Chapter Text
Bloody hell.
A pulsing pain runs across his forehead. His neck aches, and his eyes burn. He hasn’t felt the sweet relief of sleep in weeks. Only a plot of dirt six feet under could offer any comfort. Oh, to be free of all the ailments of the world. A man like him could only dream. The familiar burn of whiskey runs down his throat, as he places the empty glass on the table. He signals for another glass.
The man's sharp blue eyes follow as the bartender pours more of the amber liquid. He squints under the harsh lights of the bar. He knows he’s already gone through half a bottle. It would’ve been easier to drink straight from the bottle. He’s not fooling anyone but himself. He’ll be cursing the morning when it comes.
Another morning alone. Only a fragment of his heart remains, the rest is a barren wasteland. The embers of past pains settled in his chest, never able to be put out. Every blonde strand discovered in his bed reignites the pain. He used to see her only in his dreams. Now every hour of the day is plagued by her memory.
The man lifts the glass to his lips, his hand shaking the entire way up. A drop runs down his chin, eventually landing on his shirt. He mutters a curse under his breath. He's seen a whole day’s worth of patrons come and go. Maybe he should finally take his leave.
He stares at the glass one last time. It wouldn't hurt to finish the drink. Besides, he should always finish a meal. He reaches for the glass, but the patron next to him tipsily knocks it over. He only sighs as he hears the glass shatter on the floor.
Quickly, he tosses on his jacket and cap. Reaching for the door, the man hesitates. For once, he’s scared of what the outside holds for him. Though, he preserves, feeling the rush of the cold night air. He should've checked the clock before he left. Only God knows what hour of the night it is.
He stares up at the sky, a buried part of him begging to see a sign. His prayer is interrupted as a drop of rain falls on his face. The man curses once more at the sky, knowing there is no one there to hear him. If there was, maybe he could've been spared all the afflictions of his life.
The man leans against a wall in the alleyway, digging for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. The rain falls faster making him wish he picked a spot with cover. The man fumbles with the box until he finally holds one between his fingers. He reaches for his lighter belonging in the same pocket. He struggles to grab a hold of them as all its contents fall on the asphalt.
Desperate for a light, he picks up the drenched box. He flicks on the lighter, hearing the sizzle from the raindrops falling on it. He puts the end in the flame, but he knows it's futile. The man clenches his fist, the box easily crumpling. He sinks to the ground, removing his hat and running his fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes, letting the rain cool him down.
He should be scolding himself for this. He's not a drunk. That's supposed to be his brother, not him. He should be better than this, better than wallowing in the rain. Instead, he's desperate, wishing someone would pick up the pieces and glue them together again. It was done once. Surely it could be done again, but maybe he's finally reached a state of disrepair.
The man tugs his cap back on, almost covering his eyes. He pays no attention to the footsteps passing by. Only the sound of the rainstorm fills his ears. It's the type to wash the sadness off the backs and out of the eyes of men, but not him, not the cursed man. He's certain a few have stopped to stare at his sorry state. He huffs before placing a hand on the wall to support himself. He tries to stand and slips in the downpour, but a hand catches him before he can fall.
~~~
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re what our company is looking for. However, thank you for taking the time to apply. ” The interviewer says, placing your papers in what you’re sure is the “Rejected” pile.
“Ah, quite the shame, but I understand. Thank you for the opportunity,” you reply, trying to sound unaffected.
“Please don’t be discouraged. I’m sure you’ll find the perfect place somewhere out there. We will contact you if we ever find a position that may fit.”
You wonder how many other applicants have heard that before.
“Do be careful on your way home. I hope you have an umbrella. I heard it’s supposed to storm later on. ”
“Oh, I’ll be alright. I live just down the street. Thank you again,” you say, making your way to the door, suitcase in hand. You eye an umbrella standing near the doorway. No one's looking in your direction, and it's not like you'll ever be back. Quickly, you snag an umbrella and step into the street.
