Hello! Once again thank you for all your reviews and messages - I massively appreciate them!

I just want to take the time and put a quick trigger warning up here for this chapter - it's going to include dialogue discussing how it feels to suffer with depression/anxiety.

I don't feel anyone could write fanfiction for Peaky Blinders without mentioning this because it's such a huge aspect of what Tommy is carrying around with him anyway, but I do want to make sure it's highlighted that that is in here so that anyone who might feel uncomfortable can skip this chapter.

Thank you for reading! :)

Chapter 13

He stayed away for three days in the end, sleeping in the stables in Charlie's yard and stewing in himself.

Curly woke him up the first morning, seeming – as Curly would – entirely unperturbed by his sudden presence. His uncle raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.

The thing was, he wanted to go home straight away. But he didn't know what to say to her – still didn't know if he should say anything. He wanted to see her. He wanted to make it right. And he was disgusted with himself for being such a stupid fool as to have stormed out over John's idiocy in the first place. He'd made it into a thing it had never needed to be. If he'd just been able to laugh it off… But he didn't laugh much anymore. Or he hadn't done. She had brought laughter back to him. But still, he wasn't yet able to laugh at himself. That was beyond him. Not to his brothers, anyway.

If bloody Polly had just left the doors unlocked! If she hadn't meddled, he would have been there that morning, been able to make some excuse about being held up the night before – and he still didn't know what he would have said, but it would have been done with by now, one way or another… But it wasn't done. He was still in Charlie's yard, still trying to think of what he could say. He'd have words with Polly when he saw her. Though he rather suspected Polly intended to have words with him.

Fucking John. Fucking Polly. Why did people have to fucking meddle? And why did he have to let it bother him?

He spent the morning helping Curly and afternoon and evening wandering the streets, still angry with his aunt and brother, still wanting to kick things, still with his hands stuffed in his pockets, still feeling like a kid having a temper tantrum.

And he still didn't figure out what to say - and the shovels came again that night, when he was back in the stable.

The second day was much the same, other than that he beat someone up who looked at him the wrong way in the street. Didn't do to have anyone thinking they could look at a Shelby the wrong way. And he thought it might relieve some tension – but he was wrong.

It was the third morning that he started getting over himself.

He'd been in the tunnels again and then somehow he'd seen Charlie – and Charlie didn't belong in the tunnels so it couldn't be Charlie – it had to be another solider – another solider who shouldn't be there – enemy soldier – so he'd grabbed his gun and pointed and fired and shouted. And then he'd realised he wasn't in the tunnels and Charlie and Curly had him pinned down and had managed to wrestle his gun from him and throw it across the stable.

He had shaken them off him and gone and stuck his head under the pump, soaking his undershirt in the process.

His uncle followed him and stood a small distance away, lighting up a cigarette and offering it over to him.

Tommy took it and inhaled, glad for it. If black lungs was the price to pay for peace in his head, so be it.

"What's goin' on Tom?" his uncle asked.

He shrugged. He didn't owe Charlie any explanation.

"Tom."

He looked up, his uncle's voice had gone uncharacteristically sharp.

"What?" he demanded.

"You mind how you speak to me," Charlie replied.

Tommy raised his eyebrows, scoffed and took a drag on the cigarette. But Charlie kept his eyes on him and simply raised his own eyebrows in response. Tommy had never seen his uncle press.

"Forgive me, Uncle," he offered sarcastically, inwardly still taken aback by the comment.

Charlie took orders from Tommy, like everyone else, most of the time. Where his uncle's sudden care for Tommy's tone came from, he didn't know. He threw the cigarette into the empty fire pit and crossed back over to the stable, ignoring his uncle's eyes. He turned his back and started pulling on the clothes he had discarded, preparing to leave for the day. But Charlie had crossed with him and was standing at the door, watching him.

"Was there something else?" he turned and challenged the man, his eyes glinting out from under his hat.

"Yeah, there was Tommy," his uncle replied.

He didn't respond, just stared - waiting for Charlie to spit it out, whatever it was.

"I've always looked out for you like a dad, Thomas."

He kept his face blank whilst inwardly reeling. Where the fuck was this going?

"God knows your dad wasn't up for the job," Charlie continued, not taking his eyes away from Tommy, who nodded curtly in agreement, "I live on Watery Lane too Tommy."

