Your masterlist has both given me unexplainable levels of joy and unmeasurable amounts of angst…. Its simply beautiful. One of my all time favourite Alfie writers. I am still recovering emotionally from “Annoyance”. Thank you for being here 🖤
I haven't been active on here for a while but messages like this bring me so much joy. Thank you for your countless kind comments, I appreciate it more than you know!
3 May • "Prose" by @loulouwrites • Peaky Blinders fandom
💬 2 🔁 12 ❤️ 117 · PROSE . ALFIE SOLOMONS · summary: alfie found comfort in her letters during his darkest moments, even if they were never
Divider credit: @strangergraphics
Warnings from the author: angst, war, death, ptsd, a bit of politics, happy ending, unedited for now
Reminders: Pls try to read and comment before 10 May bc a new work will be posted that day. Any late notes are greatly appreciated tho! No worries if a fic contains tw you avoid or fandoms you don't follow, simply disregard the tag. If you would like to be added or removed to the tag list, lmk.
the way i love this series is can't be put in words. My friend, you're my favourite writer for Alfie, you write him so well. Always a pleasure & feel very happy when i get to read them.
That's honestly one of the kindest things anyone's ever said—thank you so, so much 🥹❤️ It means the world to know the way I write Alfie connects with you like that. I'm beyond grateful for your support, and I'm so happy you enjoy this series. Hopefully I'll be able to post more soon!
summary: a tale of five christmases
word count: 3.5k
warnings: swearing, smoking, allusions to violence/horrors of war, criminal activity, angst, abandonment, longing, loss, ptsd, references to poverty, mentions of death and illness, no grace (yayy).
a/n: she's baaack
Small Heath, Birmingham, early 1900s.
Her breath could be seen with every exhale in the small house, the frost creeping along the edges of the window panes. There was a bowl in the corner of the room, catching the droplets of condensation that creeped off the windowsill, stopping them from dripping onto the bare wood floors.
She huddled closer to the dying fire, the last of the coal had burned to nothing but ash hours ago, the last remanants of smoke making her chest hurt, but she didn't mind, too focused on tying her finest hair ribbon around the simple parcel. The scarf inside was nothing special - made of boring black wool she had stolen from her grandmother's knitting basket - but it was warm, and she knew he'd need it.
The cold bit her fingers as she tied the final knot, and for a moment she hesitated. She was not a talented knitter - her grandmother had told her as much - everything she knitted seemed to fall apart with a simple tug, and she worried the scarf would be more different. What if it fell apart when he wrapped it around his neck? What if he didn't like the boring colour? What if he didn't like it at all?
She shrugged off her concerns when she heard the front door open, the unmistakeable sound of her mother's footsteps echoing against the floor. She quickly stood, hiding the present behind her back, knowing her mother would be furious if she saw she had used the red hair ribbon to tie the brown paper together.
"I'm going to Tommy's," she called out to her mother as she ran out of the door, not listening to her mother call after her.
Tommy's house was always slightly warmer than hers. The Shelby's were not rich by any means, but they always seemed to have coal for the fire, and candles burning in every room.
She sat in the corner of the room, her legs crossed as she watched Tommy sat opposite her, his head bent low over a small wooden horse. His knife scraped gently against the wood, his breath slow and focused. When he was satisfied with his work, he glanced over at her, sitting by the fire with the parcel on her lap.
“What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward the small package wrapped in a red bow.
“Something for you,” she replied, a sly smile curving her lips. "I'll give you it outside, it's too warm in here."
Warm wasn’t exactly how he’d describe the Shelby home, but he followed her anyway, tucking the little horse into his pocket. The street outside was still and quiet, the snow crunching under their boots as they made their way toward the edge of the yard.
She turned to him, cheeks pink from the cold, and held out the package. “Here.”
Tommy took it, untying the ribbon carefully, as if unwrapping something precious. Inside was a scarf, plain but tightly knit, the kind that promised warmth on even the coldest nights.
