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"Fuck off back to your pretty bitch then, go on," he bellows, shoving Tommy's shoulder, aiming to get a rise out of him. "Fuck off then!" Solomons snarls, turning to go back into the house until Tommy grabs his shoulder, steadying him. There's silence for a few moments, in which Solomons doesn't turn to look at Tommy, but remains planted where he stands.
"I'm not going back to her," Tommy says, quiet and measured. "I'm not that fucking pathetic." He growls, and Solomons grins as he speaks. "Could've fooled me, mate." Tommy's jaw clenches, and then he's charging at him with a fist aimed at his jaw. But Alfie outmanoeuvres and overpowers him easily, slamming him into the cold metal of Tommy's car until his breathing slows and he stops squirming in Solomons' tight grip. Alfie gives him a pointed look and lets go of him, pacing for a few moments, fingers toying obsessively with the ends of his beard.
"She's a way out for you, Tommy-boy, a way out of all this shit," Solomons says, almost sadly, and Tommy's head snaps up, tilting to the side as he listens. "Tommy, mate, just fucking go." He says, quieter this time, in a voice Tommy had only heard from him occasionally in the relative safety of a darkened room, almost always with his legs hooked around Tommy's waist. And he considers it for a moment, considers running back to Grace, considers the life he might still be able to build with her, considers being free of the world that he and Solomons find themselves in. He thinks of her and sees heaven and a future, a family of his own. He looks at Solomons and remembers himself, remembers
"What if I don't want that?" Tommy says instead, keeping his distance from Alfie, not trusting either of them entirely. The Jew cocks his head, brow furrowing.
"What do you want then?" He asks, softly first, then, remembering himself. "You always bang on about making your business legal, about buying a nice big house out somewhere quiet. Living a life as close to normal as you can get. She's your chance, mate." Alfie states, and the logic to his argument and sterility of his voice are knives to Tommy's chest. Alfie's supposed to be loud and angry and stubborn, not calm and informed and rational.
"I want all that still. But not-" he pauses, closing his eyes for a moment, praying to whatever deity it is that governs their lives for help. "Not with her. Not anymore." Alfie turns sharply to look at him, and his eyes are wide and disbelieving, but his fists aren't clenched and there's no angry twitch in his face. He's not going to kill me then, Tommy muses.
Alfie's silent for a long time, and it's clear to see that this is in chartered territory for him. They'd never discussed...whatever the fuck this was. Their arrangement was simple, they talked business, had a few drinks, and had a good fuck. It was simple, easy. But this entire situation had been of Tommy's making. It was him that suggested they come and stay out in the country for a few days under the guise of doing business. It was him who'd thrown himself at Alfie once they were behind closed doors, the lack of alcohol in their systems making everything sharper. It was him who'd riled Alfie up after he found himself looking at the man a bit too fondly, finding too much comfort in his every touch, reading far too much into their every conversation.
And now he'd revealed his deepest, darkest secret - that he hadn't even fully known - to Alfie, and surely blown his future to ashes. Alfie had been right, he was pathetic. Their eyes lock, and Alfie's talking to himself in a language Tommy doesn't understand and then he's walking to him, pace steady and confident. Tommy uses all of his energy to repress his fight or flight response, and he can hear his heart hammering in his chest when Alfie slams him into the car again, keeping him pinned there with his hands on his shoulders and a knee between his thighs.
And for a moment, he thinks Alfie might just snap his neck and be done with it, drag his body out into the field and bury him in a shallow grave. But then he meets Alfie's eyes, and finds unexpected solace in the calm he finds there. They stand there, breathing each other's air, neither daring to look away, until Alfie grumbles something unintelligible, his grip loosening as his head falls to rest against Tommy's in an uncharacteristically affectionate manner.
"Alright mate," he murmurs, lifting his head to meet Tommy's gaze again, his eyes alight with something that the latter cannot name. "Alright." Then he's kissing him, with a tenderness that makes Tommy ache. And he should be angry, disgusted that Alfie's agreeing to this, that they both want this. But when they pull apart, and Alfie's arms slide around his waist, he forgets how to think.
"Take me to bed, Thomas Shelby." Alfie mutters.
Tommy - for once - does as he's told.