Suitcase logged between your side and your arm, you run a hand across your face and sigh. The third job opportunity this month, and the third rejection in a row. You curse under your breath. It feels almost impossible how you’ll scrounge up enough money to pay the bills. Maybe you could earn a few by selling the suitcase. Certainly, there are other odds and ends you could sell for a quick quid or two.
You look around, realizing where you’ve taken yourself. You can hear the chatter and bustling whilst you stand outside. What better way for the unemployed to spend their time than at the bar? The obvious choice is to go home and save your money, but a drink sounds quite pleasant right about now. You step inside the Garrison, quickly searching for an open spot at the bar. After ordering a drink, you find yourself in a nice secluded spot in the corner. Time to drink to your miseries.
To failed interviews and failed futures. Cheers. You browse the local patrons, a few way too posh for this establishment. You spot one at the bar with his back turned. Tsk. What do they think they're doing here with their designer suits and coats? Don't they have cellars filled with the finest wines with butlers and maids to serve them? They live with their pools of wealth, while you scavenge for your fair share. You don't even want to think of ladder climbers there might be. You'd just make your own night worse.
A few empty glasses fill the table as coins leave your pockets. Plink. Plink. A coin falls on the floor as you attempt to toss a couple of pence into the empty drinks. Plink. A coin finally lands in a cup. You lean back in your chair, reveling in your only achievement of the night. That’s the most rewarding you’ve felt all night. Soon you're eyes hit the empty cups you've been collecting through the night.
You take it as your sign to leave. Heading back to the bar, you grab one more shot for the road. Reaching for the drink, your elbow knocks into another’s glass. “Shit, I’m really sorry I-” You look around, but you fail to find the drink’s owner. You down the shot and make your way to the door.
Well, fuck. It really is pouring. Luckily, the umbrella you left at the door hasn't been stolen. You step outside, and the wind tugs viciously at your only coverings. God really is testing your limits, today. As the rain still soaks through your shirt, you cringe at the cold.
Shit, where are you even? It's hard enough finding your way in the dark, and the torrential downpour isn't helping. Oh, you've definitely taken a wrong turn. You turn your head, trying to remember your steps. Quickly, you run through an alleyway, praying it's the right path.
Luckily, you've finally found your own front door. Looking around, you spot a poor bloke sitting on the road. You're glad you're not in his position, but for all you know, that could be you in a few months. The man tries to stand up but stumbles in the process.
You run over, managing to catch his arm before he falls. “Oi, you alright?”
The man quickly pulls his arm away from your grasp. He looks at you, cold blue eyes boring into you.
Oh, fuck.
Staring at you is Tommy fucking Shelby. What's a man like him doing out in this weather? He's ruined that coat with rain, but you're sure he can buy ten more with his blood money. You want to scoff at him, but you're like a deer in headlights. You'd rather not get on the wrong side of Birmingham's most infamous man. You could pretend you don’t know him, but it’s simply unrealistic. You sigh, cussing out whatever god exists.
“Listen, my house is just over there. We can share my umbrella,” you offer, your knuckles turning white from your grip on it.
He simply looks at you again.
Jesus fucking Christ , say something at least. You feel like the grim reaper’s contemplating your fate.
“No thank you. I'll pass.”
A sweet sigh of relief escapes your lips as the standstill finally ends. At least he has some manners.
“Suite yourself then,” you reply, eager to get away from everything. You hop inside your house, quickly taking off your water-ridden clothes. You wrap yourself in a towel before lighting the fireplace. Carefully, your clothes lay near the fire. Heading upstairs, you dig through your wardrobe for fresh clothes.
You know, a nice cup of tea doesn't sound too bad either. You go back down, turning on a hob. You get comfortable by the fire as you wait for the water to boil. The sound of rain soothes you, but the storm grows louder. The curious part of you drags you to your window. You peek through the curtains, immediately rolling your eyes at the scene in front of you.