“I made it,” she said, her voice quieter now. “It’s not much, but I thought you could use it, since Arthur stole your old one.”
He was silent, his eyes focused on the plain black scarf, and she shuffled nervously on her feet.
"I know it's not very good. I've never been very good at knitting-"
"It's perfect," he interruped, looking up at her with a smile on his face - a real smile, even for him.
Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the wooden horse and placed it in her hand. “Here. I made this.”
Her eyes widened as she turned it over in her hands, tracing the curves with her fingers. The edges were slightly jagged, and the legs of the horse were unequal, but she smiled anyway. “Tommy, it’s beautiful.”
"I'll get you a real one someday," he said, his tone casual but his gaze serious. “A real horse, not just some toy.”
She laughed softly, but her smile faltered as she looked at him. "I know you will, Tommy."
They stood there for a long moment, the snow falling gently around them, before she pulled two sparklers from her coat. Lighting them with a match she’d swiped from the kitchen, she handed him one.
Under the dim light of the sparklers, they laughed, spinning them in circles that illuminated their faces.
"Will you really get me a real horse one day?"
"I promise."
And for that night, at least, they believed it.
Small Heath, Birmingham, Early 1910s
The church hall was alive with the sound of laughter, chatter, and the scratchy tunes of a gramophone playing festive melodies. Mismatched decorations hung from the walls, and candles flickered in makeshift lanterns, casting a golden glow over the modest Christmas gathering. The air was thick with the scent of cheap ale and smoke, a rare indulgence for the families of Small Heath.
She stood near the edge of the room, her gloved hands clutching a glass of lager, watching the couples twirl clumsily on the makeshift dance floor. Her gaze kept drifting, unbidden, to Tommy Shelby.
He was across the room, leaning against the wall with the kind of ease that made it impossible not to notice him. His cap was off, his dark hair slicked back, and his sharp blue eyes roamed the crowd like he was sizing up the room. Even now, dressed in his Sunday best, there was something nefarious about him, something that both drew her in and set her on edge.
When his eyes finally landed on her, a slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He pushed off the wall and made his way over, weaving effortlessly through the throng of people.
“You’re hiding,” he said when he reached her, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
“I’m not hiding,” she replied, her tone defensive, but her cheeks betrayed her with a flush of warmth.
“You are.” He leaned in closer, the scent of smoke and soap clinging to him. “Dance with me.”
She shook her head. “Tommy, I’m not—”
“You’re not what?” he interrupted, smirking. “Not a dancer? Or not brave enough to let me lead you?”
Before she could answer, he grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the floor, weaving through the couples until they found a spot. The music changed to a slower tune, and he placed one hand lightly on her waist, the other still holding hers.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with a hint of nervousness.
“Who says I’m doing this for you?” he teased, his grin playful. But there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—something only she could see.
They swayed to the music, the world around them fading into a blur of laughter and candlelight. When they passed under the mistletoe hanging from a beam, Tommy stopped abruptly.
“Look at that,” he said, tilting his head up.
She followed his gaze, her heart racing. “Tommy—”
“You know the rules,” he said, his voice softer now, almost teasing. “Can’t break tradition.”
Before she could protest, he leaned in, brushing a quick, warm kiss against her cheek. Her breath caught, and he pulled back with a satisfied smirk.
“See? That wasn’t so bad,” he said. But his teasing faded when he caught the look in her eyes.
“It's too warm in here,” she said, pulling away.
Tommy followed her outside, the sharp winter air hitting them both as they stepped into the quiet street. Snow was falling in soft, lazy flakes, dusting the pavement and muffling the sounds of the dance inside.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asked, his tone gentler now.
She crossed her arms, staring at the snow. “It’s not what’s wrong. It’s what’s going to happen. You’re changing, Tommy. You're stealing more, and fighting more, and I don't want to be around that. I don't want to watch you go down...it'll happen soon enough."
He was quiet for a moment, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "You don't know anything."
"I know you beat that boy that stole from the bookies. I know because I had to tell the police you were with me."
"You didn't have to do anything," he shrugged.