"Charlie, get to the fucking point," Tommy replied, fingering the cigarette holder in his pocket.

"Alright – I will. I went to speak to Pol, ask her what's going on – why you've been here in the same clothes for what's three mornings on the trot now. I met those girls, Tommy. Right sweet, the little one. And she's missing you."

He tried to continue to keep his face blank, but Lily's face swam into his head and it was like being stabbed in the heart. He had thought about Rosie the entire time. Had thought about how he'd embarrassed himself in front of her, thought about what the hell he could say to her to sort it out. He hadn't really realised Lily would have also noticed that he had gone for three days.

"Don't be like your dad Tom – don't disappear and people don't know when or if you're coming back. You've been through it. Don't pass that shit on," Charlie said, his voice gruff.

Tommy didn't say anything. Didn't know what to say – and he was relieved when Curly shouted over, asking Charlie to come look at something.

"Be there in a minute Curly," his uncle said, then, focussing his eyes back on Tommy, "That's all I had to say. Just – just sort it out, Tommy. You're better than him."

He felt like he'd been stuck under the water pump again. He waited till Charlie had left. He didn't do expressing of emotions and he wasn't going to start now. Not with Charlie anyway. But as soon as there were no eyes on him he shoved his face into his hands and sat on the hay bales, thinking. The thing was, he probably needed to stop thinking, but he was no good at that. He thought. That was what he did.

If he had had any faith, Tommy might have thought it was god who had thought the third day was quite enough. After his uncomfortable confrontation with his uncle that morning - it wasn't often he found himself on the back foot - he parked himself in the Garrison. Blessedly, it opened earlier on a Saturday and he intended to sit and drink and think some more about what the hell he was going to say when he went home – but he got pulled away from his whisky to get outside and help Danny.

Where Tommy had dreams, Danny had… episodes. Awake but not really awake. Not in reality. And that morning Danny had seen German soldiers peering out a window, preparing to shoot. There was glass everywhere and Tommy and Jeremiah had pulled Danny into the snug to extract it from his face after he had finally realised he was in England, that he was home. Or as home as any of them would ever be.

John and Arthur arrived in the snug as it was going on and then the three of them sat around awkwardly once Danny and Jeremiah had gone. He hadn't been at work either when he'd been staying away from the house, they'd have had a right to say something to him about that – if the situation was reversed he'd have told them not to let their personal shit affect their work. But they didn't say anything. He might be smarter, but his brothers were nicer people than he was; he knew that.

He made up his mind in that instant though that, at some point in the future, he was going to get an office somewhere else. So that no matter how much he fucked up at home, he couldn't be accused of fucking up work. So that he could always provide for them. Even if he couldn't figure out what to say or how to make shit okay, he could make sure that they were provided for that way.

He got up, unable to stand it any longer as his brothers looked between each other and over at him. He had been staring at the table and pretending not to feel their eyes on him but, the truth was, if even his brothers couldn't figure out what to say to him – he didn't stand a fucking chance of the conversation in the house going well.

"Tommy, mate," John's voice finally broke the silence just as he reached the door.

He didn't reply but stopped at the door of the snug.

"Mate – just go home."

He didn't reply, but he laid his head against the glass pane on the door, willing it to cool the pain in his head and not being surprised when it didn't.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Tom – we came through the war," Arthur said, "We know what it's like – you make plans an' they get fucked. Sometimes it's whistles that call you up an' push you over the top. Sometimes it's your brother an' – well – it doesn't matter what else. But you get pushed over just the same – an' the plan doesn't fuckin' matter anymore, you've come over the line an' it's not what it was meant to be an' there's rats an' wires an' bodies an' you reckon you've found yourself in hell. But we made it through. We crossed the fucking fields an' the wires an' the bodies an' came back. So cross the fuckin' field, eh brother?"

Sometimes it's your brother and a girl, that's what Arthur had been going to say. But Tommy guessed they had decided not to mention it.

He turned to meet his older brother's eyes.

"I fucked up Arthur."

"Yeah – ya did Tom. But you're the smart one, so you know how to unfuck it. An' for whatever reason, she's wantin' ya to go home and unfuck it. Not that I ever thought I'd say a girl wantin' to unfuck anythin' was a good thing."

