The next day when he woke up in the straw he wished he hadn't. His body hurt as badly as it had when he had first come to after being shot. Worse, even. Blurry memories of the night before came together into a collage, sharpened into a picture, then a thousand different snapshots. Tessa's voice desperately screeching his name, blood splattered on white bandages, his bare feet on black roads. He needed to figure out what to do about the fucking Germans. He needed to figure out who their leader was, how to get to him, what he wanted. He rolled painfully upright in the straw and lit a cigarette. Everything smelled like leather and the musky, earthy scent of horses. Something rustled outside of the stable, and Tommy decided that if he was about to get shot, he would just let it happen, because he was too tired to try to stop it. But it was only Chase's crimson head that appeared around the corner, nose to the floor, nostrils flaring, searching for stray hay. He scratched his nose against his forelock, and looked at Tommy with bright, intelligent eyes. The stable was beautiful in the light. Shiny dark wood, at least twelve massive stalls, only a few of which were occupied. The stallion was more impressive in the day as well, his body trim and muscled, sixteen hands of gleaming Arabian spirit. Tommy prefered Fresians, Andalusians, gypsy horses. Less prone to spooking or temperament issues. But Arabians were bred for endurance, and there was a long, hard day ahead for both of them. Tommy stood, and refused to wince as he did so, as if he was afraid of the horse's judgement.
"Alright, Sunchaser. Let's hope your mother keeps you in good form," He told the horse.
There was a pile of clothes Tessa had left for him, lying beside his makeshift straw bed. A large coat, a large shirt, and a larger hat. It would have to do for camouflage, for now. She had even remembered a holster. He tucked the gun into in, slipped the coat on, took a few pulls of whiskey. The horse was watching him, his eyes large and liquid, his lines sloping and graceful. They really do have the same color of hair. He wondered if she was up at the house. What she would do if he knocked on the door. He dropped his cigarette and stomped it out with boots two sizes too big for him, and started talking to a horse about a journey.
When he made it to Birmingham twenty three hours later, both he and Chase were lathered in sweat. The horse was trained to respond to movement rather than the simple reins, so he turned when Tommy turned, walked where Tommy looked, sped up, slowed down, stopped whenever he gave a squeeze or a tap or a word. It was less like riding a horse and more like driving a car. The gypsies trained their horses this way, and the Arabs, and the American Indians. But never had he ridden one that could read his mind. Which was good, because thinking was about all he was capable of for now. He found himself talking to the horse during the journey, half delirious, half English, half Romani, the pain in his side and his upper shoulder stabbing him but keeping him conscious. The sun was blinding, but the clouds were worse, the night was too too too quiet, just the sounds of Chase's hooves and his own harsh breathing. Time felt odd and viscous, stretching like melted glass. People he passed in towns and on streets stared at the odd, hunched man in the ill fitting clothes huddled on the fine firey horse, but no one stopped him, no one accosted him. What luck. He thought about Tessa desperately flinging the scalpel right as the German had raised the gun. What luck. He kept his thumb on the pistol the whole way. He was focusing entirely on staying upright on the horse, or if not upright, at least staying on. He was sweating and delirious and the worst part was knowing it, and not being capable of doing a thing about it. Maybe he really could read horses' minds. Maybe Chase could read his, because by some miracle, the horse seemed to know where it was Tommy needed to go. By the time Small Heath came into Tommy's swimming vision, he was making a fifty-fifty mental bet on whether he was actually there or if he was just imagining the coal and the dust and the grey, familiar streets. Now people were shouting at him, recognizing him, running ahead to warn the family. Ada's white face was the first he saw emerge from the crowd, and he slipped off the horse, stumbling and clutching his side. This kind of public display of frailty was bad for his image, bad for the family reputation.
"Tommy? Tommy!" She ran to him, checking his face, his shoulder, his torso, seeing the blood and the bandages but no new wounds. Her eyes were shining. "Where the fuck have you been? They said you got out of the hospital and no-one's seen you since, and- where the fuck did you get this horse?"
"It's a long, long story, Ada. A very long story. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I need to-," The street swayed, and darkened, and rose up to meet him, and Thomas Shelby passed out in his sisters arms on the crowded road.
Two days later, when Tommy woke up, it was to see his older brother pacing anxiously by his bedside. He was wearing an expression like a dog that knew it was going to be punished for digging up the family garden.
Tommy didn't speak for a moment. Just breathed. Kept his eyes closed. Easy. Breathe. Her voice floated back to him. He grabbed the gun with three bullets lying on the bedside table and leveled it at Arthur.
"Hey now, easy, Tom. I was just doin what I thought was right, wasn't I? Couldn't live with knowing they'd get away with what they'd done now, could I?"
"What they'd done?" Tommy asked, quiet, cold. His head felt like it weighed ten tones. "For fucks sake, Arthur, we fucking killed them! We killed the ones who did it. And now the whole gang is after us, because of what you done!"
