A/N: Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates from your author xx
XXXIV | NEARLY EVERYTHING
THE TRUCK HIT YET ANOTHER bump and Tommy's stomach did a nauseating flip, feeling vividly every rock that cracked under the heavy tires. His hands still shook — Tommy had noticed it when he went to check the hour on his pocket watch and the numbers blurred before his eyes — and all he could do was press them into one another, shoulders slouched, a defeated man.
One might have thought he was praying. Those that did know him knew Tommy Shelby believed in very few things and God was hardly on the list.
It had just passed the sixth hour and Tommy knew it must have gone through smoothly. Why else would he be here? While the Irishmen hauled him out of the truck, he knew Caterina was surely already out of Epsom with May, and it was the only thing that mattered.
He could only hope that she was safe and sound, surrounded by his brothers, down in the Garrison, far from the vile reach of Sabini or Campbell, from the danger of a reach of a gun and her traitorous father, hiding from justice somewhere in the country.
If this were to be his end then he would go gladly, for she was set to be the heir of his company, to continue with the idea they created in the early hours of sleepless nights, a legacy he would never get to see bloom. But she would be safe, and that would be enough.
Tommy Shelby was sure he was ready to die on many occasions through the past years — every time he entered the tunnels, or when he was held at gunpoint by Sabini's thugs — but what he saw now made his breathing stop.
Beside the hole lay a mountain of dirt with a shovel leaning against it, its gaping maw offering promises of most sure and definitive kind.
For the first time he knew, he didn't want to die. Not now, not when there was so much to lose. Not when there was a something and someone to back home to after the end of the day.
"I nearly got fucking everything." Oh, he was well aware he was bound to die one day, waiting for the inevitable hand of righteousness to strike him down on every turn for the lives that were taken by his red right hand.
"Any of you boys in France?" he asked, tearing his gaze away from the grave to look at his executioners. They remained as cold as the air around them, unmoving. "You know, I wouldn't mind a cigarette," Tommy remarked, hopefully.
After a moment of silence one of the men that brought him there responded. "The Somme. Black Woods." Tommy took in the information solemnly.
"Somme, the Bulls."
"Smoke," the man retorted gruffly, Irish accent scraping against Tommy's ears. Just when he thought he was rid of all the Irish bastard, it was the Irish bastards that would be his undoing.
"So fucking close."
He wanted to laugh; there was something bubbling in his chest, constricting his lungs until they ached, a strangled sound unlike the dignified Thomas Shelby who ruled over Birmingham with an iron fist and an ambitious mind.
"So fucking close," Tommy turned his face towards the Heaven, a place he'd likely never see. Eyes closed, he could almost touch the reality that could have been, should have been. But sinners like them rarely seemed to have a happy ending. "Oh... And there's a woman. Yeah," he repeated, taking a long drag of his cigarette. One last villain to be defeated and all would have been well and truly set in stone, stones paved over their path.
"A woman, who I love...and I got close," he exhaled, hoping the numbing rush of a cigarette would calm his racing heart, ready to burst out of the confines of his shirt-clad chest. "Nearly got fucking everything!"
"Oh, what the fuck? Get it done, boys." He smoked his last and it was time to go.
With two shaky steps, he moves in front of the grave they have dug for him and he forces himself to stay calm.
When he stands beside the grave, he begins to remove all the trinkets he collected with care. First, his watch has to go and while he takes it out it feels heavier than usual, and falls quick into the dirt. There's a handkerchief in the inside pocket of his coat — he knows it because he put it there just that morning — and he takes it out before throwing his coat in the ditch. It's a small piece of white cloth, littered with faded stains( bloodstains that couldn't be washed out of the fabric properly despite the thorough scrubbing of Polly's brush ) and Thomas lets his thumb go over the initials embroidered in the corner, two red C's entwined.
He couldn't recall the exact moment he fell in love with her. Maybe it was that first smoke they shared in his dingy kitchen at Watery Lane, or when he twirled her around at Cheltenham ballroom, both so oblivious to the people surrounding them, high on the elation of a well executed plan of taking Kimber down.
Perhaps it was the night she spilled her heart into his hand, surrendering it freely to the pain of heartbreak. He never regreted doing the same.
They were bad, the two of them, the worst of their sort — but not to each other, never to each other. Thomas clenched the handkerchief firm in his grasp, eyes screwed tightly shut as if that could be enough to erase the gravity of the situation before him, and brought it up to his nose. He tried desperately to imagine the scent of mint and earl grey she always carried with her, waves of her dark hair spilling over her shoulders.