He gave his brother a smile in appreciation of his attempt at humour. They didn't really do emotions, so it was the necessary closure to anything that came close to it to make a joke. Made it easier.

But he couldn't bring himself to say anything - joking or serious - in return. He pulled open the door of the snug and left.

It was a few hours later, after he had wandered what felt like every street in Birmingham, before he plucked up the courage to do what his uncle and brothers had told him to – went home to face her. To face them.

He had thought he was prepared for how he would feel, thought he'd felt it all and got it in hand. But when Lily flew across the small front room towards him with her arms outstretched and he scooped her up and held her tiny body against him, pressing his face into her head, it came over him anew - even more than before - and he fought to breathe through the tightening he felt in him.

"I missed you Tommy," she said, so simply and so easily, as a child would.

"I – I missed you too, Lily," he choked out, holding on to her as though she were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

He removed his face from where he had pressed it into her to land kisses all across her little head, and, when he did so, his eyes met Rosie's.

She had stood up off the seat and her eyes burned like the fiery sword of an angel and let him know he was not forgiven.

"Aunt Polly said you go away sometimes, Tommy, said it's just something you do," Lily told him.

"No Lily, it was something I used to do but that was the last time – the last time I ever do that again, I promise you," he gave the child his words, but he looked to her sister's flame lit eyes when he said them.

"Good, because it wasn't very nice and I didn't like it," Lily replied.

"I know – I know it wasn't. I'm sorry Lily, I'm really sorry. Will you please forgive me?" he asked her, his arms tight around her body, realising he needed her to forgive him.

"I forgive you Tommy," he said, her voice slightly muffled as he held her so tightly against him.

"I don't deserve you Lily," he told her, rolling his eyes to the ceiling to try and stop them from watering.

"No. You don't."

They were the first words she said to him. And they were fair, he couldn't deny that. But he felt as though his heart was breaking to look at her, in all her fierceness, and have her tell him that he wasn't good enough. He knew it, of course he knew it, but he would have taken a dozen bullets rather than hear those words from her. And yet, what else had he expected?

"Where did you go, Tommy?" Lily asked him, settling back in his arms a little to look up at him.

He pressed another kiss to her cheek and said, "I went inside my head, Lily. It's all a mess in there sometimes and I used to go away and be on my own to try and sort it out. But I realised this time Lily, I sort it out better when I'm at home. So I won't go away again - I promise."

Rosie crossed over to where he stood with her sister and took Lily out of his arms, saying, "Come on you – your hair's still wet, let's get back over by fire."

He could have sobbed as she removed the child from his grasp, could have fallen to his knees and wept. And he would, if that was what she wanted. He would kneel before her and offer every prayer and every apology and every penance and every sacrifice and every damn form of worship he could, if she would only offer him absolution. He didn't believe in god. But he believed in her.

She placed Lily down where she had been sitting before, her two bears in front of the hearth with her, and then settled herself down in the single seat, picking up a book and not looking at him.

He stood there for a while, unsure what he was supposed to do – what she wanted him to do – what he was allowed to do.

He heard water splashing and figured that Ada was in the bath in the kitchen, probably getting Polly to help her rinse her hair. He thought about going through to sit with them, but he also had the feeling he had to prove that he wasn't going to go away again, even outside this room.

He cleared his throat, "Rosie…"

She moved her eyes very slowly and deliberately up to him, glanced to the baby on the hearth and then back to him.

"Later."

He nodded. Alright. At least later, no matter what she had to say to him, she would be saying something.

He still felt awkward, lingering just inside the room. He didn't feel he could sit – he felt even entering the little set up with the chairs and sofa around the fire would be crossing into her territory and he hadn't been invited. It was like she was radiating some kind of shield with her heavenly power, a threshold he could only be carried over when she deigned it. And he could do nothing but pray she would deign it. He was glad for a moment when the door opened and Finn came in, glancing at the clock - clearly having been told to be in for a certain time.

"Hiya," Finn offered on seeing him, but passed by him to get to the kitchen door and say, "I'm in Aunt Pol."

"Just as well, Ada'll be done soon. Away and play with Lily until I shout you."

"I don't want to play with Lily," he grumbled.

His aunt sighed, "Well away and play upstairs until I shout you then."

"Right," Finn told her, then, going into the kitchen to go make his way up the stairs, he told his aunt, "Tommy's back."