Tommy dropped the gun back onto the table with a loud clatter. Arthur now looked like the dog after it had been kicked.
"Fuck," Tommy said. He ran a hand over his face. "I need ten extra men stationed at all of our posts. I need you and John to go to the German pubs, find out who the leader of the gang is. Organize a meeting. Carry a white flag when you go in but keep guns under your hats in case things go south. And Arthur? Tell Polly to open the safe."
Arthur stuck his chin out, nodded twice. "Yes. Yeah." And the work began.
Three days later, he was sitting in the back room of the Garrison, papers strewn in front of him, chain smoking and trying to make connections. There was something he wasn't seeing. Something larger at play. A barkeep entered the room, nervously, fidgeting with the rag slung over his shoulder. He was young, and new. Arthur had hired him to try and appeal to the upcoming generation, he had said. Tommy thought that was bullshit. The Garrison had alcohol, and that was appeal enough.
"What?" Tommy prompted, looking up, after the man had stood for several seconds without saying anything.
"Excuse me, sir, I'm sorry, sir, but a man came in just now, said his name was Charlie, said someone was at your house looking for you, sir. Said to come and tell you."
"Who was at my house?"
"I- I don't know, sir. A woman, he said."
Tommy nodded slowly, put his cigarette out, and piled the papers. Of course. He was rather surprised it had taken this long. He doubted she would ever have wanted to see him again, had he not still been in possession of her horse. "Don't let anyone in this room until I return. You understand?"
The man bobbed his head.
"Good." Tommy stood.
"One more thing, sir, so sorry to trouble you. Charlie said, seeing as you weren't home, and that you were always making people sit around and wait for you, he said that, sir, not me, that he would take pity on the poor lass and just send her here. To you." The man said all of this very quickly and without taking a breath.
"Take pity on her. Of fucking course he did." Tommy sighed. "Go clear the pub."
"O-of course, sir." The man turned on his heel. Tommy checked his watch. Quarter past three. He grunted when he stood, but only because he knew he was alone. He walked slowly to the front room, whose double doors were swinging closed as the last patrons exited by the time he leaned on the bar. The afternoon light shone golden through the frosted windows.
"Shall I go too, sir?" The nervous man asked him. Tommy tossed him a shilling. "For your missing wages," he said, and the man nodded again, pocketed the coin, put down his rag and left. The pub was quiet, aside from the noise outside that trickled faintly in. Machinery and voices. Tommy waited. When she arrived, she was alone. He had rather expected her to be.
"I might have to keep your horse," he told her, flicking his lighter open and burning a new smoke. She walked slowly into the bar, eyes dancing around the room. Grey-green eyes, dark and blown. The color of pounds. Hair like melted metals dripping down her back and shoulders.
"I already took him back. Spoke to a man named Charlie, told him you stole the horse from me and I had come to reclaim him. He believed me. Not sure what that says about you." She stopped her visual tour of the pub and looked at him instead.
"Not sure what that says about Charlie. All it takes is a pretty face," he said, and he smirked a little, testing. Her dress was a dark navy blue velvet with white lace. Anyone who had been to Small Heath would have known better than to wear white lace unless they wanted it to turn grey. Tommy walked behind the bar.
"You want a drink?"
She sat down on a stool across from him, crossed her legs. Her loose hair fell down over her shoulder in thick waves and she reached up to move it behind her shoulders.
"Is this the trick you do? Clear out a whole pub, pour the girl a drink, make her feel special?" Her half American accent caught on the last word. He leaned across the bar. There were freckles across her nose, he had been wrong before, in the dark. Straight nose, lips like petals. "Sweetheart, I don't need to use tricks."
She looked at him, perfectly manicured eyebrows raised in a challenge, then tilted her head. She smelled sweet and crisp, like apples. Diamonds glittered on her ears, her wrists, her neck, throwing glittering spots of light against her perfect skin. "No, I don't suppose you do."
"I own the pub, anyway."
'You own it?"
"Yep." He took out a glass, poured himself some amber whiskey. "Well, me brother does, but I bought it for him."
She looked around again, her gaze suddenly much more critical.
He leaned back. "So if you have your horse and you don't want a drink, why are you here?"
She sucked her bottom lip in between her teeth, sighed quickly. The cut on her cheek was dark, as were the ring of bruises around her neck. There were circles under her eyes like someone had dipped their thumbs in ink and pressed them there. He felt a distant flash of hatred for whoever had done this to her, and then a stronger one when he remembered it had been him.
"I lied. Don't have my horse yet, technically. Charlie told me he had to go and fetch him from your stables, but wouldn't tell me where that was, which makes me think you hide things there." Tommy didn't reply, just looked at her, waiting. She hesitated.
"My father is missing," she said, like a piece of china that was breaking. "The last time he was seen was the day we left the hospital. I need your help," she met his eyes, "finding the people that took him."