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i will ask for an orange
you will peal one for me
and your hands will burn
but i will know that i’m loved
The room is too fucking cold for his liking. Alfie sniffs and rubs his nose with the cuff of his sleeping shirt. Coughs too, and even if it’s not as bad as it was just a couple of days ago, when he barely could squeeze a word out of his sore throat, Tommy still looks at him with this odd scrutiny Alfie can’t quite place.
They’re past the stage of a strange dialogue, more of an argument, really, about how Tommy absolutely should not play his personal nurse, even if Alfie’s brain is overheating with a fever. All the complaints Alfie listed fell on deaf ears, of fucking course. What else one can expect from Tommy Shelby.
When Alfie really concentrates on those nights when he was certain he’s about to meet his end, sweating and burning in his bedsheets, the strange image appears in his memory - Tommy’s eyes watery and glistening in the orange light of his bedside lamp, gentle hand wiping away the sweat from his forehead, followed by a long and soft press of the lips, where the towel just was - “Idiot,” Alfie mutters then, “probably contagious."
Can’t be sure if he dreamed it but the image of a worried frown between Tommy’s brows and the way he squeezed his hand still haunts him now, when he’s getting better.
“Do you need anything?” Tommy asks, shaking his leg as he flips the page of the newspaper - a luxury no one else gets to see, Alfie's certain, and everyone who saw him showing that level of nervousness were probably shot in place. The tone of his voice is, however, annoyed, like he’s too busy exposing his anxiety and - at the same time hiding it with a task in hand - to bother, get up and do whatever Alfie might ask him to do.
It’s good that Alfie knows how to play this game.
“Yeah, you know, I was just thinking-“ Alfie croaks.
“Well, that never ended well,” Tommy interrupts him, borderline lazy, as his leg continues to give him up. Up and down, up and down, with a mad speed, accompanied by the rustle of his trousers and a soft knocking of his boots. Almost like a tune, precise and never off beat.
Alfie swallows the pile of sickness that flows down the back of his throat, letting the comment slide.
“Oranges,” he says, nodding at his own idea.
The beat misfires, stops at its track. Tommy looks at him over the edge of the newspaper, bewildered, and Alfie is quick to catch another odd emotion he can’t quite stick to the situation.
“Oranges?” Tommy presses like the bare idea of the nice delicious fruit akin to going outside naked just after taking a bath in the middle of January - a pure madness.
“Yes, Tommy, dear, oranges. Would you mind purchasing some?” Alfie deadpans. “I am, it happened, very fond of them. Besides,” he points his finger in the air, “it’s good for a sick person. And I am, as you noticed, well, sick.”
Tommy rolls his eyes but stands up, rolls his paper into a tube and tosses it on Alfie’s lap - it immediately unfolds and he’s met with a black and white portrait of the king.
“You’re sick on the head, Alfie,” Tommy says but leans closer and presses his lips to Alfie’s temple in a form of a goodbye - another luxury Alfie seems to be spoiled with only because of his unfortunate position.
“It’s not like you’re better,” Alfie mutters when Tommy’s already at the door, putting on his suit jacket as he goes.
Alfie rubs that kissed spot, imagining it being another spell Tommy put on him and how its magical power spreads on his head, curing the headache that was only amplified by Tommy’s nervous uneasiness.
He might doze off a little and when he opens his eyes again everything is blurry, and he rubs them, listening to the silence, but the mind fog is determined to stay. Tommy’s chair that he moved to the bedside is empty, and Alfie slowly remembers that he sent him off to do some shopping. A good idea, that, he thinks, swallowing the taste of sickness. He needs to eat something that would definitely overthrow this terrible taste of death in his mouth.
He puts his legs on the floor, notes the wool socks he absolutely did not put on himself and isn’t even sure he even had or seen before. He grips his cane that was left leaning on the nightstand and cuddles himself in a robe. The world is spinning but there’s no way he’s spending the day in bed again, like a sick Victorian child wasting away from plague.