"I heard," was all the response she gave.

His stomach tightened, knowing that his aunt and sister would have heard everything he had said. But even if they'd been sitting in the room when he came in, he'd have said it. He had meant it. Holding the child in his arms had pulled the words and promises from a place in him he didn't quite know or understand – and they'd come out with such a force, they'd appeared in his throat demanding to be spoken – he didn't think he'd have been able to hold them back even if he'd wanted to. And he wouldn't have wanted to. Because he wanted them – Lily and Rosie and, hell, even Ada and Polly and Finn too – to know that he meant them. He needed them to know that he meant never to go again. That he wouldn't go again.

Still, for all he had swallowed his pride, it was a long and awkward evening for him. When Ada and Polly appeared through to sit in front of the fire and undertake the drying and curling of Ada's hair as they did every Saturday night – usually to no real results as Ada's hair defiantly refused to take the ringlets it was supposed to – he eventually found the courage to sit on the couch.

His sister and aunt gave him about us much reception as Finn did. And he supposed he couldn't really question that, because how many times had he disappeared with no warning, slept out and returned back a day or so later? Christ, he got on his high horse about maintaining certain standards with them in a way that Arthur would have been inconsistent with, but he was inconsistent himself. He had just never confronted it before. His aunt had seen him do it since he was a child, and Ada and Finn were used to it. But Rosie still hadn't looked at him and he knew it wasn't okay. And how had he ever thought it was okay? His mother had never thought it was okay when he had disappeared on her.

He was thinking about her more and more these days, he realised. And he hadn't, not for so long. His mother wouldn't have been as reserved as Rosie was – there would have been no 'later' – he would have got his arse tanned regardless of who was around the minute he walked in the door after he'd taken off for any length of time, with whatever she could lay her hands on. But despite her more introverted nature, he reckoned Rosie and his mother would have got along just fine.

He almost started crying again when Lily climbed into his lap to press her tiny little mouth to his cheek before she went off to bed.

His aunt cleared Finn and Ada off to their own beds not too long after. Other than when she had taken Lily up to bed, Rosie had sat with her book the entire time, answering Polly or Ada or Finn when they asked her things, but not engaging in any conversation. He barely said a word either.

"Right, I'm off for a drink," Polly announced, "I'll see you in the morning. Make sure an' have a bath before church, won't you love?" she laid a hand down on Rosie's shoulder and the girl smiled up at her. There was something happening between the two women, he realised. Something he wasn't part of.

"Bye Polly, thanks for watching Lily today," Rosie said, squeezing the hand his aunt had laid on her.

"Thanks? God there's something I don't get much of," Polly snorted, then, "Give him hell, love."

She smacked him on the side of the head over the back of the sofa as she walked by but didn't say anything to him.

They were silent for a while after the door had shut behind her.

He broke first, his voice low and quiet, pleading, "Rosie…"

She looked at him then, with some indefinable look in her eye, she said, quite calmly, "I was planning to slap your face when you got back."

He blinked at her, not saying anything. He'd let her, if it would make anything better.

"But then you said the thing about being in your head."

He processed that. It wasn't what he had been expecting – but tonight was his night for offering the truth and so he offered it, "It's all smoke and mud in there sometimes."

He'd never told anyone. Not before tonight. And again, here he was, offering it to her - feeling like he was handing her an axe and laying his head on a block.

But she just nodded, "I get it. I get busy in my head too. Sometimes it needs cleared out – and I don't know how to do that half the time."

"I'm sorry," he offered her again, wondering how many times he had ever said that phrase in his life before she had entered it. It was becoming too familiar to him, he kept saying it – kept fucking up. He didn't ever used to say it. He would have thought he had never fucked up before either. But that wasn't true. He just hadn't acknowledged it when he did.

"I know," she nodded again – and he got the feeling she did actually know, "The thing is, Thomas - if this was just me and just you – it would be fine. But it's not just me and just you. Lily's been trying to stay awake late at night, hoping you'll come home before she goes to bed. I've been telling her you've been working early and late and you'd be back soon. And then Polly told her you just go away sometimes and she shouldn't worry. She was distraught, waiting on you coming back and none of us could tell her when that might be."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop saying you're fucking sorry Thomas. You told me before – apologising isn't who you are."