"I did," she sighed, rubbing her temple with her fingers. "I did, because I don't want anything bad to happen to you, but if you keep going the way you are, I won't be able to help, and I'm scared that this is going to take you away from me."
Tommy’s jaw tightened, his breath visible in the cold as he looked down at the snow beneath his boots. “It’s not going to take me away,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I won’t let it.”
She shook her head, frustration and sadness spilling over. “You say that like you have control over it, Tommy. But you don’t. One day, someone’s going to hit back harder, or the coppers are going to get tired of turning a blind eye. And then what? What do I do then?”
He reached up then, rubbing the back of his neck as if he could shrug off the tension. “I’m doing what I have to do.” His voice softened. “For all of us. For my family. For you.”
She stared at him, her lips parting as if to argue, but the fight in her seemed to falter. “You think I care about that? About money or any of it? All I care about is you. And I’m scared I’m going to lose you—to this, to them, to yourself.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and Tommy finally moved, stepping into her space and pulling his hands from his pockets. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and took her hands in his, warming them in his rough, calloused grip.
“You’re not going to lose me,” he said firmly, his blue eyes locking onto hers. “I promise.”
“You can’t promise that, Tommy.” Her voice was barely a whisper now, the weight of her fear pressing down on every word.
“Maybe not,” he admitted, his tone quieter, more vulnerable. “But I’ll fight for it.”
For a long moment, they stood there, the only sounds the faint strains of music from the hall and the soft crunch of snow underfoot. Then, as if driven by some unspoken need to bridge the space between them, Tommy leaned in.
His lips brushed against hers, hesitant and tender, a fleeting moment of honesty in a world that felt anything but. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, and for the first time that night, he let out a quiet sigh.
“I don’t want to lose you either,” he murmured.
The snow continued to fall, blanketing the streets and muffling the chaos of the world around them. For now, at least, they had this moment, fragile and fleeting but undeniably theirs.
France, 1915
The trenches were eerily quiet that Christmas Eve, the usual sounds of gunfire and shouting replaced by a haunting stillness. The frost clung to every surface, the mud frozen solid, and the air carried the faint scent of pine from makeshift decorations some of the men had fashioned out of broken branches.
Tommy sat with his back against the damp wall of the trench, his hands fumbling with a parcel he’d received that morning. It was battered and smeared with dirt from its journey, but the familiar handwriting on the label stood out sharply.
He unfolded the scarf first, its wool scratchy but warm as he wrapped it around his neck. A small, silver charm slipped out next—a simple horseshoe. He turned it over in his fingers, his thumb brushing the smooth metal. Then came the photograph: a faded snapshot of two children standing in the snow, her scarf wrapped around his neck even then.
A letter was tucked at the bottom, and Tommy unfolded it carefully, his fingers trembling—not from the cold, but from something he couldn’t quite name. The paper smelled faintly of lavender, a scent that carried him miles away from the trench, back to Small Heath.
Dear Tommy,
I hope this finds you, though I know how uncertain everything must be. I can’t imagine what you’re going through out there, but I think of you every day. This scarf isn’t much, but I wanted you to have something warm. And the horseshoe—I thought maybe it would bring you luck. You always did like to gamble, even when we were children.
I found the photo in an old box and thought you might need a reminder of home. Of us. I don’t know if it helps, but I want you to know that no matter where you are or what happens, I will always be you. You’re still Tommy to me—the one who carved me wooden horses and swore we’d outrun Small Heath someday.
Please come back safe, and have a happy Christmas.
With all my heart.
Tommy’s throat tightened as he read, her words breaking through the walls he’d built around himself. For the first time in weeks, his hands stopped shaking. He folded the letter carefully and slipped it into the breast pocket of his jacket, close to his heart.
Reaching for a pencil and a scrap of paper, he hesitated before writing. What could he say to her? How could he tell her about the things he’d seen, the men he’d lost, and the parts of himself he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back? But as the candle flickered, he started to write.
