Chapter Text
“Shut the fucking door, eh?”
Every time he looks at his little brother, Arthur swears he hears those words again, the last coherent thing Tommy said. He knows, knows from the way they don’t leave him alone with his brother, that everyone else remembers, too, Tommy’s small body crumpled on the floor, the blood staining Arthur’s hands when he ran for help. He never meant to hurt him, never meant to hurt that boy in the boxing ring, he just felt the fiery rage and then the boy was dead, his baby brother was on the floor, his hands were wet with blood.
It was a miracle he hadn’t died, the doctor said, but Arthur wished he had, knew Tommy would have preferred it that way. Now, people whisper in the streets when Arthur passes, did you hear, did you hear he cracked his brother’s skull open, against the fireplace? Polly took over, that’s right, the aunt- I heard he can’t hardly speak anymore, can’t even hold a pen, and he was always so smart…
Polly won’t speak to him. Arthur’s tried, tried for nearly two years, but she still hasn’t said a word, ushers Tommy away if Arthur approaches them.
“Arthur,” Tommy slurs, reaching towards him as he enters the kitchen, and Polly hushes him, takes his arm and pulls him back to the counter.
“Help me peel the carrots, love. Help your Aunt Polly cook, yes?”
“A-Arthur,” Tommy repeats, blue eyes wide, lips twitching upwards as he tries to pull away, and Arthur sees the look on Polly’s face, leaves without a backward glance. Behind him, Tommy cries out, and Arthur runs outside so he can’t feel the guilt washing over him.
When Polly’s busy with the business, that’s when Arthur sees Tommy. Never unsupervised, always accompanied by Finn or John, Lizzie hovering protectively behind Tommy- she’s developed an almost maternal instinct towards him, and Arthur doesn’t know if he wants to kill her or himself when she looks at him like he’s dangerous.
“What’re you getting yourself up to, then?” he asks Tommy gently.
“A-A-Arthur,” Tommy responds, grinning, trembling hand grabbing his brother’s shirt. Lizzie pulls his hand back, very gently.
“It’s alright,” Arthur says quickly.
“No, no, that’s fine,” she insists carefully. “Hands to yourself, poppet.”
“Been a while since we talked, eh?” Arthur asks. They’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Lizzie keeping a hand on Tommy’s shoulder and pulling him back when he leans closer to Arthur. Tommy just hums tonelessly, still reaching for Arthur, who shoots Lizzie a look. “I won’t hurt him, alright? You can let him get closer.”
“Maybe not,” John says cautiously. “Just- let’s wait a while, huh?”
Tommy is still trying to squirm closer to Arthur, but he’s weak and docile as a kitten now, easily restrained by Lizzie’s gentle hand. “Arthur,” he whines, turning to look up at her pleadingly. Lizzie shakes her head, bends down to whisper something to him, and finally sits behind him, pulls him onto her lap and keeps her arms around his waist.
“Fine, then,” Arthur mutters. “What are you doing with yourself lately, Tommy?”
Tommy just blinks at him, and Arthur remembers looking into those blue, blue eyes and just knowing something was racing through Tommy’s mind, some idea, some plan, but now they’re dull, glazed over and confused all too often. He looks confused now, lips moving soundlessly as drool runs down his chin, eyes darting from Arthur to John, the latter of whom steps forward to wipe his mouth, smile gently. Tommy smiles back with an innocence Arthur doesn’t recognize.
“What did you do today, huh?” he asks, louder, slow, clear.
“We went to see the horses, didn’t we?” Lizzie prompts, bouncing her knee slightly and making Tommy laugh. “Did you like that? Did you like seeing the horses?”
“Yes,” Tommy responds eagerly. He keeps talking, but his words devolve into slurred nonsense, and Arthur’s face falls. All their lives, Tommy had a silver tongue, getting them out of trouble, talking his way into deals, charming every woman he met- charming some men, too, Arthur heard the rumors his brother tried so hard to silence- always persuasive, smooth, smarter than everyone around him. Now John and Lizzie nod indulgently as Tommy babbles meaninglessly at them, and Arthur hears it again, that awful crunch of bone when he hit Tommy’s head against the fireplace, when he did it a second time, a third, a fourth, until the broken whimper snapped him back to himself.
