Chapter Text
It’s not too much to ask, Tommy thinks.
It is not too much to ask to have a tailor go through a fitting without speaking unless necessary. Especially in a place that gets more than enough money in general, not withstanding the amount it receives from Tommy alone.
It wasn’t as if Tommy was predisposed to treating these people as if they were lesser than he was. He knew what it was like to graft for money, at least he had a long time ago before he started making real money. It wasn’t hard to relate to the way these workers would often be stared at and treated, as he too still received the same scorn from men who were now more than willing to take his money until his back was turned, only to murmur under their breath about disgusting gypsy gangsters.
But when a man is moving measuring tape around your waist, there should only be a few choice and professional words said. This was rarely the case with Alfie Solomons.
“C’mon, treacle, move your arms up for me,” he says, glasses perched on the tip of his nose with his eyebrows furrowed, eyes flickering to Tommy’s briefly, “you’d think you haven’t done this before.”
Biting his tongue is hard, yet Tommy is of the belief at least one of them has to remain professional in this situation, so he lifts his arms and stares straight ahead with a small sigh.
“Fuckin’ell.” Alfie leans back, tape around Tommy’s waist tightening as he nods to himself. “You’ve got a woman’s waist, ain’t you?”
Tommy clears his throat, wondering what exactly he did to deserve this. He wonders briefly if the old tailor he’d had was actually dead or if this absolute nutcase had killed him, though he’d rather not rest on the thought with the man currently binding his waist with tape measure. They’d assured him that he’d be in good hands with their ‘best tailor’, the self-professed ‘best tailor in London, mate’ by his own admissions. Tommy was beginning to doubt the authenticity of these statements.
“Alrigh’, c’mon, turn around sweetie, I ain’t got all day.” Alfie moves his arms upwards to measure once more, Tommy’s eyes following him in the mirror he’s in front of, noting the way Alfie nods and hums to himself as though he’s having a conversation with someone who isn’t there. The slightly demented character is only furthered by the glasses perched on his nose and the perpetual frown, eyes darting back and forth. Tommy’s certain when they catch his own in the mirror he winks and maybe for a second, Tommy’s heart stops.
When he starts measuring the outside span of his leg, Tommy does start to wonder what possessed him to put this level of trust in a man who seems to be convinced his own shadow is betraying him. Part of him wonders if he’ll end up attending this charity dinner not with a suit that looks bespoke, but one that is 5 centimetres above where it should be on both the ankles and wrists that’s probably too tight.
Solomons would probably find that quite amusing.
They say he was a Captain in the war. Tommy finds it slightly hard to believe, but when a loud bang from the factory across the road seems to ring in through the tailors open windows and Tommy visibly blanches, he catches Alfie’s eyes flinching and the way the tape currently around Tommy’s wrist tightens for a second as Alfie’s hand jerks. Neither say anything, though Alfie’s eyes flicker to Tommy’s as if he’s staring into his soul and Tommy feels more naked than he has any right to.
“Right, Thomas, you can put your fuckin’ arms down now mate, you don’t need to stand there like you’re expecting crucifixion.”
“That’s good to know.” Tommy replies dryly, moving his arms back down to his sides and readjusting his undershirt. Alfie hands him back his waistcoat, waiting until he pulls it on to stand behind him and hold up his suit jacket for him to put his arms in. Glancing upwards into the mirror was a mistake, Alfie’s eyes staring holes into his head in the mirror’s reflection. Fastening his jacket he steps down from the small stand, always conscious of the way Alfie chuckles at his height and jokingly asks him if he wants him to lie on his records about Tommy’s height.
“You said pinstriped, yeah?” Alfie grumbles, moving his glasses back down around his neck and moving to his desk to write a few things down. “Not gonna lie mate, we’re not gonna need half as much fabric for you. You’re quite petite, Thomas.”
Another awkward clearing of his throat. “Good to know, Alfie.”
“Right, well, anythin’ else you wanna add you should say now.” He stands in front of Tommy, fingers running through his beard sporadically, biting his lip momentarily. “I don’t like to be interrupted with shit midway through my work.”
“I don’t have any changes I’d like to make.” Tommy buttons up his suit jacket, grabbing his coat to pull on carefully. Alfie’s eyes follow his movements closely. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, not a problem, treacle.” Tommy might glare just a little more than usual. “It’ll take about a week, yeah? Then you won’t be walkin’ around looking like some gypsy tramp.”
I fucking hate him.
Standing in front of the mirror, Tommy does feel oddly elated. He wonders if this is what women feel like when they buy ridiculously expensive dresses and shoes. Suits were always their choice growing up but there was a difference between a Chinese market suit and a bespoke London tailor-made suit, that much was obvious. It fit him, as much as he hated to think it, like a glove. The fabric felt expensive, all his specifications were met and it just looked good. Even down to the extra armpit room for his gun holster or the deeper than average pockets for his flat cap. Alfie had an attention to detail Tommy was sure he wasn’t the only one to underestimate.
But how the fuck is he supposed to put up with all of these comments on a regular basis? Staring at the suit through the mirror he ponders the thought, turning sideways and then forwards once more, scowling.
