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Three things happen to the Shelby family on that rainy afternoon in November: Ava’s son says his first word, Esme leaves John in charge of dinner to go to the bathroom and finds the kitchen on fire upon her return, and Tommy is stabbed in the shoulder.
Karl’s first word was duck. In 10 years, he will chase a duck and almost drown in the pond, in another 10 years, he will meet a girl in a yellow dress with ducks sewn onto it, and 10 years after that they will give their daughter a stuffed toy duck.
This is not that story.
Tommy’s assailant is shorter than him, but bulkier, and he’s got the element of surprise, which plays in his favour. Tommy, having grown up on those streets and lived to see the age of 30, manages to throw the man off, but by that time, the damage is already done.
He cuts out the man’s eyes, then slits his throat and leaves him in the alley where a slight rain has begun to fall. The knife is still stuck in his shoulder, so Tommy pulls it out in one swift move, pleased that it doesn’t appear to be much more than a shallow wound, certainly nothing to make a fuss about. He’ll wrap it up when he gets home, maybe chew some leaves for the pain, and that’ll be all there is to it.
Only there is no time for such luxuries at home, because as soon as he steps through the door, three different family members rush at him, all with their own concerns.
“Arthur has shot someone in the Garrison, and where were you to stop him?” Polly asks in the same moment that Esme says: “Your brother blew up the kitchen”.
He can only assume she means John, but doesn’t have time to ponder the matter, as Finn now jumps in with: “Tommy, I think Isaiah broke his wrist but he won’t show me so how will I know?”
“Everyone, shut up” Tommy snaps. He’s hurting, but not enough to justify shutting himself away in his room for a few hours. “Let’s focus on the most important thing first, eh? Who did Arthur shoot and why?”
“An Irishman who ‘looked at him funny’.” Polly’s voice is cool as ice; the air quotes practically visible. “The coppers didn’t come knocking yet, but you bet they won’t stay away for much longer, and God only knows how you’ll turn this one around.”
“Where is Arthur?”
“Still at the Garrison. Drunk by now, probably.”
“I’ll talk to him and fix this” Tommy says, more to himself than to his aunt, who doesn’t need to be told this anyway. She already knows. “Finn” he continues as Polly leaves, “you can tell Isaiah that he’s got the choice between letting himself get checked out this instant, or come talk to me. If I don’t see his wrist bandaged by this evening, I’ll make the choice for him.”
Finn nods sharply and follows Polly out. Only Esme left now, so Tommy allows himself to be led into the kitchen and shown the damage, which really is quite extensive. Great. They’re making good money at the moment, but that doesn’t mean they can afford to have an entire kitchen replaced. Tommy pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache he feels forming.
“How did it even get this far?” he asks. “Did John wash the furniture in oil before setting a match to it?”
“How would I know?” Esme snaps back. “I was gone.”
“Gone for half the day by the looks of it.” Tommy reaches out to touch the blackened wood that used to be the counter, then shakes his head. “I guess this means no more homecooked meals for a while then.”
It’s a good thing he didn’t even bother taking off his coat, because the next stop is the Garrison. “Not that you ever eat any of them anyway” Esme calls after him, but he’s too far away to make a reply necessary.
At the bar, Tommy spends thirty minutes yelling at Arthur for being so quick to draw his gun, and then another half hour yelling at John for not stopping him, and then it’s time to both reassure the coppers and get the victim’s uncles not to stab Arthur in the stomach. One Shelby knife wound is enough for the day, he reckons, reminded again of the still unattended injury. It hasn’t bothered him in quite a bit, which isn’t exactly a good sign seeing as his entire left arm is numb by now, but it’s not like Tommy can just tell everyone to stop fighting for five minutes so he can take a quiet moment and examine how much damage has been done.
At one point Isaiah turns up, rather sheepish it seems, but clearly he followed Tommy’s order and got his wrist seen to. On some level Tommy is aware that he’s being a hypocrite. It’s different though, he thinks to himself. Isaiah is, what, 15 years younger? Practically a child.
It’s important that he learns how to take care of himself, that he knows not to ignore injuries or else they will only get worse.
If Tommy were adept at following his own advice, he’d presumably have had more successful long-term relationships.
Speaking of which – he really will have to call Alfie at some point. It’s been about two weeks since Tommy was last in London, and usually they’d have talked on the phone by now. The only reason they haven’t is that they both seem to be constantly busy. Still. Tommy feels like he should make the effort.
Soon, though, this thought gets banished to the back of his mind since there are other matters that demand his attention. The whole ‘keep Arthur out of jail’ operation takes all day, and by the time evening rolls around, Tommy is more exhausted than he’s been in years, more than he has any right to be.
He falls asleep immediately, which is another surprise, as he’s used to turning and tossing for ages before he can finally settle down. It’s something that annoys Alfie to great lengths, but it’s not like there’s anything Tommy can do about it. Tonight, though, sleeps overcomes him within seconds of his head hitting the pillow. And yet, when he wakes up in the morning, he feels worse than before.
