Chapter Content Warning: canon-typical content, mentions of/ allusion to nightmares/ PTSD.

Bad Dreams

1919

Tommy pushed the flimsy wooden door open just far enough to peer inside. He watched the almost metronomic heaving of his little sister's chest for a few moments, long enough to satisfy his need to know that she was sleeping soundly. Then he stayed, watching her for a moment longer than he truly needed before gently pulling the door closed and slowly making his way to his own bedroom, wishing there was someplace else he could be, some business or trouble to be getting up to, anything besides the twin-sized bed and dark hours of silence awaiting him.

Clara didn't know that her brother still checked on her each night, always watching for just a moment when he returned from the pubs or a late night in the office or Lizzie's. Since being back in Birmingham, he had yet to forget to check on her and Finn, a promise made to them when they were young, back when Tommy first began spending all of his nights away from the twins at bedtime.

There were evenings when Tommy thought it was getting to be time for him to get a place of his own. The bedroom at the back of no. 6 Watery Lane was his and had been his for somewhere around twenty-five years but Tommy's restlessness only grew when he was closed in those four walls. Dreams of the war haunted him each night and he longed to sleep outside, under a tent or the stars, as he had in France, as he had in his childhood. Knowing he couldn't see a single star in the Birmingham sky through the shield of dust and smog and grime on his window set him on edge.

Tommy tried to imagine what it might be like, having a place of his own, a handful of bedrooms, a parlor, a dining room, and a kitchen to himself. He usually stopped imagining at that point. He had no use for extra bedrooms. He barely used the one he had now. And he wasn't one for cooking, or for sitting down to a meal for that matter either. No, Tommy Shelby did not need a place of his own. He had enough time and space to himself as it was.

Living above the shop was just easier anyhow. He was accessible if anything happened with the business. And the door to Tommy's bedroom was directly adjacent to Clara's, the two rooms sharing a thin wall. Finn, and Ada when she was home, were just a few doors down the hall. Having the family close made it easier to keep tabs, to account for those he cared about on his way to bed. And him being back at Watery Lane gave Polly freedom to stay at her own place when she chose. She had certainly earned that right, taking over with the kids while the boys had been away.

It was some hours later, during the early morning hours when Clara startled awake, a shout sounding from the other side of her wall. The floor chilled her skin as she slipped from the covers and walked barefoot across the hardwood. She sidestepped the creakier spots as she tiptoed to her brother's door, rapping her knuckles twice. "Tommy?"

She heard nothing by way of a response aside from another garroted shout and Clara pushed the door open. There was no slow heaving of Tommy's chest, but a series of ragged pants as he thrashed about on top of the covers.

Clara called his name out again, tentative as she stepped closer. She reached out to shake Tommy's shoulder and wake him, but his rough hand wrapped around her wrist, tugging her closer to the edge of his bed.

Clara cried out, prying at her brother's fingers as his grip tightened. Though he was no longer thrashing about and his shouts had quieted to incoherent mumbles, his strong hand drew Clara closer still, nearly tugging her onto the bed.

As she grasped at his arm, seeking some leverage to free herself, she found taut muscles, unrelenting and solid as stone. The more Clara struggled, the harsher Tommy's grip became, the pain radiating through Clara's wrist and into the fingers of her hand.

It was her whimpers and shouts that eventually broke through to Tommy's consciousness, pulling him from the dream and back to the bedroom. She had slumped to the floor beside the bed, her arm extended above her head, tears staining her flushed cheeks.

Tommy swore to himself and loosened his grip, intending to help her to her feet, but Clara crawled away from him before she stood. As she retreated towards the door, Tommy opened the drawer of his bedside table to place his pipe inside. Clara's attention had been focused elsewhere, on Tommy's night terror and the tight grip on her wrist and then the throbbing pain that still traveled through her delicate wrist. She hadn't even seen the pipe or the kit beside it, not that she would've known what they were if she had.

"What're you doing out of bed? It's late."

