Trigger Warnings:
Heavy Content Warning before you proceed
there is guns, rough sex, an ambiguous miscarriage/abortion situation that stays open ended, swearing, violence... the whole Peaky Blinders shebang
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"Right then. Well, what now?"
"Now, I will continue, until I can find the man I can't defeat." It's an act of mercy on Alfie's part that he doesn't say anything like here I am and perhaps this means he is being unfair when, instead of leaving, he locks the door, sits back down and pulls out his own gun.
Alfie bursts out laughing, so hard it drowns out the ticking of the grandfather clocks, and chucks his own revolver into Tommy's lap. The weight of it is heavy, still warm from the grip of his huge hands (and resting right against his cock.) "The fuck do you want now, then?"
"Now, we discuss what you didn't put in your letter."
"Ah," he waves the question away, hand bobbing up and down like a wave. "I said- I was on a lot of drugs at the beginning."
His hand tightens on the gun, "You'll remember this, I'm sure."
Alfie's eyes are wide and open and trusting- a large expanse of blue summer sea, luring men in to drown. "Dunno what you're talking about, mate." Tommy aims right between his eyes, breathing out with relief as the safety clicks off. At this distance, no amount of opium could make him miss. "I watch ships. I tell you that? No two are the same, you know-"
"Alfie!"
Before he knows what's happening he's out of his chair and standing over him so close their legs are touching, barrel of the gun pressing hard enough to his temple to leave an imprint. He still doesn't look the least bit terrified. "Something wrong, Tom?"
A piece of paper flutters from his hand onto the expensive fabric of Alfie's trousers; a baby bird falling from the nest in a plume of ash. "You know what that says." Tommy does. Tommy has the words burnt in his mind. Burns hotter than Alfie's skin used to smoulder under his fingers, like hell or maybe worse. (Certainly warmer.) Alfie tilts his head back. It's impossible to tell if he's looking into his eyes or down the barrel of the gun. Maybe it amounts to the same thing.
"Remind me to have a word with Ollie after you've gone; shoulda known no good'd come of letting him bring you here."
"Alfie!" he screams, loud enough to scare off the fucking seagulls.
That smile again, that bloody fucking smile that got him into this mess. That head tilt again, that curious and indulgent head tilt like he's picking him apart at the seams in his mind. Those eyes again, those stupid damn eyes, which are blue Tommy can see now they're so close and not biting each other. This fucking bastard. "Tell me," he begins again, so much emotion weighing his words down they can barely even leave his mouth. "Tell me if it was me or you, Alfie. Which one of us killed it?"
"You ever been to Russia, Tom? Full of cunts, but the snow there is summat else. All these wild animals, right, huge fucks but they don't even leave pawprints in the snow."
Somehow, his face ends up buried against Alfie's shoulder and his lips on his neck. He doesn't ease his grip, just moves it to the buttons of his waistcoat, the cold watch chain, the buckles of their belts digging into each other's thighs.
Alfie's... anatomy is no mystery to him. It's ceased to be over the years since this began. "This"... paltry and apt, for what they are to each other. When they're together, the shovels in his head get louder and louder, yet also don't matter. Maybe that's why he carries on. Maybe it's just because Tommy Shelby has never liked what's good for him.
Their shirts hang from their shoulders, unbuttoned but still on; the scars peek out from under Alfie's shirt and Tommy pins his wondering hands against the wall- the scars may as well be daggers. He fixes his eyes straight into the blue ones and refuses to cower, refuses to give, refuses with the same stubborn will that saves him and curses him every day. "Our baby."
Intent on palming his cock, Alfie manoeuvres out of his grip and does just that, "Ancient history, mate."
"Not to me."
He laughs, "No, course it ain't. No one holds a grudge like Tommy fucking Shelby, hey?"