He needs some tea and the next thing he realises is that he’s holding a pot full of leaves as the water in the kettle is furiously boiling, signalling him to put it down. Strange, he thinks, he was just staring at his socks that aren't really his, but now, when he’s the one who’s wearing them he can call them his own. Right? Maybe he should talk with Tommy about that, his stoic silent demeanour usually helps him to settle with the right opinion. Only Tommy, for some reason, isn’t here.
Right. He asked him to buy some oranges. Yes, a good idea, citruses always help him during a cold, besides, his throat isn’t that sore anymore.
Not like he would mind the pain, though. Anything for not feeling this terrible taste of sickness.
“You’re fucking burning,” Tommy says out of nowhere.
Slowly, reality sinks in and Alfie looks around - he’s in his bed again and his arm aches badly, so he tries to rub it only to find it covered in bandages. Tommy presses a wet cool towel on his forehead and Alfie hums in approval, it feels bloody wonderful, that.
“You dropped the pot,” Tommy informs him shortly, cutting trails of water dripping from the towel with his thumb. “You tried to clean up and fell asleep on the floor. The kitchen looks like a butcher shop now.”
Alfie’s heart stings a little at the image his mind comes up with - Tommy, coming home with a bag full of oranges, finding him in the kitchen, unconscious, in the pool of his own blood. No need to be a genius to know that the first thing that came to his head was someone breaking in and taking his life in such an obscure way. Tommy probably dropped the bag, reaching for a gun, and all of the fruits fell out, rolling down the tiles. A terrible mistake it would be if there was an actual attack, someone could still be in the house and it would only bring attention-
No, Alfie is wiser than falling asleep face first on the floor. He probably sat down for a moment, securing his injured hand with a towel and dozing off again.
“Nothing deep,” Tommy says, rubs his wrist gently. “No stitches.”
Alfie even considers to give him a generous thank you - this sickness really fucks his brain alright - but his pride takes a hold on that. He just melts under Tommy’s gentle touch and settles on a quiet and pleased moan.
“Nevertheless, you need a doctor,” Tommy presses and it’s the old tale they all heard before, at least Alfie did - Tommy Shelby insisting on a doctor at any small little sneeze while declining having any human needs himself. Hypocritical, that.
“You need a fucking doctor,” Alfie grunts in response.
“I will call my own if you won’t give the telephone number of yours,” Tommy states evenly, and that stillness in his voice, that certainty that he’s on the right, that he knows fucking better - it awakens the forgotten annoyance, the need to bark and bite.
“Fuck you,” Alfie spits but it come out weak and shallow, which only proves the point in Tommy’s head, he can sense it even through the fog. So he opens his eyes, scowls at Tommy as much as possible. “Fuck you, mate,” Alfie repeats again but then his throat clothes in the spasm and he loses all the thoughts in a cough that seems to break his ribcage, bone by bone.
Tommy fetches a handkerchief for him and Alfie takes it, spits the pile into it and crumbles it in his fist. Tommy’s hand rests on his forearm, running soothing circles from time to time and as much as it irritates Alfie to no end, because there’s no fucking point in this motion, he also gets it, and that’s the worst part as much as being the best one. When else he’s going to experience Tommy like this? On his deathbed, probably, but only good people die in their beds, so, perhaps, never. Maybe, if Tommy would be the man who shoots him in the end, Alfie wouldn’t bet against that.
And then Alfie sticks his gaze to that hand by pure mistake, and even if his mind is fogged and his brain is burning from all that fever he can place an irritated skin when he sees one, simply because a good portion of his body is covered in such patches. He frowns at those angry red spots on Tommy’s fingers, look like burns, those things, but he knows fucking better.
There’s that uneasy tangle of dread in his throat that has nothing to do with his sickness and he tries to swallow it only to realise that he actually can’t.
“Telephone book, top right drawer of my office desk. The key is in the pot behind it.” He swallows, and swallows, and swallows, but there’s no use. The tangle only falls in his stomach and grows there at incredible speed. “You’re looking for doctor A. Goldberg.”
Tommy pats him on his forearm, completely unaware of Alfie’s turmoil, and then he’s gone in a blink of an eye.
***
Lying to doctors always comes difficult, and it may be connected to Alfie being absolutely adamant about opening up to a stranger and laying all of his problems on a silver platter, as his mother used to say, may her soul rest in Hell.
