem an intelligent man, Mr. Shelby," Byrne says calmly. "So when I say your lover is currently at Molly's Tea Shop, I'm sure you understand what I mean. I'm judge, jury and executioner, Mr. Shelby. And I pronounce you guilty."

Tommy stares the man down with cold fury, even as a trickle of fear slides down his spine at the implication that the IRA has someone following Wren.

"So this is what's going to happen now," the man tells him. "We're going to get up from this table and leave this bar. Civilly, of course. And we're going to meet up with the men I have stationed outside. Then, you're going to take us to where you're hiding the guns. Or I give the order to the man following your woman to snatch her off the street. And, Mr. Shelby, I gave no orders to be gentle. So for her sake, let's hope you're lying."

Tommy rolls a cigarette across his lip and lights it, taking a slow pull.

Then he stands up and says, "you're going to need a shovel."

Byrne rises and follows as Tommy turns and exits the pub.

Tommy's head is spinning as he tries to see a way out. If a man made a grab, Wren would fight. If she won it would end with the man dead and the IRA after them for the kill. If she lost…at best they grab her up and hold her over his head. At worst…At worst they rape and kill her. Make an example of her to break Tommy.

If that happens, Tommy will suddenly share sympathy with the grieving Inspector. He wouldn't rest until he saw the IRA torn apart or they killed him.

Byrne's men fall in around him. Three obvious, and two he catches trying to be subtle. One behind, one ahead. He still has his gun on him, three knives, and the razor in his cap. He'd have to make sure no one could get away to relay orders. He'll have to be fast.

He needs six men to die. His gun holds six bullets.

He keeps walking.

As he passes a side street he makes eye contact with Freddie fucking Thorne.

He sees the man look down at the same time Tommy feels a gun press into his side.

Then they're passed the side street.

Tommy can't even be surprised when the shot rings out and the man with the gun drops dead. People scream and the street panics as everyone tries to run clear.

"Hey you, ya Fenian wanker!" Freddie calls as he takes another shot.

"Yeah, you!" Freddie laughs as another man drops, not dead but down Tommy judges.

At least it was the rear guard, which means Tommy just has to worry about the lead.

Tommy takes advantage of the chaos to duck away, pulling one of his knives and sliding it between Byrne's ribs as he goes. The man chokes and gurgles as he falls, red bubbling on his lips. Freddie's still firing, and the two men left have turned to take shots of their own. But the lead guard is trying to make a break for it.

Tommy doesn't think he's run as fast, pushed himself as hard, as he does then. As he chases the other man down. He loses his cigarette at some point, not that he cares. Almost loses his hat to a clothesline. Weaves between barrels stacked in an alley.

He has a second where he thinks he's going to lose the man, a second that freezes his blood. Then he spots a familiar gap and ducks down the smaller opening. He races down the path and pops out where it intersects the crowded alley. He twists and confirms he's gotten ahead and snatches up the runner and uses the man's own moment against him to slam his head back into the brick.

The man lands a few blows against Tommy's torso, tries to push him back. But Tommy won't have it, gets a hold on the man and swings with the other fist. Lands hit after hit to the side of the man's head. He staggers, falls, and Tommy goes down on top of him. Tommy sees an old broken hammer, discarded against the side of the little gulley and snatches it up. Brings the broken metal bit down again and again.

All's he can think about is that this little space is too fucking close to Molly's, seconds away from where Wren sits likely having lunch with Rosie.

It's too close. Too fucking close.

As if his thoughts summon her he hears a familiar voice call out, "Tommy?"

Then there's a hand on his shoulder, then his elbow, then his hand.

"Tommy, he's dead," she whispers.

His chest heaves as he staggers to his feet. He's soaked in blood and sweat but it doesn't stop him from folding her into his arms.

"Have you seen someone following you?" He rasps. "They said they have a man on you."

She frowns and glances back towards the alley, "I think so."

"He needs to die," Tommy says plainly.

His Wren doesn't balk, doesn't hesitate.

"This way," she says and leads him to a dip in the gulley he's never noticed, it has a ladder going up.

Roof access, he thinks.

She climbs high enough he can press in under her, the dip just deep enough to conceal him if he doesn't move. The broken hammer is heavy in his hand.

They wait, but not for long.

He hears the scoff of shoes, then a heavy Irish accent curse.