"I heard shouting."

Clara had stopped rubbing her wrist, moving both arms behind her back.

"I'm sorry for waking you," Tommy said, rubbing his thumb and pointer fingers over his eyes before rubbing his hand across his face. With both elbows pressed into his knees, he held a hand out towards her, beckoning her forward. "Let me see."

Clara hesitated, twisting on her bare feet, legs crossed at the ankles. In a nightgown she had nearly grown out of in the months since he had been home, an impractical cream-colored thing with frills at the arms and bottom hemline, Tommy could see a collection of bruises dotting her pale legs, injuries she'd likely collected while out playing with the boys.

"It's alright," she answered.

"I need to see. I'll be gentle."

Clara moved forward, the steps slow and deliberate. She stopped between his knees, holding her arm even as Tommy gingerly drew it from her body with the promised gentle hands. His thumb rubbed over the red mark his fingers had left and he grimaced, fully expecting a bruise by morning.

He grasped her hand in his. "Let's test your handshake, then. Make sure it still works."

Clara did as he asked, offering a delicate shake, her grasp light, and her wrist kept loose.

"How about a real one, eh? One suitable for a young lady."

"Ladies don't shake hands," Clara answered, a hint of a smile on her face as she placed her free hand on his knee.

"I suppose you're right, Lady Clara. I humbly beg your pardon for my mistake." The hint of a smile pulled further across her face as Tommy placed a gentle kiss on the back of her hand.

"Any better, my lady?"

Clara nodded despite the soreness and Tommy absently ran a hand over her hair, smoothing out the tangles she'd made tossing and turning in her sleep.

He was surprised he hadn't done more damage. He could've broken something, sprained something with his grip. He had been dreaming about France, lost in some vivid reincarnation of the tunnels that contaminated his subconscious thoughts. Clara's well-meaning intrusion had painted her as the enemy.

Tommy had been to see Lizzie before coming home from the Garrison, a distraction which seemed to be losing its effectiveness, his relief in the aftermath barely lasting beyond his drop of a few banknotes on her dresser.

He wanted to place the blame for his nightmare, and the blame for this unintentional assault on his sister too, on the business with Danny Whizz-Bang. He longed for his recent undoing to be on account of Danny's increasing outbursts because that meant it would all go away when he dealt with Danny. It was an inconvenient burden to hold, but Tommy felt he owed the man something.

Not everything was black and white but his debt to Daniel Owen was. Danny had saved his life. Tommy owed him the same.

"Were you having a bad dream?"

Clara pulled Tommy from his reverie. She had settled against his knee, his hand around her back. Tommy focused on her face then, her childlike features scrunched up in concern.

"You can tell me about it."

She released herself from his hold, settling on the bed beside her brother. Clara looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer but continuing on when it didn't come. "You have a lot of bad dreams."

"I've seen a lot of bad things."

"In the war?"

Tommy nodded. In the war. In life. "Yes."

Clara sat quietly beside Tommy, her arm wrapped in his as she leaned into him.

"Do you know what your brothers did in the war?"

"You dug the tunnels," she said, tugging an extra blanket from the end of the bed. Clara settled it over both of them as she scooted back to lean against the wall.

"We did," Tommy answered, following her lead and scooting back. "And we never quite knew where the other side was digging…"

Clara watched her brother with rapt attention, her eyes bright with their usual hunger, and Tommy faltered. He had no desire to burden an eleven-year-old with tales of the war. He didn't like how interested she was, hanging on his words as if they comprised a story in a book. He didn't like the idea of Clara turning about his war stories in the depths of her vivid imagination.

"Sometimes, I dream that I'm still there is all, but that's nothing for you to worry about."

Clara nodded once, scooting towards the edge of the bed and moving towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

She held up a single finger and disappeared through the door for a few moments, returning with a well-worn book in her hand. She held the cover of Black Beauty towards him, the green cover faded from years of handling. Clara's face held a stern expression as she perched herself on the edge of the bed.