But the problem is, he knows Goldberg long enough, and trusts him just the right amount to call him when he’s ninety nine percent certain he’s going to die. And Goldberg, being the old smart bastard, is aware of that fact as well. It’s a nice relationship they have established so far. So Tommy, not just calling him on his behalf, but also telling him that Alfie fell under a small sickness… That’s just a low punch to his ego, that is.
The thing is, however, that even if Tommy’s sure his mind finally failed and that’s why Alfie agreed on seeing a professional medic - that’s just far from his original motive. But he’d let Tommy believe the picture he already painted in his mind, of course, to save his own face.
Because the real reason, the true reason he agreed on a fucking doctor, is his psoriasis. Simple, isn’t it? But Tommy doesn’t need to know that, right? He already knows that Alfie has it - it’s hard to ignore, especially when every other night you fall together naked on a bed, enjoying and touching each other in places the church and the law clearly has a word to say against.
But even knowing what it is, how it looks and feels, living with it for his whole life to the point that he doesn’t even think about it - there’s always a paranoid voice in his whispering about it being contagious. Even if it isn’t and he knows it for fucking sure.
But, again, he lived with it long enough, he can identify it, call every stage of it, every symptom and every treatment. And he knows Tommy long enough to be certain that Tommy doesn’t have that or any skin disease.
“So, my psoriasis, right,” Alfie says when Tommy’s finally out of the door, knocking and ringing with every possible item in the kitchen to let them know that he’s still there, annoyed at not being a witness to whatever conversation Alfie might have with the doctor.
“Right,” Goldberg nods along, rummaging through his big leather bag. “What’s about it?”
And there’s only two paths Alfie can choose at this point: to pretend to be an idiot, which both of them aware he’s absolutely not, and lost his mind because of the fever, or to voice his concerns straight, which basically means confirming that Tommy is his lover, which a conclusion Goldberg, being an old smart bastard he is, probably, came to himself already.
So Alfie aims at the middle, hoping not to shoot two targets at the same time.
“It’s not contagious, is it?”
Goldberg gives him a suspicious look, only proving Alfie’s point. One target down, then.
“No, it’s not,” he says, however, patiently. Puts two small bottles on Alfie’s nightstand. “Why are you asking?”
“Let’s say, hypothetically, right, hypothetically, that a person who’s in contact with me quite often starts to experience the same symptoms. And I know, right, since we’re in contact quite often, that usually it’s not the case at all,” and this is how the second target goes down, but he said hypothetically, so it isn’t a straight confirmation.
Goldberg inhales, puzzled and slightly annoyed at Alfie’s phrasing scheme, but agrees to play whatever game Alfie offers; he can’t be more grateful for that.
“Where?” Goldberg asks simply.
“Fingers,” Alfie answers.
“Only fingers?”
“Well, palms too, I think,” Alfie runs his hands through his beard and Goldberg mirrors his actions, only his beard is nicely trimmed and fully white.
“Right,” Goldberg lets out. “Any allergies?”
“Not that I’m aware of, no,” Alfie shrugs.
And then Goldberg gives him the nastiest, meanest you’re-an-idiot look any other doctor would call unprofessional or be too scared to advert in his direction.
“Right,” Alfie stretches out, scratching an especially irritating patch on his ear, completely forgetting that he absolutely shouldn’t do that in the doctor's presence, because he earns another glance at that and Goldberg rummages through his bag again, pulling out a tube of cream.
“Alright, let’s think,” Goldberg crosses his legs casually, finally getting to the point. “It’s winter, so it’s not the pollen. Or did he receive a bouquet recently?” Alfie shakes his head, ignoring the he. Yeah, he’d look at the man who’d be brave enough to send flowers to Tommy Shelby without a reason. On a second thought, he reminds himself that it’s the man he sees in the mirror every morning. But he didn’t get Tommy flowers in a long time. “Fruits? Citruses maybe?”
Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking Jesus bloody Christ.
“Yeah,” Alfie lets out and rolls his eyes, eyeing an empty plate where peeled oranges were just an hour ago. “Might be that.”
Goldberg slams his hands on his things as to finalise a point of Alfie being an imbecile and the sickness taking the best of him.