Reluctantly, you toss on a new jacket and grab the umbrella by the door. You're back out in the rain as you approach the gangster standing in the middle of the rain.
“You're gonna catch a cold if you stay out here any longer,” you say, putting the umbrella over the pair of you.
No response.
“It’s late, and I don't think the storm is gonna clear up any time soon. I've got a fire lit inside.”
Finally, he breaks eye contact, and you realize you've been holding your breath the entire time. Tommy looks at his watch way too long to be checking the time. “If you'll have me.”
You walk in silence, trying to match his pace. “Not a man of many words I see,” you mutter under your breath. Lucky for you, it's only a short distance. You open your front door, only for your umbrella to fly out of your hand. In any other situation, you'd be cursing out a storm, but you've got company. “Well…feel free to lay out some of your clothes near the fire. I'll fetch some towels upstairs.”
Tommy takes in the new environment as you walk up the staircase. Small. Quaint. Comfortable. A house made for one person. He doesn't feel there are ghosts at every corner, no harrowing hallways to bring up past hauntings. He takes off his cap and jacket, placing them next to yours. His fingers trail over the threads of your coat.
The gang leader’s met many strange characters before, but he hasn’t met someone like you in a while. He could’ve weighed his chances more. It wouldn’t be a surprise if you’d lured him to his untimely death. Sure, he’s capable of saving himself from the situation, but instead, he hopes for your blissful ignorance. Tommy unbuttons his shirt, unaware of the creaking stairs behind him.
Walking down the stairs, you almost miss the last step, your eyes catching Tommy taking off his dress shirt. His head snaps towards your direction, and you pray he didn’t catch you staring.
“The bathroom’s upstairs and dead ahead if you wanna freshen up. Also,” you remember, “I’ve got tea if you want any.”
“You got any… actually, tea’ll be fine,” he replies, taking the towel from you. Tommy disappears upstairs, as you make your way to the kitchen.
You turn off the hob, pouring the water into a teapot. You grab two cups and brace yourself against the counter. What have you gotten yourself into? You're hosting what's practically a death omen in your own home. You'd have a better chance of survival playing Russian roulette. Your eyes widen at what should've been obvious. There's only one room….
One room .
You slide to the floor, and you let out a heavy groan. No, you are not going to let this get the best of you. There is an obvious solution here. He will take the bed, and you will take the couch. You'll usher him to your room before he has the chance to question anything.
Well shit. You've got to run upstairs to grab items for your makeshift bed then. You run upstairs, hoping Tommy's still in the bathroom. With blankets and pillows in hand, you try to make the couch as cozy as possible. You're bringing over the teapot as you hear Tommy going down the stairs.
“Tea's just over here,” you say softly, putting out a few of the lights. You seat yourself on one side of the couch and pour out the tea.
Tommy sits on the opposite side of the couch and takes the tea from the table.
You wrap yourself in a blanket and prop a pillow behind you. You should probably show him where his room is but- yawn . You fight to start awake, but your eyelids start to droop. Shame. You didn't even get to drink your tea. You sink into the couch, forfeiting your fight.
He should really take his leave. You were just a poor bloke who got caught up in a whirlwind. Tommy's certain now you've been kind, no ulterior motives for once. He didn't know how to take the annoyance in your early demeanor, but it was new. There was no fear, more annoyance if anything. Instead, he was a simple inconvenience. It almost humored him. Even if he hasn't become your problem yet, he doesn't want to risk dragging you into his.
Tommy swirls the tea like he would with a spirit. He doesn't remember the last time he opted for something non-alcoholic. He doesn't remember the last time he sat down in peaceful silence. Tommy turns to you, almost smiling when he sees your sleeping form. He places down the full tea cup, careful not to make a sound.
He checks on his clothes near the fire. They seem dry enough. He looks through the window, seeing that the storm has let up. Tommy gathers his clothes and dresses himself. He reaches for the doorknob but finds himself hesitating. It's not out of character to leave without a word, but he finds himself regretting it as he steps outside.