Tommy sways forward just enough to get a lock on the man, bent over the corpse, and then lunges and swings. The hammer hits with enough force he can hear the bone crunch as his head caves in. The jagged metal gets stuck and tears out of his hand as the body hits the nearby wall and bounces off, landing atop the first corpse. Blood and brain matter splatter, yet more red dripping off Tommy's hands.

"What happened?" She asks as she rejoins him.

"Not yet," Tommy tells her. "We need to see if Freddie got the other two."

"Freddie?" She asks, then shakes her head. "Come on, the roofs are faster."

She leads him up the ladder and pulls out scarves from her bags and they wrap them around their mouth and nose to keep the ash out. Then she leads him to the lane he tells her he left Freddie at in a fraction of the time it took to run the distance on the ground.

Bloody convenient, the rooftops.

They arrive to find coppers on the scene. Of the seven IRA men five are dead and two are wounded. Though it'll be a minute before the coppers find the two near Molly's. They find a pump to rinse as much of the blood off as they can, then track down a bystander to see if they can find Freddie.

Tommy hangs back. Rinsed off or not he's all over blood, and it'll be easier for Wren to keep from terrifying the old woman they find. He can't hear what they say, but he sees Wren press coins into the woman's hand before she returns to him. They head out again, before Tommy realizes which way they're going and takes the lead.

They find Freddie beneath the bridge they used to play under as boys.

He briefly wonders if this is the same bridge he brought Ada to, then decides he doesn't want to know.

Freddie's been shot. And even after everything, the sight and knowing of it twists something in his gut. He keeps an eye out as Wren gets the man to let her get a look. She grabs an emergency kit out her bag and sets to work.

"It's a through and through," he hears her say. "So you've bleed a lot, but if you'd nicked something important you'd already be dead."

Freddie snorts a laugh, "you've a model bedside manner."

"Thank you," Wren says wryly. "This next bit's going to hurt."

Freddie tries to bite back a cry of pain, then there's a great deal of swearing.

It's a long stretch of minutes before Wren steps to Tommy's side and declares, "so long as he's careful about infection, he'll live."

"I told 'em," Freddie pants from his seat on the block. "I told 'em that I killed 'em to get a shot at the guns. Said a few dead Fenians were a good price if it saw me own Cause up in the world. Was loud, everyone'll know it was me 'as did it."

"That'll be the IRA on your head, Freddie," Tommy tells him.

"Aye, well," Freddie sighs. "Better me head than yours, Tommy. Me? I haven't got anyone left. But you? You have a family to look after."

"What are you goin' to do?" Tommy asks quietly.

"If they're comin' for me I might as well have some fun with it," Freddie bares his teeth. "Lead 'em on a merry chase. See who wins."

Tommy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of notes, presses them into Freddie's hand.

"That should give you a good head start," Tommy tells him.

Freddie looks down at the money and nods.

"Just," Freddie swallows. "Just one thing, Tommy."

"What's that, Freddie," Tommy allows.

"Tell Ada…tell Ada I'm sorry. Tell her she's right, tell her she deserves better," Freddie admits with a pained grimace as he stands.

"Alright, Freddie," Tommy agrees. "I will."

Tommy watches Wren burn the clothes they'd been wearing earlier.

They'd retreated via sky roads to the Respite to clean up. He's sitting on the edge of their bed in the remodeled top floor apartment in a pair of sleep trousers because he'd been too damn tired to think of pulling himself back together. His body aches with the strain of the days exertion and waning adrenaline.

At least Wren doesn't seem to mind calling it an early night. She's already called ahead to the shop to let Polly know they wouldn't be home tonight. And now he watches the fire outline her form through her nightshift as she feeds the flames.

She comes back to him, stopping between his legs as she reaches out to run her hands over his head and around the back of his neck. He leans forward easily, his forehead coming to rest on her chest as he wraps his arms about her waist. She hugs him close, and he sighs.

"Now you've seen me," he tells her as he pulls back to look up at her face.

She hums a thoughtful note and says, "it's only fair. You got to see me the very first night we met."

He lifts a hand to trail the back of his knuckles down her cheek.

"You goin' to follow me into hell, eh?" He asks.

"With me eyes wide open," she answers calmly.