Your letter came today. The scarf and the charm too. I don’t know if you’ll ever understand what it means to get something like that here, but thank you. For remembering me. For caring.
It’s hard to explain what this place is like. I’d tell you not to worry about me, but you’d see through that in a second, wouldn’t you? The truth is, I don’t know who I’m going to be when I get back. If I get back. But knowing you’re waiting for me... that helps. More than you’ll ever know.
I’m holding onto your words, just like I’m holding onto the thought of you. I’ll come back to you. I promise.
Yours always,
Tommy
He folded the letter, sliding it into an envelope to send back with the next courier. For a moment, he let himself imagine her opening it, the way her face might light up at his words.
One of his comrades nudged him, pointing to the battered tin of cigarettes she’d sent. “You sharing, Shelby, or are those for you and the King?”
Tommy smirked, lighting the cigarette and passing it around. As they smoked in silence, the faint strains of a carol drifted from a nearby trench, carried on the cold wind.
For a fleeting moment, the war seemed far away, and Tommy allowed himself to feel the warmth of her scarf, the weight of her letter in his pocket, and the fragile hope that he might one day see her again.
Small Heath, 1919
The churchyard was still, bathed in the pale glow of moonlight reflected off the snow. The old stone walls loomed tall against the winter sky, their edges softened by frost. Tommy stood at the gate, his breath visible in the icy air as he looked toward the steps where they used to meet.
He hadn’t been back here in years, not since the world had turned upside down and dragged him into its chaos. But something about this night—Christmas Eve, the stillness, the snow—had pulled him here, as if the past had reached out to him, refusing to let go.
In his coat pocket were her letters. The edges were frayed, the paper worn soft from years of being carried close to him, though he had not read any of the ones she had sent in the final years war.
Tommy pulled one out now, turning it over in his fingers. Her handwriting, familiar and neat, stared back at him. He didn’t need to read the words to hear her voice. He could imagine what she’d written—her warmth, her hope, her belief in him even when he couldn’t find it himself.
The snow crunched under his boots as he walked toward the steps, his movements slow and deliberate. From his pocket, he pulled something else—the small wooden horse he’d carved for her all those years ago. The paint had faded, and the edges were rough from time, but it was still intact, still hers.
Tommy crouched and placed it gently on the cold stone. He stared at it for a long moment, the memories rushing back—their laughter, their promises, the way she’d looked at him with a mix of faith and fear he hadn’t understood at the time.
He didn't blame her for leaving Small Heath - she had always wanted to - he just wished she had waited for him. He would have went with her.
He stood, brushing the snow from his hands, and lit another cigarette. The smoke curled around him, a ghostly wisp against the night. As he turned to leave, he paused, looking back at the wooden horse one last time.
Then he walked away, his silhouette stark against the falling snow. The sound of his boots faded into the stillness, leaving only the quiet of the churchyard behind.
The wooden horse sat alone on the steps, cold, waiting.
Arrow House, Warwickshire, 1920s
The Shelby family home was loud with laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses. The fire roared in the hearth, casting long shadows on the walls as the family celebrated another hard-earned Christmas. Tommy, however, was outside, leaning against the side of the house with a cigarette in hand. The chill of the winter air bit at his skin, but it was a welcome reprieve from the noise inside.
He wasn’t surprised when he heard footsteps approaching, the crunch of snow under boots. What surprised him was who they belonged to.
“You’re still sneaking off for quiet moments,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the cold like a warm memory.
Tommy turned, his breath catching briefly in his chest. She was standing there, bundled in a thick coat, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Time had changed her—softened some things, hardened others—but her eyes were the same, sharp and full of meaning.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, his voice low, guarded.
“I wasn’t sure I would.” She hesitated, looking down at her gloved hands before stepping closer. “But it’s Christmas.”
Tommy dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his boot. “And Christmas has a way of dragging up the past, doesn’t it?”
She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s not just the past I came for.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the snow falling softly around them. Tommy finally gestured toward the small bench tucked against the side of the house. They sat, the distance between them feeling both vast and impossibly small.