Would it be awfully funny if he considered it his lucky amulet? Perhaps, but he's accepted his Gypsy legacy a long time ago and so he stuffs the embroidered handkerchief into his pocket, close to his heart where it belonged, where she belonged.
When his coat is thrown in the soft soil of the ditch, along with his lighter and pack of cigarettes, the man from behind him approaches Tommy, gun in hand. "Comrade, we have our orders. You know how it is."
"I know how it is," he confirmed, jaw firmly set. He put down many horses before that, wounded horses, liabilities that proved of no use. That's what he was, nothing more than a nuisance in the eyes of the greater people.
The man behind him grabs onto his shoulder and pushes him to his knees. Tommy almost wants to thank him because his legs would've given out at any moment. Words die before they leave his lips, but there is a tune that had been plaguing his dreams for nights now, one of a distant Christmas carol echoing back from the frozen trenches of Flanders.
"In the bleak midwinter."
Danny. Freddy. Arthur. John. Ada. Finn. Polly. Cat.
The echoes of a gun shot ring in his ears, — is it England or France? — he tumbles into the fresh soil of his own grave, but there is not pain, no metallic taste of blood, no darkness.
It's the clarity of sky, the sharp intake of air stinging in his chest, the lack of blood pouring down his face that makes him realise that he is, in fact, alive. Laying in the grave that ought belong to him, but very much alive.
The Irishman looms over him, cleaning the barrel of his gun with a scowl. "At some point in the near future, Mr Churchill will want to speak to you in person, Mr Shelby. He has a job for you. We will be in touch."
When Tommy doesn't move from the hole, his nearly executioner spats on the ground impatiently, barking his order.
"Get out of the grave, tinker. Be on your fucking way!"
His feet move of their own accord, in a vague direction of Birmingham. It's the dirt on his hands, the heaviness of the handkerchief in his inner suit pocket that finally weighs him down on the edge of the field. He falls down on his knees.
In a fit of anger, his fists pound the dirt and he yells, tears stinging his eyes. "Fuck!" A roar of a man thrown into the pits of Hell only to be grabbed by the nape of his neck and thrown back into reality.
Tommy Shelby looked the Death in the eye and walked away.
THE GARRISON ALREADY LOOKS FILLED TO the brim when May drives them to Small Heath, her fancy car sticking out like a sore thumb in the dust and grime, but it was a victory day and none looked too phased when the posh lady entered the pub by Caterina's side.
Lizzie is first to the bar, grabbing a bottle and three glasses for them while Cat occupied the table in the middle of the pub.
Polly and Ada arrive just after them, one look from the Shelby matriarch signalling a job done. Caterina let out a breath she didn't even knew she was holding. He was gone, the Irish bastard that took it as his life mission to make their lives harder was cold as the blood that ran through his veins. With his widow also bound to sail over the sea it was as if an invisible veil was lifted off their lives, finally allowing them to breathe properly after years of looking behind their back, waiting for the knives in the dark.
If only she knew where Tommy was. She kept looking at the doors of the pub anxiously, checking the clock on the wall, but there was no sign of him anywhere.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to raise a toast."
It was the eldest Shelby brother that managed to turn the attention of the pub on himself, slamming the bottles of whiskey on the bar and passing them forward to the expectant crowd. Uncorking a bottle, he raised it into the air as if it was a glass.
"To the Small Heath Rifles," he began, his fellow veterans echoing it in varying volumes.
"Small Heath Rifles!"
"And to the Lee Boys!"
"Fucking Lee Boys!"
Then, to her utter annoyance, Arthur pointed at her with a wide, shit-eating grin. "To our gorgeous lady boss," he bellowed while the heads in the pub turned to her. If looks could kill, Arthur would've been a dead man. "And her fellow men who helped today."
Before she had time to register his actions, Arthur was by her side and hauling her over his shoulder, followed by cheers and clapping all around them.
"Arthur! Let me down!" Caterina couldn't help the laugh bubbling in her chest, thankful once he set her down on the bar so everyone in The Garrison could see her.
"And to the Peaky fucking Blinders. Who's gonna stop us, eh?" Arthur passed her a fresh glass of whiskey which she accepted with vigour.
"Nobody!" Pipped up John from the side, his grin wide and one hand slung over Ada's shoulders.
Cat took that as an opportunity to say a few occasionally appropriate words. "Damn fucking right, boys," she steadied herself carefully on the bar, taking in the crowd drunk on victory and the finest whiskey The Garrison had to offer. A wide smile spread across her face; this was what they worked for, the men and women depending on them, now celebrating under one roof.
