[shrugs off huge fur coat] grandmama, it's me. anastasia. [shitty headcanons fall out of the coat]


. . .


He hangs up after Esme's done with him, having finally cut through the vitriol to get a straight answer out of her amidst all the accusations. Most had been deserved, admittedly, but some had been…unexpected. It's not just her, Esme had said, keenly sharp and piercing through the receiver. I can hear it on you, too, Thomas. He'd not responded to that, not with Lizzie in the room with him, but fuck, it's not like he'd gained much time by his reticence, had he. Just come, was all he'd said. Just get here, Esme, and anything you want from me, anything at all, it'll be yours. He had no idea what she'd ask, if she'd even stoop to taking charity from the likes of him, but he'll find out. He'll fucking find out what she wants, and add it to the fucking list.

She'd agreed, and ended the call, and his vision lurched as he reached to put the 'phone back into the cradle, but he'd managed. Had to slam his hand on the desk afterward to steady himself, though, and there he stands, eyes closed, trying to keep himself together. He's so fucking tired, and he fucking hurts, limbs weak and aching in the aftermath of the fit, and he had to stop a few times on the drive up from London to be sick, but it never fucking ends, does it? Never lets up. He can't stop, can't rest, not when there's work needs done, and there's always fucking work.

"Tommy." Lizzie, close beside him, a hand tracing up his shoulder to settle at the back of his neck. He wants her to scruff him like a kitten, wants to be hauled into her embrace and tucked against her shoulder, wants to lean on her, but he can't. He can't. That's not who he is. That's not someone he's allowed to be. He opens his eyes, blinks away the creeping haze, tries to settle.

"Esme's coming," he says. "She'll know what to do. She'll make it all right."

"You're shaking," Lizzie says, instead of arguing, though he knows she wants to. She doesn't understand, does she, the nature of them. She's born of settled people, ruled by ration and religion in a way that doesn't leave room for the truths of his blood. The things he sees, the things he knows, all that flies in the face of reason and doesn't back down because it's fucking true.

If Polly were here, he wouldn't need Esme. If Polly were— But she's not, and it's his fucking fault.

"I'm fine."

"You're not." Her hand his still on him, and he can't bring himself to move away. Can't lift his hands from the desk, can't unlock his arms and shoulders without going down face-first into the mud in his fucking study again right in front of her. "Tommy, look at me." Her other hand on his face, fingers firm against his chin, turning his head towards her. Don't scare me, Lizzie, by saying you see things in my face. She's not supposed to. No one is fucking supposed to. His vision is still spotty, like an old grainy photograph, the dark of the room rough and patchy, the light of her skin smudged and prickled. As if she could see it in his eyes, see the haze as he does, he closes them. He doesn't want to know what she sees, knows that it's bound to be too much, but can't find the reserves in him to cover it up.

"Lizzie…" It's more breath than word, more sigh than statement, more exhaustion than he meant to let on. He's usually better than this. Usually more in control.

"Open your fucking eyes and look at me." He does. Doesn't try to read her expression, the flat line of her lips, the tension in her brows. A moment, that's all, a moment of scrutiny, and then she'll let him go. If he gives her this, she'll let him go.

She doesn't. She stays close, reading him, seeing him. Fucking smelling him too, probably, the sour acid on his breath, still heavy in his own nose. "Fuck," she says at last. "You had another fit." It's not a question, so he won't answer it with one. Won't ask how she guessed, what tells she's found in him that give away his deepest secrets. "When?"

"In London. Just before you called."

"Fuck," she says again, and pulls him in. "Fuck, Tommy." His arms are liquid and leaden at once, can't find the strength to lift them and return the embrace. "This family," she says, rough, like a laugh gotten stuck as it clawed its way out. "God, this whole family. What am I going to do with you all?"

And he hears the true question, unspoken underneath the words, knows it for its echo, always dogging his own thoughts. How am I supposed to do this all alone? That's a question for him, though, that's his own worry. He doesn't know any other way to look at it than from the inside, can't conscience it in anyone else's head, would rather rip it out and hold it in his own broken fingers even if they were moments away from finally being set.

"Worry about Ruby," he says. "Don't worry about me."

She laughs again at that, bitter and broken, shakes her head against his.

"I mean it," he says. It would be stronger if he could pull away, if he could stand on his own and look at her from a safe distance and keep everything behind his eyes, out of his voice, but he can't. "There isn't time for it, isn't room. Not now. We can't be distracted by this."

"Distracted?" Lizzie pulls back far enough to look at him, and his vision is clear enough now to see the gleam in her eye, like unto fury, like unto madness. "You're having fucking seizures, that's not a distraction. Is there anything else you're not telling me? Any other distractions you think I should be kept away from?"

He could tell her. He could. He could say I've been having the fits for months and I can't eat or sleep and I think I'm sick beyond that, think I have been for a while, think I'm the reason Ruby is, but that would ruin it all, would shake the foundations too fiercely to survive, and for nothing. Saying it would change nothing, would only make it harder for him to do what he needs to do. She'd called him a coward for wanting to leave, and she was right to, but he's more of a coward for wanting to stay, for letting her hold him, for even entertaining the idea of honesty.

He can't tell her. He can't.

He'll have to, one day, same as he's had to tell her about the fits now that she's seen one, but he'll wait until he has to, and that too is cowardice. He should never have let her get so close. Should never've let anyone, but here they all are, and already suffering for it.

He takes a breath, lifts his heavy arms to grip her shoulders, and meets her gaze as steadily as he knows how. "There isn't time for this, Lizzie," he says again. "Ruby needs us. Our children need us. That's the only thing that matters. That's the only thing there's room for."

She doesn't believe him, but she lets him go, and doesn't stop him as he heads back out of the study, to the stairs. She doesn't believe him, but that's all right, as long as she doesn't stop him.


. . .


This fic has been brought to you by

a) me not wanting to do my taxes
b) everyone rightfully appreciating how Lizzie handles Tommy
c) whatever the fuck is going on this season
d) the song Kif'n'dir by Zaho, particularly the line "j'en ai marre de faire semblant que je suis forte" (I'm tired of pretending to be strong)

Thank you for reading! As always, please feel free to leave whatever feedback you'd like.