The numbness is gone from his arm, replaced by a burning pain that brings tears to his eyes. He slept in his street clothes, having been too tired to get undressed yesterday, and he sorely regrets that decision now as he removes his shirt and finds that it rips open the wound all over again. Shit.
He barely has enough time to wash himself, carefully avoiding getting any soap near the cut, before some yelling comes from downstairs. Undoubtedly the next family drama has already started, so Tommy grits his teeth and joins the others in their shouting match.
He doesn’t call Alfie that day either.
The next day, he tries to get out of bed and is hit by a wave of dizziness that has him sitting back down. It’s gone as quickly as it arrived, so he doesn’t give it another thought. When he was a teenager, Tommy suffered from low blood pressure and fainted more than once, so he’s no stranger to this unsteady feeling that comes from standing up too quickly.
It’s no big deal, only a tad annoying. He still gets it when he forgets to eat for a couple of days, which is less often nowadays. Today is, apparently, one of those times. What was the last meal he ate? He can’t recall, so he puts ‘eat something’ on his To-Do-List for the day.
Tommy cuts himself shaving that morning, another thing that hasn’t happened in a while. Ages, actually. His hands shake ever so slightly as they hold the razor. What was on his agenda again? Did he just have a thought about that? He can’t recall, so it couldn’t have been important.
He does end up eating a slice of bread. The phone stays untouched.
On Thursday, three days after the attack in the alley, Tommy is freezing. There must be something wrong with his window, he thinks. He’ll get it fixed soon, it’s a miracle there is no frost forming yet.
He dresses in more layers than usual, which does absolutely nothing to warm him, goes into his office to finish some paperwork he left for too long, and the next time he becomes aware of his environment again, the late afternoon sun is shining through the windows. He must have missed the entire day just sitting at his desk and, what? Staring into the distance? Napping?
At least his shoulder is numb once more. His headache is already bad enough, he doesn’t need more pain.
Why is it so cold here too? Has Birmingham gone back to the ice age? Or does no one here know how to fucking heat properly?
Tommy stands up to find someone to shout at for the cold, only to notice that he can’t get up. His legs won’t work properly somehow. It’s cold, too, he thinks. Why is it so cold in here?
Maybe he’ll just sleep for a while. If anyone needs something, they’ll come looking for him, he knows, so he isn’t in danger of missing anything important. He’ll just sleep for a little bit. Isn’t it kinda cold in here?
The next time he wakes up, Alfie Solomons is saying his name.
**
Alfie hasn’t heard from Tommy in nearly two weeks. He tells himself that it’s fine, Tommy is just busy, but immediately images from their first meeting spring into his mind, and he can’t help but wonder if something bad is going on that Tommy doesn’t want him knowing about. Seems likely, that. Seems just as likely that Tommy just forgot though.
One way to find out. He leaves Ollie in charge of the bakery and drives to Birmingham, where he hopes to find his boyfriend nothing but overworked and slightly annoyed that Alfie questioned him.
Well, if Tommy wants to avoid unannounced visits like this one, he should start answering his goddamn phone every once in a while, shouldn’t he? Maybe then Alfie wouldn’t have to go to Small Heath, of all the miserable places, and track down someone who might know Tommy’s whereabouts.
As it turns out, no one knows. Alfie runs into both John and Arthur Shelby, and neither has any idea whatsoever where Tommy might be.
“You’re telling me, right, that you don’t even know the last time you saw your own brother? The man who lives in the same house as you and runs the family business? And you don’t even fucking know when you saw him last?” Alfie’s voice is rising, and he lets it. John and Arthur exchange vaguely uncomfortable looks before Arthur says:
“Why do you want to know, anyway? Don’t tell me you can’t get a good fuck elsewhere.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that, mate” Alfie says pleasantly. “Because if you did say that, then I’d have to fucking shoot you, wouldn’t I? And I don’t think Tommy would be very pleased with me then. But to not be pleased with me, he’d have to be here first, wouldn’t he, mate, which naturally brings us back to my original question of where the fuck he is.”
“You could try the office”, John offers. He puts a hand on Arthur’s chest in a placating gesture, and since Arthur hasn’t punched anyone yet, it seems to be working.
“Why, thank you so much for your cooperation.” Alfie leaves them to their own devices and goes to follow John’s reluctant suggestion.
It’s somewhat of a surprise that John was right. What’s more of a surprise though is the state Alfie finds Tommy in: slumped over in his chair, even paler than usual, his shirt drenched with sweat. A quick touch to the forehead tells him what he already suspected, Tommy is burning up. “Fucking hell” Alfie mutters. “Tommy? Tommy! For fuck’s sake, wake up.”
And Tommy does – wake up, that is. He opens his eyes to stare straight back at Alfie, and fuck if that’s not the most beautiful sight Alfie has ever seen.