"Just until you grow tired, Tommy," she warned.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He had read certain stories to Clara over and over as a young girl, to lull her to sleep when she insisted she wasn't tired and to distract her after merciless nightmares. She had always wanted more and more of the stories, pulling herself from near sleep to demand more if she was still conscious when he stopped his reading. He had started giving storytime a predetermined cutoff.

"Shall we start at the beginning?" she asked.

Tommy nodded, inviting his sister to sit beside him as he leaned against the headboard. Clara climbed up beside him, leaning her back to his chest and lifting her arms as Tommy settled the blanket over their legs. She opened the books between their laps and after clearing her throat, she began to read.

"The first place that I can remember was a large pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it…"

Tommy closed his eyes, listening to Clara's voice. It had been a long while since he had heard his sister read aloud, her voice sounding clear and confident. She moved over the lines with a quick and deliberate pace. Clara no longer struggled with the larger words, stumbling over them as she sounded out the letters. Instead, her tone conveyed something close to memorization, as if she knew the words by heart even without looking at the page. Tommy could easily imagine that to be true.

Tommy didn't remember falling asleep but the soft light beyond his thin curtains told him it was morning. He shifted slightly between Clara's sleeping form and the wall, feeling a resolute stiffness in his limbs and neck. The book sat discarded between them and Tommy lifted it from the covers, placing it on the nightstand.

Tommy climbed over his sister to get out of the bed, watching as she shifted in her sleep, moving into the warmth he left behind. Tommy pulled the spare blanket over her shoulder.

"Mornin'," she mumbled as Tommy moved away, her back to him as she curled towards the wall.

"Good morning," he echoed as he began dressing for the day.

"Leavin'?"

Tommy smirked as she mumbled to the wall, her speech lazy and uncharacteristically stunted as she was still foggy with slumber.

"I've got business," he answered, leaning down to press a kiss to her hair. "But it's early, my girl. You stay and sleep."

Clara nodded, snuggling further into the blankets. Tommy waited for her settle, lingering to observe the measured breaths signifying she had once again drifted off before heading downstairs.

Despite the early hour, Polly sat at the table, dressed and holding a warm teacup in her hand. "Which one of you had the bad dreams?"

Tommy's eyes flicked to his aunt's but he didn't reply, reaching behind him to pull his cap off the hook.

Polly gave him a knowing look as she sipped her tea. She wouldn't push it. Clara had been nightmare-free since the weeks after the boys returned home, but Polly still found her in her brother's bed with fair regularity, usually with a book between them.

"Let her have a late lie-in, Pol," he finally said as he pulled the cap over his head.

Polly nodded, watching him. She wished he would have a late lie-in. She wished he would stop moving and planning and scheming for long enough to have a clear, sensible thought, but Tommy had been moving from the moment he stepped off the train back to Birmingham and she didn't see much chance of that stopping any time soon.

"The moon has waned, Thomas."

"Yes," he answered, his tone clipped.

"So, you've done the right thing, then?"

Tommy's gaze didn't waver from Polly's eyes. She would ordinarily hold his gaze, but she didn't feel up to his games.

She set down the teacup. "You want to leave them again? Is that it?" she asked. "That man is out for blood, Thomas, and those kids haven't been happier than they are with having their brothers here at home. I won't let you put this family through it again. They deserve better."

Tommy took a deep breath. It was much too early for a conversation like this, much too early to hear his aunt's guilty pleas.

"If those children mean—"

"Pol, I will take care of it."

"You'd better."

Tommy didn't answer, heading out the door to Watery Lane. He had no intention of letting the copper from Belfast win, but he also had no intention of giving up the guns. The guns were a ticket to a different life for him, for the family, for the kids.

While the streets of Birmingham remained empty and as the distance from his conversation with Polly grew, Tommy allowed his mind to drift to ideas of a different life, to thoughts of a large pleasant meadow and a pond of clear water, to thoughts of a house with a few extra rooms.