"No fucking stopping till the whole world knows our name."
MICHAEL WAS SNORING SOUNDLY in his office chair at the Shelby Co. when Tommy limped in, heart still beating firmly inside his ears and his chest. He spared a look at the young man, kicking his desk leg slightly while he walked down the corridor to his own office. Though he would never admit it to himself or anyone else, he grew to like the boy, and the unbridled enthusiasm for work he brought along.
Polly's boy jolted awake, straightening his posture immediately. He yawned, only for his brows to furrow at the muddy, bruised state of his cousin.
"Polly and I had a bet," Thomas called over his shoulder, prompting Michael to get up and trail after him into the office.
"One of us bet you'd take the money and go. And one of us bet you'd still be here."
"She wants me to stay." Michael answered with conviction only a devoted son could posses. Tommy simply smiled, shaking his head.
"Mmm, you know something, Michael? What Polly wants will always be a mystery to me," his cousin busied himself with pouring two glasses of whiskey from the crystal decanter on his office mantle.
Michael braved himself for a moment and leaned forwards, palms resting on the desk. "I've decided. I want to make real money with you," he announced, determined.
Once filled, Thomas handed Michael the drink. He'd be a fool if he hadn't expected that — the boy was an ambitious sort, and very resourceful. And most importantly, he was family. "I've got some grand ideas, Michael. For the future of the company." Michael watched him round the desk and settle in the confines of the leather chair behind him, silently noting how he winced when he moved.
"And also, I'm might planning on starting something more permanent with Cat," Tommy took a sip, unable to keep the slight smile that tugged at his lip. "Nothing more standing in our way, eh?"
Michael could only mirror the smile. It was about time the two of them admitted the depth of feelings they had for each other. Everyone could see it, really, the way they fit seamlessly into each other's existence.
It was a fortunate coincidence that the woman they were both thinking of appeared in the doorway, visibly paling when she was her lover's bruised state.
"Tommy!" Throwing her coat over the nearest chair, Caterina crossed the room towards him.
He let her wrap her hands around his neck, not protesting even when she squeezed enough to make the bruises on his body ache. "Cat, love," he whispered reassuringly, "I'm here now."
Caterina let out a sigh of relief, an almost audible rock falling from her chest. "I didn't want to think the worst, but what if they..."
"No, not me, love. I had someone to come back to."
Features softening, Caterina lowered her lips against his and captured them in a long kiss. Relief, exhaustion, pride, all the feelings coursing through her poured into the kiss. When they separated, she sat on the edge of his desk.
"Do you want to go to The Garrison? Arthur's organised a bloody mental party to celebrate our victory at Epsom. I've even seen May chatting up with some of Ada's commie friends," she let out a nervous laugh, the waterfall of words not masking the bundle of nerves that collected in her chest.
"No, I want to stay right here. Just like this," he admitted quietly, toying with the rings on her hands that rested in her lap.
It was only then they noticed Polly's son hovering awkwardly in the background, trying to look everywhere else other than at the two's display of intimacy.
"Michael, dear, take a night off. Go celebrate," she told him as politely as she could.
Michael sent them both a thankful smile and, collecting his hat and coat in a hurry, made way for the door. "Thank you, I'll see you tomorrow."
When the door shut behind the young man, Cat turned back to Tommy.
"You look like death."
Her touch was gentle, wiping the blood splatters that littered his face like uncharted constellations. His, or someone else's, she didn't know. She could hardly care, either, as long as he came home alive and well.
Simply nodding, he pulled her into his lap. "Looked it straight in the eyes and went back." Nuzzling into her side he finally closed his eyes, and sighed; he allowed himself to be weak, blissfully weak in the arms of the woman he loved.
"Will you tell me?" She asked, fingers threading through his disheveled hair.
"Maybe tomorrow."
"And what about today?"
"Today I might even pray," he quipped with a chuckle before leaning back to look at her fully. For a moment, she was taken aback with the intensity of his stormy eyes boring straight into her own, more serious than she had ever seen him before.
One of his hands reached up to touch her cheek. "I promise, on my grave, no one will ever harm you, alright? Do you trust me?" Tommy asked with such devotion it nearly made her weep.
"As long as I breathe."
Caterina lowered her head back onto his chest, letting him wrap his arms tightly around her waist. She could feel shallow breaths in her hair, lips gently touching forehead. The world around them stilled, if only for a while, as long as those words filled the silence.
It sounded awfully like a vow.
