23 May 1919

"Are you alright locking up, Eliza?" Harry asked as he untied his apron.

"Of course," She nodded, following him to the door. "Where are going this evening?"

"Oh, uh, just meeting a friend." He replied.

Elizabeth bolted the door behind him as Fenton stepped out into the evening street and returned to the bar, taking her time as she put away the glasses that she had been cleaning and bottles of alcohol which had accumulated on the bar surface. It was a quiet night and she was entirely alone in the silence, save the rain that had started to patter against the dark windows.

Once the pub was clean, she leant with her back against the bar, letting down her hair. Thick curls tumbled down to her shoulders, matted and knotted from being pinned up for so long. Humming lightly, and pouring herself a glass of rum, Elizabeth ran her fingers through the auburn strands. She combed her hair out, pulling at the tougher sections as she let her eyes drift shut, relaxing.

She had always found it calming, brushing her hair. Elizabeth thought back to quiet evenings in her childhood home, twenty years ago, when she would sit on the floor of the Watery Lane house, next to her mother's feet. A fire would be burning, warming her own little toes, as Dorelia Scott ran her fingers through her daughter's hair, singing to her softly. It was something Elizabeth loved, a memory that always bought a smile to her face, her mother's melodic voice and the gentle pulling and scratching at her scalp. Nothing calmed her more. Then, after her mother's death, the lap that she would rest her head would be her father's. His bigger, more calloused hands would drift through her hair, and they were no less gentle, although his singing would definitely ruin the mood. Sometimes even George would give into her, when he was feeling especially kind. And then, as she got older, the lap changed to whatever boy she was entertaining at the time, teasingly laying her head down as they sat in a field, hiding from unwanted attention.

Eventually, though, the lap became Tommy's.

Elizabeth could remember one time distinctly, the night her brother had left for France. She'd walked home from the station with Tommy and Polly, trying not to cry and feeling so desperately alone. Pol made them hot mugs of tea and scotch, her tried-and-tested remedy for an aching heart, and they'd sat down on the sofas, watching the evening light slip away in silence. Elizabeth couldn't remember when the other woman had left, perhaps it was the drink that blurred it from her mind, but soon enough it was just her, Tommy and the silent night. Tears began to fall then, thick and fast, and though she didn't make a sound, Tommy noticed, pulling her to him gently. Elizabeth had laid her head down on his lap, curling up as her body shook. No words passed between them that night, he just ran his hands through her hair, fingers pulling at the strands, drifting across her ear and neck. Something changed between them that night, like a candle being lit, or the sun bursting through a cloud. It was an understanding, a knowledge that there was something between them, something they'd ignored for years.

Elizabeth wished she could go back to that kind of simplicity.

A knock came from the door of the Garrison, a fist pounding against hard wood, that disrupted her from her memories. She sighed, pulling her hair over one shoulder and putting down her glass. She had to unbolt the door again, pulling it open a crack to see who was outside.

Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear. Or in this case, think of him, and he shall appear.

Tommy looked in at her, blue eyes piercing through the dark of the street, rain dripping from his face. Elizabeth opened the door further, stepping aside so he could come in, cold wind whistling into the pub, threatening to chase away the warmth.

"Do you need anything?" She asked, watching as he took of his cap and entered the room. He stopped, removing his coat and throwing both items of clothing onto an empty table.

"I need a drink." His response was gruff, his voice uneven and almost shaky. Something was wrong, though she couldn't tell what. Elizabeth walked behind the bar and swapped her bottle of rum for one with whiskey. She went to pour out a glass, but Tommy took the whole bottle instead, sitting down in a chair.

"Do you want to be alone?" She asked, unsure of whether her company was welcome.

"No." Tommy's response was short and unquestionable, so she moved from where she stood, taking a seat opposite him.

He unscrewed the top of the whiskey, taking a mouthful and then another. She watched in silence, not knowing what was the right thing to say. He was upset, that much she could still tell, but the days when they would talk for hours about their problems were long gone, and Elizabeth wasn't sure it would be a good idea to try it now. She noticed his eyes staring into hers, and it almost felt like he was giving her permission to ask what was wrong.

"What happened?" Her question was quiet, hardly daring to say it, but the words left her mouth all the same.

Tommy put the bottle down, scowling as he reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and matches. Elizabeth didn't think he would answer, as he handed her one in silence. He lit her cigarette and then his own, the frown set heavy on his face, but once he'd had a mouthful of smoke to match the whiskey, Tommy cleared his throat to speak.

"I shot my horse." He looked at her, smoke curling around his face as the brutal statement stung the air. A drop of rain ran slowly down his cheek, glistening in the orange glow of the pub. It looked almost like a tear.

"The white one? I saw you riding him yesterday." Tommy nodded, taking another smoke and grimacing bitterly. "Was he sick?"

"No," Tommy replied, tapping his ashes into a tray, and then sitting back, sighing. "I put a bullet in his head because he looked at me the wrong way. It's not a good idea to look at Tommy Shelby the wrong way." His gaze flicked back down to her and Tommy fixed Elizabeth with a chilling look.

"What's the right way, then?" She asked softly.

He shook his head, scoffing, and took another drink. When the bottle left his mouth, he ran a hand over his face and through his wet hair. His eyes travelled to somewhere behind her, like he was going to some place within him.

"In France, it's easy to get used to the men dying. You know that." He whispered; his voice hoarse. "I never got used to the horses dying, though, because they never want to want go. They die badly."