He's not wrong, per say, but Tommy wants him to stop talking so he leans in and kisses him like a punch to the face. The clock begins to strike twelve. Once it's finished, then they break the kiss; Alfie shoves him backwards until he's sat on the arm of the armchair, leather squeaking as they grope and grope and grope. Any other man would relinquish it all and take what he's doing with his tongue as a graceful end to the conversation.
Tommy fucking Shelby holds onto a grudge. "What happened to our baby?"
"How'd you know it was even yours?"
Bastard. Tempted as he is to leave Alfie's skin and replace it with the cold touch of a gun, he lets him undo his trousers and get into the waistband of his underwear, "Tell me what fucking happened, Alfie."
And he stops mid-stroke, grip neither relaxing nor tightening, head hovering over his shoulder so Tommy can feel every little exhale on his skin. "Are you asking for an honourable reason?"
A question that isn't a question. Well, he's dealt with members of Parliament, he can deal with this. "There's nothing honourable about me." Perhaps he has time for a cigarette, if Alfie's not going to just give him a hand job good and proper.
"Keep tellin' yourself that, you little fucker."
The scars from Tommy's bullet are rough against his skin as he carries on with the easy business of hand on cock. Tommy registers his growing erection, then files it away for later and instead puts his hand on Alfie's cheek- that side- in a gesture that in many other men could perhaps be tender. Just surveying the damage. He had thought that seeing himself in the scars left on his skin; a permanent mark of what they have and the secrets buried between them; him permanently etched upon Alfie's face for everyone to see which was almost as if he had won... would make him feel something. (Nothing.)
(There's a carving of him in his holy land... did the disciple remember the scars?)
"Lucky for me-" over slapping skin, the words are barely audible "-I have a private physician who is a consummate professional. Won't say nothing to no one but God. Granted he's dead, but he won't say nothing to God now neither, you know?"
"Was it miscarriage, or an abortion?" It's possible to get Alfie Solomons to give you what you want, so long as you push hard enough and are willing to pay the price. (This price is nothing so cheap as sex, this price is that when they look one another in the eyes before parting, Alfie will know how well he will sleep tonight.) Their cocks touch. He lets Alfie put their hands on each other's cocks and goes through the motions.
"Ah, you overthink things, Tom. Not like we could've raised a fucking kid anyway."
That's not the point.
What is the point?
He lets his head empty, spills into Alfie's hand and hears the rush of the tide, wondering if it could drown out shovels.
"How far along were you?" Each word is punctuated with a button one up again, another inch of skin being concealed again. The room is heaving with the stench of sweat and lavender and his fingers stumble as he acclimatizes to having buttons and fabric under them again instead of another body.
Alfie shrugs, half-naked yet never out of place the way Tommy always feels he's been cut out and pasted into a badly-faked photograph. "Doctor thought I was just on the rag- he really did know fuck all about fuck all. What patient has to diagnose himself?"
"The same who makes his killer take his dog home."
Alfie laughs, an aborted sound that grates in his chest; thunder rolling in from far out at sea. He's impressed him, Tommy knows. Before him sits a man who asks question after question, argues and rambles and smiles until he darts out of the cloud of dust and can strike his enemies down and sometimes he'll play with his food and shake them about in his mouth before he bites down- just like a dog. Tommy's just impressed him. (Still doesn't make him feel anything.) He lights a cigarette and contemplates what won't go wrong if he chooses not to walk out the door right now. If he stays in this eclectic hotel with a mad man who is the closest thing he's got to an equal.
Aunt Polly's hand lands a hard blow, the lace edging of her black veil (made out of old handkerchiefs) trembling as she strikes again and again. Never punch above your weight. Since when has Tommy Shelby ever done what's good for him?
Alfie hums, clicks his tongue, shoots at a passing steam boat. "Ollie'll give you a lift back to the station. Pleasure doing business with you again, Tommy."
Tommy leans down, one hand on the arm of the armchair, leaning over the huge body of this man, knows exactly what's under the clothing, and wants to say something to hurt him. Alfie tilts his head and fixes those blue eyes on him and he doesn't say anything until their faces are only an inch apart.