“I visited the church,” he said, his voice breaking the quiet. “Every Christmas Eve since you left.”
Her head snapped toward him, surprise flickering in her expression. “You did?”
He nodded, his gaze fixed on the snowy ground. “Always hoped you’d come back. I even left something for you there. Thought maybe it’d remind you of what we had... or what we could have had.”
She exhaled a shaky breath, pinching her eyes shut. "I'm sorry I left, Tommy. I wanted to wait until you got back, I really did, but..." she hung her head, a mixture of shame and regret on her face. "So many men came back from the war before you, and none of them were the samw as when they left, I was scared that you wouldn't be the same when you got back."
They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of laughter and music from inside muffled.
She let out a deep breath, lifting her head to look at him as she spoke.
“I tried to find something better, somewhere else. A life that didn’t feel so heavy. But it always felt like something was missing.”
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and after a long pause, he asked quietly, “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Her answer came after a heartbeat, her voice soft but certain. “No. Because it was always here.”
Tommy’s breath hitched, and for the first time in years, the weight of his choices pressed down on him in a way he couldn’t ignore. He reached out, his hand brushing against hers, tentative and unsure.
“I’m not that boy anymore,” he said, his voice laced with regret.
“I know,” she replied, her hand turning to lace her fingers with his. “But he’s still in there. I see him.”
For a moment, everything else faded—the noise from inside, the cold night air, the years they’d spent apart. It was just the two of them, trying to reconnect after everything that had come between them.
And in that quiet moment, Tommy let himself believe, even if just for a second, that they could find their way back to each other.
@loulouwrites This was a delightful surprise to find on my dash ☺️ How I've missed your gorgeous prose, darling! The idea to follow this couple thru the war was truly inspired, a heart wrenching journey that left me hoping they would reunite. I've always loved reading writers' interpretations of prewar Tommy and yours was no exception. I feel you captured his whimsical spirit well and followed him thru wartime with total accuracy. I must say you had me holding my breath during the 4th Christmas bc I feared she was dead 😢 As I cont to read, I was grateful I'd been mistaken about that! Some part of me hopes they were able to reconcile after all that time. I reckon, I can't help my optimistic spirit! Tysm for sharing these Christmas tales with us. I loved them all! 💕
I love writing for Tommy, especially when I can follow his journey from the boy before the way, to the man after and I’m so happy you appreciated my interpretation.
I don’t blame you for thinking she died - it happens in my five far too often 😭 but I wanted to give him a happy ending for once (Christmas spirit and all that)
I definitely see them having a happy ending- they’ve been in love their whole lives, after all.
summary: a tale of five christmases
word count: 3.5k
warnings: swearing, smoking, allusions to violence/horrors of war, criminal activity, angst, abandonment, longing, loss, ptsd, references to poverty, mentions of death and illness, no grace (yayy).
a/n: she's baaack
Small Heath, Birmingham, early 1900s.
Her breath could be seen with every exhale in the small house, the frost creeping along the edges of the window panes. There was a bowl in the corner of the room, catching the droplets of condensation that creeped off the windowsill, stopping them from dripping onto the bare wood floors.
She huddled closer to the dying fire, the last of the coal had burned to nothing but ash hours ago, the last remanants of smoke making her chest hurt, but she didn't mind, too focused on tying her finest hair ribbon around the simple parcel. The scarf inside was nothing special - made of boring black wool she had stolen from her grandmother's knitting basket - but it was warm, and she knew he'd need it.
The cold bit her fingers as she tied the final knot, and for a moment she hesitated. She was not a talented knitter - her grandmother had told her as much - everything she knitted seemed to fall apart with a simple tug, and she worried the scarf would be more different. What if it fell apart when he wrapped it around his neck? What if he didn't like the boring colour? What if he didn't like it at all?
She shrugged off her concerns when she heard the front door open, the unmistakeable sound of her mother's footsteps echoing against the floor. She quickly stood, hiding the present behind her back, knowing her mother would be furious if she saw she had used the red hair ribbon to tie the brown paper together.