The melancholy, burning so deeply in his eyes, broke her heart. Elizabeth reached out across the table, taking his empty hand in hers. Tommy stilled, his focus coming back to the room, looking down at where her hand gripped his. He ran a thumb over her knuckles slowly, like he couldn't believe that she was real, and then he turned her hand so that her palm faced the ceiling. The sleeve of her blouse came up short of her wrist, so the tip of a thin scar that ran along Elizabeth's left forearm could just be seen, peeking out of the cotton cuff. Tommy shifted slightly in his seat, sitting forward and reaching across her arm to put out his cigarette. He then used his empty hand to push the sleeve of her blouse up to her elbow, the movements gentle and slow, lace trimming drifting softly against her skin. One hand still holding hers, he ran a thumb along her scar, the silver line that had marked her skin for almost three years, where the broken soldier had cut her. His movements were painstakingly slow, like he was scared that even the slightest pressure would hurt her. Elizabeth's gaze followed his thumb as it ran down her arm, leaving a hot trail behind it, like a burning kiss.

"This scar was the only bad thing you ever wrote about." Her heart beat so loud in her chest that she was worried it would break through, a shuddering breath leaving her lungs.

"You read my letters." Elizabeth whispered, tears stinging her eyes. Tommy looked up at her, bemused.

"Of course I did."

"Don't act surprised that I asked that," she said bitterly, biting her lip. "Why did you never write back Tommy? All those years, and not a single letter."

He sighed heavily, pulling from her grasp and running his hands over his face.

"I couldn't."

"Couldn't?" Elizabeth would have laughed if she wasn't so afraid to end the conversation without an answer. She settled with crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back.

"Your letters..." He sighed again, struggling for an answer. He found it in the bottle of whiskey, though, taking another drink and starting again. "Your letters were the only good thing I ever got over there, Liza. They were an escape. I could pretend, even for a minute, that I was sitting back here with you, and not in a fucking trench in France. If I wrote back to you..." Tommy looked up at her, eyes desperate, "if I wrote back to you, it would have taken that escape away. It was a selfish decision, I know, but I couldn't bring myself to do it."

Of all the reasons why he would never write, this one Elizabeth could understand. So, despite the pain he'd caused her, and the years of wondering what went wrong, she found herself forgiving Tommy. She understood, in fact she knew exactly what he meant, and she was thankful for it. It was the same reason why she could never write to him about the things that kept her awake at night. Writing would make it real. In many ways, they were the same, because whilst he couldn't write at all, she was the one creating a fantasy. Writing about a world where the both of them could pretend that they weren't living through Hell. Pretend that she wasn't cutting away limbs, that she didn't have men dying in her arms, she wasn't peeling off blood-soaked dresses every evening before she sat down to write a letter. If she had told the whole truth, it would make what was happening impossible to forget. And forget is all they wanted to do.

"I understand, Tommy."

The realisation felt strange, like she was seeing him again for the first time. Elizabeth found herself looking at Tommy differently, knowing for certain now that he had read her letters, that everything she'd discussed with him all those years, he'd heard. Feeling bold with his apparent willingness to talk tonight, she uncrossed her arms and leant forward again. "What's going on? Talk to me about what's happening, whether the things I'm hearing from Polly are true."

"Whatever Polly is saying, it's true," he remarked, "but she doesn't know everything." Tommy seemed like he was going to say nothing more, as he sat back in his chair, smoking another cigarette.

"What happened to the days when you could talk to me about anything, hey?" She asked, almost teasingly, smiling at him. He rolled him eyes and sat lower in his seat. "You can trust me, Tommy."

"Can I, Liza?" She nodded and he gave in, nodding back. "The shipment of weapons, that Arthur was questioned about: I have them."

"You have them?" Her smile dropped and she looked at him warily. "That Cooper will kill you for them Tommy."

"I know, I've heard it all from Pol, but I have things under control."

"Do you?"

"I thought you wanted me to talk to you?" He asked pointedly.

She shut her mouth and nodded.

"The Cooper, I met with him. He knows I have the guns, and he knows I'll give them back as long as he follows an agreement we made. I'm sick of running Small Heath, like it's still 1911. I want more, Liza. I fixed the last race at Cheltenham, to get Billy Kimber's attention. And now I'm going to destroy him." Her breathing stilled, and she looked at Tommy in shock. Kimber was a King, he controlled every street of Birmingham, down to the ground they stood on. Going up against him was a losing battle. And yet, if anyone knew how to turn a fight around, it was Tommy. "As long as the Inspector leaves us alone when we take Cheltenham, I'll give him back his guns. Oh, and the Lees want to kill me."

"The Lees want to kill you?" She shook her head, smiling at the insanity of it all. "They've wanted to kill you for years, Tommy. That's the only thing that doesn't surprise me." They looked at each other, smiling, and she could almost see a weight lifting from his shoulders. "See, what I always told is true. Talking helps."

"Don't make me into something soft, Liza." He chided, but the small smile never left his face.

She noticed then that he'd taken her hand again, sometime during their talk. His thumb was running unconsciously across her knuckles, warm and gentle. She squeezed his hand ever so gently as he stood up, taking his cap and coat, and leaving.

She watched as Tommy disappeared into the darkness of the world outside, the door swinging shut behind him.

soft!Tommy ! i've definitely made him sweeter than the actual character, but i feel like, with my OC being his childhood friend/sweetheart, it would bring out a vulnerability in him, because unlike grace, may etc.. she's this bridge to a past where he was a happier and nicer guy. anyway, i hope you enjoyed! i've changed the order of the show a bit, in case you were wondering, but it doesn't really affect things. much love,

e x

(30/06/2020)