“That- that’s lovely, isn’t it?” Arthur asks nervously when Tommy seems to be done speaking. His brother beams, reaches out to him again, and he shoots Lizzie a desperate, pleading look. “I’ll be gentle with him,” Arthur begs softly. Finally, Lizzie moves over, keeps Tommy on her lap but lets him grab Arthur’s hand.
“I didn’t mean to,” Arthur whispers to Finn that night. “Really, Finn, I swear, I didn’t…”
“You hit him more’n once, didn’t you?” Finn mutters. He’s the only one, other than Polly, who refuses to mince words around Arthur. “You broke his fucking head.”
“It wasn’t- I didn’t- I just blacked out.”
“Guess we know you’ll never do it again, at least,” Finn says with a shrug, a sneering bitterness imbuing his voice as he gets to his feet. “You hit Tommy ‘cause he said something to piss you off, yeah? He damn sure won’t be doing that again. Can’t even string two fucking words together.”
A week later, Arthur’s alone with John and Tommy, nodding patiently as Tommy points to each toy horse Polly’s given him in turn, mumbles something incoherent. There are dozens of them, beautiful little wooden horses that Tommy lines up carefully; Polly buys every toy horse she sees, it seems like, brings home a new one every week. And then there are the stuffed toys Ada brings, teddy bears and rabbits and, once, a horse.
Arthur was there when she brought it, heard her tell Polly he was going to love it, snuck to the kitchen doorway to watch her give it to Tommy, who had thrown his arms around Ada, laughing with delight. He carries it around with him, the little horse, has it in his arms now as he proudly shows the others off to Arthur.
“Lovely, yeah. Really lovely,” Arthur says after each one. It’s all fine until Polly returns from the city- she’s insisted Lizzie and Tommy move to her neighborhood house, further from the crowds, from danger, from mockery. John took Tommy to the Garrison, once, when he was still trying to pretend everything was fine, held his hand and sat next to him, and he told Arthur afterwards he wanted to kill them, all the bastards who sneered at them, ruffled Tommy’s hair and asked questions he couldn’t answer.
“Tommy?” Arthur freezes when her voice rings through the house- he’s allowed to visit, but she hates to see him, acts like he’s committing a crime by visiting his baby brother.
“Auntie,” Tommy says at once, hurrying down to meet her. John and Arthur follow him downstairs, and when Polly meets Arthur’s eyes she just points at the door before turning her attention to Tommy, who clings to her and nuzzles his face into her neck.
“He can stay the night, can’t he?” John cajoles. Polly’s lips set in a thin line.
“Tommy, you sleep with me tonight,” she decides, rubbing his back.
Arthur knows when he’s not wanted, knows he hasn’t been wanted in this house for years, so he makes himself scarce until dinner, when John clears his throat.
“Pol, hey, we were thinking, you know we take Tommy to the stables?” Tommy perks up at the word stables, stops trying to eat (he’s spilling food all down his front- Lizzie spoonfeeds him, sometimes, but she always lets him try on his own first), and Polly nods cautiously. “We were thinking, Charlie and I, that maybe he could help Curly out-”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh, c’mon. You drive into town damn near every day anyw-”
“Not with Tommy, I don’t. He doesn’t do well in the car. You take him out there a few times a month, that’s enough excitement.”
“Isn’t it good for him to do something? Some sort of skill?”
“He helps Lizzie sew,” Polly says firmly. “He can mend little tears now, can’t you, Tommy?” Tommy just blinks at her, and Polly mimes sewing. “Mending holes with a needle, like Lizzie taught you?”
“Mm-hm,” Tommy agrees after a minute. Arthur has seen his attempts at mending and isn’t sure it qualifies as a skill; if anything, he usually makes the hole worse, but he doesn’t say anything.
“There, see? No, I’ll not have him down at the shipyard by himself.”
“Charlie would-”
“No.”
“Curly manages alright, doesn’t he?”
“Curly can speak in full sentences,” Polly snaps. “Curly’s slow, not fucking retarded. Take Tommy to pet the horses and braid their manes, and leave it at that. Eat your food, dear,” she adds in a gentler tone when she notices Tommy’s still staring at her.
Silence falls for a minute, broken only by Lizzie taking the spoon from Tommy’s shaking hand with a murmured “let me help” and Arthur feels eyes on him, accusing eyes. It’s the first time Polly’s let him stay for dinner, and he wonders if John talked to her before he came over.