Surely, London, with it’s reputation for its bespoke garments, had another more adequate and professional tailor he could see? One who didn’t laugh obnoxiously when writing down his measurements right in front of him? Who didn’t smell of rum and look like he himself was in dire need of a new wardrobe? The amount of money Tommy was paying surely meant he was at least entitled to someone who didn’t have several screws loose in their head.
Surely?
Not for the first time, Tommy contemplates a fast end to his own life.
Why? This isn’t fair.
It had been the fifth tailors he’d gone to. The fifth suit arriving at his door after the fifth sizing appointment. It just wasn’t the same. The arms were too tight, there wasn’t enough room under the armpits. The pinstripes were too large. Even the fabric felt wrong. For what seems like the hundredth time he’d turned in front of the mirror, looking at his back and his front and wondering if the universe is laughing at him. Maybe they aren’t that bad, Tommy thinks. Perhaps he just needs to get to know them better so they can adequately assess and carry out his requirements.
Or maybe they weren’t giggling at his waist size enough. Or picking up a tailor-made suit for a teenage boy and saying “Sorry, Tom, mate. Mixed it up for a second there.”
Standing in front of the shabby tailors makes Tommy feel both uneasy and also relieved. He’s not sure what to make of that, though. The moment he walks through the door he hears the familiar grumbling and swearing, footsteps sounding from the back room as Alfie shoulders his way in. Then, he laughs. A deep belly laugh that might have Tommy having the odd urge to laugh with him it’s so contagious, Alfie’s crinkled eyes twinkling with a mischievous grin on his face.
“Tom, mate. Thought you’d forgotten where we were.” He says, clapping Tommy on the back, definitely not gentle. At least he doesn’t wrinkle his nose when he has to touch Tommy, though, the way the upper-end tailors did. As if he was worth less and harmful to touch. He’d though that enough about himself after France and he didn’t need war-avoiders to reaffirm anything for him.
“No, Alfie. I’ve not forgotten.” He replies, smiling almost shyly to himself. The way Alfie stares at him makes him feel that naked vulnerability again, but less like he’s baring his skin for the slaughter and more like he’s about to be privy to something unspeakably intimate.
“I take it,” Alfie’s mouth is right near his ear as he stretches behind Tommy to place his coat on the hanger for him, “that the others weren’t up to scratch, eh?”
“Not quite.” Tommy replies. There’s something about Alfie’s tone that doesn’t indicate the usual psychoticism associated with one of his moods, one of his rage-fuelled rants. As if he’s not judging Tommy for attempting to try elsewhere. It almost makes him feel sorry for it.
“They ain’t used to how scrawny you are, are they?” Alfie hums, walking back and forth with suits draped over his arms on hangers, hanging them up near the dressing room. “They’re used to big fuckin’ gluttons, mate.”
“I wanted to see if they were worth the money they were charging.” Tommy clears his throat when silence follows his statement, already feeling awkward about coming back and now more-so at his need to attempt an explanation as to why. Alfie stares, eyes narrowing momentarily before they resume their usual skittish perusing.
“C’mon, then, Tommy, get in the fuckin’ changing room.” He says, opening the curtain for him and placing a hand on his lower back to push him in. Maybe it lingers a bit too long. Maybe it doesn’t linger long enough. “Good boy.”
He has to take a moment before underdressing behind the curtain, staring at one of the suits Alfie had already hung up in the room. A nice dark grey one, three-piece. Big pockets, he thinks, smiling a little. The waistcoat has the perfect pocket for his watch, too.
Stepping out, he’s not met with the usual tutting when he checks Alfie’s work in the mirror, but silence. When he stands on the step to look at himself in the mirror, Alfie moves behind him to just stare, without a single word escaping his lips. It’s unsettling, yet when his eyes meet Tommy’s in the mirror it’s replaced with embarrassment. The hunger in Alfie’s eyes is hard to ignore and when he stretches his arms fully around Tommy’s waist to adjust his waistcoat by pulling it from the bottom, Tommy almost dies when he lets out a small noise of surprise.
“Easy there, treacle,” Alfie grumbles into his ear, so close his beard is tickling Tommy’s neck, “don’t get too excitable, yeah. Ain’t got time to readjust for room in the pants, have I?”
“Fuck off.” Is all Tommy can manage, flushed and irritated. It only seems to encourage Alfie who chuckles heartily, rounding him to stand fully in front of him. With the extra height from the step, Tommy is for once a head above Alfie, staring down at the man in front of him. Alfie stares back, long eyelashes and crinkled eyes, smoothing Tommy’s jacket down gently.
“Not the same with anyone else, is it, sweetie?” He asks, staring knowingly at Tommy. More knowingly than he has any right to. “Wasn’t the same here without you, either.”
Tommy curves a hand around the neck he’s thought about snapping more than once, fingers curled in the hair he thinks needs trimming instantly. He kisses Alfie like he wants to be breathless, like he wants to die of suffocation, and Alfie seems to oblige him with arms around the waist he knows to the exact measurement as he hums in approval.
It really wasn’t the same with anyone else.