“Alfie?”
“That’s right” Alfie says, fighting to keep his temper under control. Tommy doesn’t need him lashing out right now.
“You’re not…why aren’t you in London?” Tommy’s speech is slightly slurred as he struggles to get the words out.
“Figured it’s been way too long since we saw each other. Let’s get you home, eh? Can you get up?”
Despite the nod that follows that question, it’s painfully obvious that there is no way Tommy is getting out of that chair on his own.
The great thing about the Shelby Company Limited, or whatever they’re calling themselves these days, is that it’s located right next to Tommy’s house, even equipped with a not-so-secret passage and all.
It means that there is even less of an excuse for Tommy’s family not to have noticed Tommy’s ailment, but right now, it perfectly suits Alfie, since he is able to carry Tommy into bed without putting too much pressure on his back. It takes less than five minutes, during which they blessedly haven’t run into anyone who might ask questions.
Alfie has never been great at taking care of people, has, in fact, a history of steering clear of all family members and employees who show even the slightest sign of illness; not because he is afraid of getting sick himself but because he literally does not know how to deal with it. He doesn’t have much of a choice at the moment though. Because Tommy is his lover, and also because there is no one else to do the job.
(Why isn’t there anyone else to do the job? What point is there to having more siblings than a fucking puppy if none of them stick around to notice you have a fever?)
Until now, he was sure that this is a normal fever – until he touches Tommy’s shoulder to get him to focus again, and Tommy winces.
A man who has been shot, stabbed, burned and, on one memorable occasion, hit over the head with a bottle of rum (an effective way of ruining booze for him forever), Alfie recognises when people are injured. Tommy clearly is, so he decides to just go down the easiest route and cuts open Tommy’s shirt to get quicker access to whatever is causing him pain.
And there it is now, laid out before him like a present of the worst kind, a cut that might not even be that deep but obviously got infected. Yellow pus is covering it, and the area around it is red and inflamed. Alfie curses again, which is all he allows himself to do before getting to work.
He briefly considers asking Tommy if they keep any antiseptics in the house, but his lover doesn’t look very coherent right now, muttering softly under his breath with a heated flush still grazing his cheeks. The fever is an issue, but first the wound has to be cleaned.
“I’ll be right back” Alfie says, not that Tommy appears to hear him, and goes downstairs to either find the necessary supplies himself, or get someone to do it for him.
The kitchen, as it turns out, is of no use. For some reason it’s burned to a crisp, and Alfie finds that he really, really doesn’t want to know, so he leaves it be and opens a few cupboards in what passes as a living room in this shitty house.
The click of a gun being uncocked stops him in his tracks. “What do you think you’re doing?” Polly Grey asks.
“You see, I really wasn’t sure if maybe your family hadn’t all either been turned braindead or left the country, so you could say I’m over the fucking moon to see you. Maybe you can even tell me where you keep the iodine.”
Polly knows about him and Tommy, and it must be that knowledge that has her tucking the pistol away into the folds of her dress. Her suspicious glare doesn’t fade, though. “Why?”
Alfie is glad she asked. “Because your nephew, right, is upstairs, and it seems that not a single member of his family would even notice if he was dying. Which he won’t, if you would ever so kindly answer my question.”
“Don’t be ridiculous” Polly says, even as she starts rummaging about a small cabinet Alfie didn’t even see. “Thomas enjoys the attention. I’m frankly surprised you haven’t noticed.”
She hands him a bottle that must be the iodine he asked for, followed by some cotton and another bottle that’s labelled aspirin. He’s suddenly glad that his hands are full, because otherwise, he might have done something he’d almost certainly regret, especially when Polly continues: “You can take that to him, but I wouldn’t be too sure that he needs it. Now excuse me, I have to go see my son.”
Telling himself that it wouldn’t solve any problems to hit a member of Tommy’s family, he returns to the only Shelby he actually likes.
From this point on, it’s easy and nothing Alfie hasn’t done before. He cleans out the wound, then adds more antiseptic to a cloth and uses it to cover the cut. It’ll need to be changed, but not for a few hours. If the fever hasn’t gone down by then, they’ll have to think of something.
For the moment though, this, too, can wait, so Alfie settles down next to Tommy. He kisses Tommy on the forehead, taking advantage of the fact that his partner isn’t actually conscious enough to complain about the beard tickling him, and then he spends the rest of the night keeping watch.
He technically knows that no threat will enter the bedroom, but that doesn’t stop him from tensing every time he hears footsteps on the stairs. But no one comes and nothing disturbs Tommy’s sleep, which has finally passed from a feverish tossing and turning to a steady and calm state of dreamlessness. And so Alfie, too, falls asleep eventually.
Three things happen on that clear November evening: Ava’s son says his second word, John gets into a small shooting that he wins and gets out unscathed, and Alfie does something Tommy rarely allows when fully conscious, which is to take care of him.