"I'm going to Tommy's," she called out to her mother as she ran out of the door, not listening to her mother call after her.
Tommy's house was always slightly warmer than hers. The Shelby's were not rich by any means, but they always seemed to have coal for the fire, and candles burning in every room.
She sat in the corner of the room, her legs crossed as she watched Tommy sat opposite her, his head bent low over a small wooden horse. His knife scraped gently against the wood, his breath slow and focused. When he was satisfied with his work, he glanced over at her, sitting by the fire with the parcel on her lap.
“What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward the small package wrapped in a red bow.
“Something for you,” she replied, a sly smile curving her lips. "I'll give you it outside, it's too warm in here."
Warm wasn’t exactly how he’d describe the Shelby home, but he followed her anyway, tucking the little horse into his pocket. The street outside was still and quiet, the snow crunching under their boots as they made their way toward the edge of the yard.
She turned to him, cheeks pink from the cold, and held out the package. “Here.”
Tommy took it, untying the ribbon carefully, as if unwrapping something precious. Inside was a scarf, plain but tightly knit, the kind that promised warmth on even the coldest nights.
“I made it,” she said, her voice quieter now. “It’s not much, but I thought you could use it, since Arthur stole your old one.”
He was silent, his eyes focused on the plain black scarf, and she shuffled nervously on her feet.
"I know it's not very good. I've never been very good at knitting-"
"It's perfect," he interruped, looking up at her with a smile on his face - a real smile, even for him.
Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the wooden horse and placed it in her hand. “Here. I made this.”
Her eyes widened as she turned it over in her hands, tracing the curves with her fingers. The edges were slightly jagged, and the legs of the horse were unequal, but she smiled anyway. “Tommy, it’s beautiful.”
"I'll get you a real one someday," he said, his tone casual but his gaze serious. “A real horse, not just some toy.”
She laughed softly, but her smile faltered as she looked at him. "I know you will, Tommy."
They stood there for a long moment, the snow falling gently around them, before she pulled two sparklers from her coat. Lighting them with a match she’d swiped from the kitchen, she handed him one.
Under the dim light of the sparklers, they laughed, spinning them in circles that illuminated their faces.
"Will you really get me a real horse one day?"
"I promise."
And for that night, at least, they believed it.
Small Heath, Birmingham, Early 1910s
The church hall was alive with the sound of laughter, chatter, and the scratchy tunes of a gramophone playing festive melodies. Mismatched decorations hung from the walls, and candles flickered in makeshift lanterns, casting a golden glow over the modest Christmas gathering. The air was thick with the scent of cheap ale and smoke, a rare indulgence for the families of Small Heath.
She stood near the edge of the room, her gloved hands clutching a glass of lager, watching the couples twirl clumsily on the makeshift dance floor. Her gaze kept drifting, unbidden, to Tommy Shelby.
He was across the room, leaning against the wall with the kind of ease that made it impossible not to notice him. His cap was off, his dark hair slicked back, and his sharp blue eyes roamed the crowd like he was sizing up the room. Even now, dressed in his Sunday best, there was something nefarious about him, something that both drew her in and set her on edge.
When his eyes finally landed on her, a slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He pushed off the wall and made his way over, weaving effortlessly through the throng of people.
“You’re hiding,” he said when he reached her, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
“I’m not hiding,” she replied, her tone defensive, but her cheeks betrayed her with a flush of warmth.
“You are.” He leaned in closer, the scent of smoke and soap clinging to him. “Dance with me.”
She shook her head. “Tommy, I’m not—”
“You’re not what?” he interrupted, smirking. “Not a dancer? Or not brave enough to let me lead you?”
Before she could answer, he grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the floor, weaving through the couples until they found a spot. The music changed to a slower tune, and he placed one hand lightly on her waist, the other still holding hers.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with a hint of nervousness.
“Who says I’m doing this for you?” he teased, his grin playful. But there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—something only she could see.