He cups his hand around the back of her head and coaxes her down into a kiss. She nudges him back to give her room to straddle his lap, her knees either side his hips. She's warm in his arms, the taste of her sweet on his tongue as he finds himself licking into her mouth like he means to swallow her whole. The lingering frustrations from the day turn easily into heat in his veins.

She's here, she's safe. Nobody got their hands on her.

He killed them.

He pulls the nightshift over her head and throughs it to the floor. He gets a grip under her thighs and twists. His feet now planted on the floor with him between her thighs where she's spread on the bed. He pushes the trousers off him and kicks them away before sinking back over her. She locks her feet in the small of his back as one hand threads into his hair and the other grips his shoulder. He returns to her lips until they need to part for air, then he leaves a trail of kisses down her neck as he rocks his hips. His cock rests in the cleft of her mons, his movement nudging the head of him back and forth over her pearl and encouraging her to get ever wetter for him.

He dips his head to lave open mouthed kisses over her breasts as he tilts his hips to get a hand between them. He grabs his cock and fists it, making sure to rub his knuckles into her slit and across her clit as he pulls a few strokes. Then he holds the base of him and smacks his cock down on her clit over and over, before he flattens his palm to push his cock tight into her cleft and makes shallow strokes that rub the head of his cock over her pearl with more force.

He can feel the first shivery flex of muscle in her thighs as her little noises grow louder.

"You want me, Wren?" He asks roughly. "Do you?"

"Yes," she moans. "Yes, Tommy, please. Yes."

He adjusts himself and pushes into her slowly.

"Here you are, sweet girl," he grits out. "Here you go. Take me. Take all of me."

"Tommy," she mewls. "Tommy, Tommy, Tommy."

"Wren," he groans as he bottoms out. "Fuck. You always feel so good. Always so good for me."

Then he pulls out until just the head of him is in her, then pushes back in just as slowly as the first time. He can feel the flutter and clench of her as even this part of her tries to pull him in, her inner muscles flexing around him. But he pulls back and does it again, just as slow. And again. And again.

She's keening and fighting him now, straining to goad him into picking up his pace, her heels digging into his arse. He refuses to be rushed, maintains the same slow steady pace. He grabs her wrists and in one hand and pins them above her head. She arches her back and tries to buck onto him, but he just pins her with his hips, leaving his cock buried inside her.

"Be good," he warns her. "Or I'll tie your hands together, sit you on me cock, and spank you 'til you peak."

He can feel the ripple of her walls flutter around him at his statement and huffs a laugh.

"You'd like that, eh? Want to warm me cock for me, love? Hold me tight as I fill you up?"

He reaches between them with his free hand to pinch her swollen pearl and she cries out beneath him. She's so fucking wet now he can feel her slick dripping off his balls. He grunts as he grinds down into her.

"Maybe later," he muses. "What I want is for me good girl to lie still and take what she's given. Can you be good and take me, love?"

She looks conflicted, his poor woman, clearly torn between her own desire and his. To be fair, he doesn't usually do this to her until he's already pushed her over and clear out of her head. But she is his good girl, and he can feel her force herself to relax and give over.

It never ceases to be gratifying, the feel of this woman handing herself over to him.

"Yes, Tommy," she says as she licks her lips. "I'll be good."

"Aye," he agrees as he presses a kiss to her lips. "I know you will. Now you keep your hands here, alright? You move 'em, I stop."

"Yes, Tommy," she agrees.

She twists her hands into the blankets and holds on when he lets go of her wrists. He gives her another little kiss in approval. Then he stands up over her, the bed at the perfect height she's level with him like this and grabs her hips as he starts again.

Slowly. Unhurried and smooth. Perfectly in control.

She always feel so damn good, but like this he can feel all of her as she gives around him.

He lets his hands wander after a while, petting and teasing over her body. Rubbing his thumbs over her nipples, pressing into her lower belly, circling her pearl.

He can see the struggle in her as she holds herself steady for him. Her hands are white knuckled fists. Sweat beads and drips across her skin. Her thighs are trembling now where they're locked around him.

But she holds. She holds for him.

He can't be sure, but he thinks it takes about an hour for her to cum like this. And she's been so good he's tempted to relent. But he won't. He knows he won't and so doesn't she.

Tommy Shelby is not a good man.

And Wren Ashby loves him for it.