He dropped his eyes to the floor.

He exhaled sharply then said, "Besides - I don't put store by words. Anyone can say shit. People's actions tell you a hell of a lot more than their words."

He raised his eyes to her. He didn't know if he entirely believed that, though he reckoned she believed herself. He didn't see that anyone who read as much as her didn't put store by words. In fact, he figured she probably hurt more when someone gave her words, and she took them, and then their actions didn't add up to their words. That pain was behind the tone she spoke in, and he wondered whose words had damaged her so much that she'd decided to tell herself never to believe words again. And then he realised it could have been his - because he had promised to take care of her. And he'd abandoned her.

"You can do what you like with me, but not with her. It's not fair, she's a baby. If I get thinking I made the wrong decision here Thomas – if I get thinking that your version of taking care of a kid is buying them a bunch of stuff and then disappearing on them with no warning – I will take her and we will go and we will not come back."

His heart stopped. He could do what he liked with her? What in hell did she think he wanted to do with her? Use her and discard her like yesterday's newspaper? And the idea of her going and not coming back… She would too, that was the thing. He believed her because there was a steel in her voice when she spoke about Lily. She would do whatever she had to to protect the kid. Hell, she'd come here, agreed to this in the first place because of the bab.

"Please…" he began and trailed off, not knowing how to end. He didn't know enough words to say all he wanted to say, to ask, to plead of her.

"It's not just you and me Thomas. It's more than that. It's more difficult, more complicated. And there's a hell of a lot more can go wrong. I can deal with it. She can't. And Finn and Ada – they might be used to it Tommy, but that doesn't mean it's okay."

"I know," he nodded.

There was silence for a few minutes – and he was just about to try and say something – anything – to fill it – when she began to speak again, speaking like every word was a great effort.

"I get stuck in my head sometimes," she told him, "It's like being drowned in imagining everything that could go wrong and trying to stop thinking about it and not being able to – and I try and be all fucking Pollyanna and play the fucking glad game and be grateful and I can't. It's like being held under water and thrashing to get out but it's like there's something that's - that's part of me but it's not me at the same time - like I'm holding myself there but I'm being held too. My mind goes over and over all the shit that's happened, even if I try not to think about it, my mind pushes it all up to me to remind me of it, like it wants to make sure I know how much has gone wrong so I don't get thinking that the pattern of shit in this world will change."

He nodded, "And you see everything you want being pulled away from you?"

She nodded.

She did understand.

"I'm sorry for being busy in my head," he told her, reaching out across the space to pat her knee a little. He was worried that it was too much, but she didn't slap his hand away. She didn't take it either. She didn't flinch, nor did she embrace the offering. She just looked at him. Blank and unyielding. But then there was a flicker...

"I'm sorry you got stuck there," she told him – and he felt like she truly meant it, that she was sorry for him - "I don't know how to fix it – not permanently. I'd love to clear it all out of my own head and I can't. I don't know how. And it's like the harder I try not to let it take over, the stronger that hand that's holding me under the water becomes. So sometimes I think it's just easier if I lie back in the night and let it take me. Because in the morning I can get up. Y'see, Tommy - Lily is my focus. No matter how bad it gets, no matter how bad the nights are – she's my focus. I get up every morning and I do what I have to and I pretend everything is fine and I go to work and I function and I do it for her. Because I have to. So find a focus Tommy, that's all I can offer."

He wondered if the black circles under her eyes came from the same source as the blackness in his lungs after all.

"I'm sorry you get stuck there," he said, squeezing her knee with the hand she hadn't shoved off.

She looked into the fire for a bit, then said, "It hadn't been so bad lately. But the last few nights…"

He got on his knees then. He got on his knees in front of her and laid his head in her lap, his hands clasped on top and murmured, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," over and over again.

She let him go on for a bit and then her fingers pulled his clasped ones apart and threaded around them, her thumbs rubbing circles into the back of his hands.

"I know," she whispered, "Tommy, I know. I understand. But you can't do it again – not like that. Please don't do that to us again. Please. I can't - I can't put her through that."

He gripped her hands and looked up at her.

"I promise," he offered her.

She nodded, she accepted it and he kissed her hands in gratitude.

It wasn't quite absolution. But he felt that, finally, after years of not realising he had been searching for it, he might be on the road to redemption.