They swayed to the music, the world around them fading into a blur of laughter and candlelight. When they passed under the mistletoe hanging from a beam, Tommy stopped abruptly.
“Look at that,” he said, tilting his head up.
She followed his gaze, her heart racing. “Tommy—”
“You know the rules,” he said, his voice softer now, almost teasing. “Can’t break tradition.”
Before she could protest, he leaned in, brushing a quick, warm kiss against her cheek. Her breath caught, and he pulled back with a satisfied smirk.
“See? That wasn’t so bad,” he said. But his teasing faded when he caught the look in her eyes.
“It's too warm in here,” she said, pulling away.
Tommy followed her outside, the sharp winter air hitting them both as they stepped into the quiet street. Snow was falling in soft, lazy flakes, dusting the pavement and muffling the sounds of the dance inside.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asked, his tone gentler now.
She crossed her arms, staring at the snow. “It’s not what’s wrong. It’s what’s going to happen. You’re changing, Tommy. You're stealing more, and fighting more, and I don't want to be around that. I don't want to watch you go down...it'll happen soon enough."
He was quiet for a moment, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "You don't know anything."
"I know you beat that boy that stole from the bookies. I know because I had to tell the police you were with me."
"You didn't have to do anything," he shrugged.
"I did," she sighed, rubbing her temple with her fingers. "I did, because I don't want anything bad to happen to you, but if you keep going the way you are, I won't be able to help, and I'm scared that this is going to take you away from me."
Tommy’s jaw tightened, his breath visible in the cold as he looked down at the snow beneath his boots. “It’s not going to take me away,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I won’t let it.”
She shook her head, frustration and sadness spilling over. “You say that like you have control over it, Tommy. But you don’t. One day, someone’s going to hit back harder, or the coppers are going to get tired of turning a blind eye. And then what? What do I do then?”
He reached up then, rubbing the back of his neck as if he could shrug off the tension. “I’m doing what I have to do.” His voice softened. “For all of us. For my family. For you.”
She stared at him, her lips parting as if to argue, but the fight in her seemed to falter. “You think I care about that? About money or any of it? All I care about is you. And I’m scared I’m going to lose you—to this, to them, to yourself.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and Tommy finally moved, stepping into her space and pulling his hands from his pockets. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and took her hands in his, warming them in his rough, calloused grip.
“You’re not going to lose me,” he said firmly, his blue eyes locking onto hers. “I promise.”
“You can’t promise that, Tommy.” Her voice was barely a whisper now, the weight of her fear pressing down on every word.
“Maybe not,” he admitted, his tone quieter, more vulnerable. “But I’ll fight for it.”
For a long moment, they stood there, the only sounds the faint strains of music from the hall and the soft crunch of snow underfoot. Then, as if driven by some unspoken need to bridge the space between them, Tommy leaned in.
His lips brushed against hers, hesitant and tender, a fleeting moment of honesty in a world that felt anything but. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, and for the first time that night, he let out a quiet sigh.
“I don’t want to lose you either,” he murmured.
The snow continued to fall, blanketing the streets and muffling the chaos of the world around them. For now, at least, they had this moment, fragile and fleeting but undeniably theirs.
France, 1915
The trenches were eerily quiet that Christmas Eve, the usual sounds of gunfire and shouting replaced by a haunting stillness. The frost clung to every surface, the mud frozen solid, and the air carried the faint scent of pine from makeshift decorations some of the men had fashioned out of broken branches.
Tommy sat with his back against the damp wall of the trench, his hands fumbling with a parcel he’d received that morning. It was battered and smeared with dirt from its journey, but the familiar handwriting on the label stood out sharply.
He unfolded the scarf first, its wool scratchy but warm as he wrapped it around his neck. A small, silver charm slipped out next—a simple horseshoe. He turned it over in his fingers, his thumb brushing the smooth metal. Then came the photograph: a faded snapshot of two children standing in the snow, her scarf wrapped around his neck even then.
A letter was tucked at the bottom, and Tommy unfolded it carefully, his fingers trembling—not from the cold, but from something he couldn’t quite name. The paper smelled faintly of lavender, a scent that carried him miles away from the trench, back to Small Heath.