“Fucking Hell,” Alfie mutters, scratching his eyebrow. He is an idiot indeed, but Tommy is even a bigger one. No fucking way he lived thirty something years of his life being unaware that he’s allergic to bloody citruses. No fucking way.
Goldberg quietly puts another tube on the nightstand, with a bottle of pills.
“He needs to avoid it,” Goldberg says. “Irritation of skin isn’t the worst symptom. Runny nose, sneezing, redness and tearing of eyes, vomiting. But also - throat swelling, breathing problems, collapse.”
Alfie catalogues those in his head, already pissed at Tommy and his usual hypocrisy.
That fucking cunt.
***
When Goldberg is gone Tommy’s at his bedside again, eyes red like he cried over a dead relative for hours, fingertips burning red and nose running; the last one he tries to hide with a handkerchief.
There’s a pot of fresh tea, a toast generously greased with butter, even the edges, and another plate full of peeled oranges - all on the tray on Alfie’s lap.
Alfie looks at it, unbelievably, at the pretentious nonchalance Tommy carries himself with. The whole room is drowning in the citrus smell and Tommy sits there, in his fucking chair, like it’s not bothering him at all, doesn’t even bother himself with opening a window.
Yeah, Alfie thinks, that’s just a straight masochism, and a lunacy, and a one-way ticket to the mental institution, if you’d ask him.
“You want some?” He asks with feigned light-heartedness, nodding towards the plate carrying the star of tonight’s show.
“No, I’m good,” Tommy says and his voice is way raspier than usual. “You go ahead.”
“Did you had some already?” Alfie asks, bringing a cup of chamomile tea to his mouth. He really fucking needs that right now, that chamomile, otherwise, if Tommy’d say that he actually had some - Alfie would simply lose his mind.
“No, I’m not so fond of…” Tommy suppressed a sneeze and it’s so obvious it’s bloody ridiculous at this point. “Of that fruit.”
“Or citruses,” Alfie adds, knowingly.
Fucking Hell, he thinks, as his mind tosses him an image of eating an orange and kissing Tommy right after - that would burn like Hell and Tommy wouldn’t even say a word about it.
Suddenly, the idea of putting any citrus in his mouth starts to seem terrible, borderline disgusting.
Tommy starts to shake his leg again, wiping his red nose with a handkerchief, and Alfie rolls his eyes, damming the whole act.
“Ever bothered to tell me you're allergic?” He scowls, crossing his hands on the chest. “Hmm, Tommy?”
Tommy stops shaking his leg, looks at him furiously and this! If Alfie left a possibility of Tommy never encountering a citrus before in his live, however small a possibility might be, now he’s absolutely fucking certain it’s not the case.
Alfie swallows all the complaints about suffering through the doctor's visit, about letting him know that Tommy isn’t his business associate, or a friend, as Tommy introduced himself to Goldberg. He swallows all that, drowns it in the next sip of his tea.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit hypocritical, mate - and don’t get me fucking wrong here - that you insisted on a doctor for three days straight only for going and hurting yourself-“
He abruptly cuts whatever he was about to say next, because his chest tightens up all of the sudden, but it’s not another spasm or a cough. No, it’s not fucking that, it’s just a quick realisation his feverish mind comes up with out of the blue. And it’s fucking terrifying in a way.
Tommy looks furious, ready to flee from his seat but stays glued to it for some unknown reason and it speaks fucking volumes, isn’t it?
Of course he’d sacrifice his own well-being, that’s just Tommy Shelby for you. Alfie saw that so many times he, honestly, lost his count. Just not with himself, but, perhaps, he just didn’t know where to look.
The revelation is stuck in his chest, dangerously close to where his heart is beating and he finds himself muttering “What a bloody idiot,” to the ceiling like there’s actually someone up there, listening.
Alfie takes a bottle of pills, a tube of cream, a paper with prescriptions and silently puts it on Tommy’s lap.
“That’s for your allergy. I asked for you since your head was stuck in your arse.”
Tommy clears his throat, not looking so angry anymore but confused and… oddly amused.
“Yeah,” Alfie adds. “You’re fucking welcome. Now go get some fresh air and open the bloody window before you die on me.”