“He’d only be brushing them. The horses,” John mutters. “Nothing dangerous.”
“It’s not about the bloody horses, it’s about him being in the shipyard with just Charlie and Curly. There are people who still want to hurt him,” Polly hisses.
“We won’t leave him alone, Pol, d’you think we’re idiots? There’ll be guards-”
“Oh, because that’s not suspicious at all. John, for the last time, absolutely not.”
“You want to work with Curly and the horses, don’t you, Tom?” John asks Tommy directly, waving to get his attention, and Tommy nods slowly once he’s worked out the question, mumbles something that sounds vaguely like “horses”.
“No, poppet, it’s not safe,” Polly says gently. “You go see the horses with your brothers, that’s all.”
“Might be good for him,” Arthur blurts out, and everyone freezes, turns to stare at him. John and Lizzie look shocked, Tommy smiles like he’s just remembered Arthur’s there, and Polly’s jaw clenches.
“And why,” she says, softly, slowly, “why, Arthur, do you think you know a damn thing about what’s good for Tommy?”
“I just- I dunno, Pol. Sorry. Forget I-”
“What would have been good for him was keeping his head intact,” Polly snarls. “The man who bashed his brother’s fucking skull in doesn’t get a say in what that brother does now that he can’t fucking talk, can’t feed himself, doesn’t know where he bloody is when he wakes up screaming every night- did you know that, Arthur? Nightmares from the war, but he doesn’t understand, just cries for hours on end, we can’t fucking calm him! How dare you come into my house and tell me what to do for Tommy, when you’re the reason he’s bloody like this? I’d tell you to come watch him for a day, come try to figure out what he’s crying for and clean him up when he pisses himself, but you’d fucking kill him!”
“Polly-” John cuts in, and Polly shoots him such a withering look that he shuts up instantly.
“You would! You bloody well would kill him, finish off what you started!”
“I didn’t mean-”
“You didn’t mean what? Didn’t mean to hold him down and hit his head against the fireplace? You hit him, Arthur, you threw him down, and you held him there, and you hit his head- what, four times? Five? Bash your brother’s fucking skull in, then come here and tell me you didn’t fucking mean it!” She turns to Tommy, who’s staring up at her fearfully, twisting his hands in his shirt and whimpering. “Tommy, love. Talk to Arthur,” Polly says gently. “Talk to Arthur, here.”
“A-Arthur,” Tommy slurs, and Polly nods.
“Tell Arthur how glad you are to see him,” she encourages. Arthur’s stomach twists, and John tries to say something, but Polly glares at him, silences him. When Tommy just stammers, mumbles nonsense and looks from Arthur to Polly, she bites her lip and presses again, “Go on, treacle, tell Arthur you’re glad to see him. Repeat after me, yeah? ‘I’m glad to see you, Arthur’.”
“I- I- I- mmm- I- Ar-thur?”
“‘I’m glad to see you, Arthur.’” There are tears welling in Polly’s eyes, her voice trembles, but she still presses on.
“I- I- I-” Tommy reaches up and pulls at his hair with one hand, that awful expression crossing his pretty face, the one he always gets when he knows there’s something he can’t understand, something he’s missing, something he used to get but just doesn’t anymore.
“‘I’m glad to-’”
Tommy shrieks suddenly, sweeps his plate off the table and pulls his legs to his chest, curling into a ball to get away from the eyes on him, and Arthur watches his brother’s shoulders shake with sobs, watches Lizzie get up, rub his back and hush him, try to get him to uncurl.
“Well,” Polly whispers, standing up straight. “Well, then.”
“I’m sorry, Pol,” Arthur says weakly, stupidly. Her eyes flash, and he knows it was the wrong thing to say.
“Sorry! You’re fucking sorry, tell him you’re sorry! D’you hear that, Tommy, your brother’s sorry! If you looked him in the eyes and apologized, he wouldn’t fucking understand, do you realize that, Arthur? He wouldn’t have a goddamn idea what you said! You come here, you come here and pretend this was some kind of accident, like he just fucking fell against the fireplace, like you didn’t-!”
“Polly, please, he’s getting hysterical,” Lizzie interrupts. And, indeed, Tommy is crying louder and louder, won’t move from his position.
“Look at him, Arthur,” Polly hisses. “Look at what you did to your baby brother.”