Dear Tommy,
I hope this finds you, though I know how uncertain everything must be. I can’t imagine what you’re going through out there, but I think of you every day. This scarf isn’t much, but I wanted you to have something warm. And the horseshoe—I thought maybe it would bring you luck. You always did like to gamble, even when we were children.
I found the photo in an old box and thought you might need a reminder of home. Of us. I don’t know if it helps, but I want you to know that no matter where you are or what happens, I will always be you. You’re still Tommy to me—the one who carved me wooden horses and swore we’d outrun Small Heath someday.
Please come back safe, and have a happy Christmas.
With all my heart.
Tommy’s throat tightened as he read, her words breaking through the walls he’d built around himself. For the first time in weeks, his hands stopped shaking. He folded the letter carefully and slipped it into the breast pocket of his jacket, close to his heart.
Reaching for a pencil and a scrap of paper, he hesitated before writing. What could he say to her? How could he tell her about the things he’d seen, the men he’d lost, and the parts of himself he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back? But as the candle flickered, he started to write.
Your letter came today. The scarf and the charm too. I don’t know if you’ll ever understand what it means to get something like that here, but thank you. For remembering me. For caring.
It’s hard to explain what this place is like. I’d tell you not to worry about me, but you’d see through that in a second, wouldn’t you? The truth is, I don’t know who I’m going to be when I get back. If I get back. But knowing you’re waiting for me... that helps. More than you’ll ever know.
I’m holding onto your words, just like I’m holding onto the thought of you. I’ll come back to you. I promise.
Yours always,
Tommy
He folded the letter, sliding it into an envelope to send back with the next courier. For a moment, he let himself imagine her opening it, the way her face might light up at his words.
One of his comrades nudged him, pointing to the battered tin of cigarettes she’d sent. “You sharing, Shelby, or are those for you and the King?”
Tommy smirked, lighting the cigarette and passing it around. As they smoked in silence, the faint strains of a carol drifted from a nearby trench, carried on the cold wind.
For a fleeting moment, the war seemed far away, and Tommy allowed himself to feel the warmth of her scarf, the weight of her letter in his pocket, and the fragile hope that he might one day see her again.
Small Heath, 1919
The churchyard was still, bathed in the pale glow of moonlight reflected off the snow. The old stone walls loomed tall against the winter sky, their edges softened by frost. Tommy stood at the gate, his breath visible in the icy air as he looked toward the steps where they used to meet.
He hadn’t been back here in years, not since the world had turned upside down and dragged him into its chaos. But something about this night—Christmas Eve, the stillness, the snow—had pulled him here, as if the past had reached out to him, refusing to let go.
In his coat pocket were her letters. The edges were frayed, the paper worn soft from years of being carried close to him, though he had not read any of the ones she had sent in the final years war.
Tommy pulled one out now, turning it over in his fingers. Her handwriting, familiar and neat, stared back at him. He didn’t need to read the words to hear her voice. He could imagine what she’d written—her warmth, her hope, her belief in him even when he couldn’t find it himself.
The snow crunched under his boots as he walked toward the steps, his movements slow and deliberate. From his pocket, he pulled something else—the small wooden horse he’d carved for her all those years ago. The paint had faded, and the edges were rough from time, but it was still intact, still hers.
Tommy crouched and placed it gently on the cold stone. He stared at it for a long moment, the memories rushing back—their laughter, their promises, the way she’d looked at him with a mix of faith and fear he hadn’t understood at the time.
He didn't blame her for leaving Small Heath - she had always wanted to - he just wished she had waited for him. He would have went with her.
He stood, brushing the snow from his hands, and lit another cigarette. The smoke curled around him, a ghostly wisp against the night. As he turned to leave, he paused, looking back at the wooden horse one last time.
Then he walked away, his silhouette stark against the falling snow. The sound of his boots faded into the stillness, leaving only the quiet of the churchyard behind.
The wooden horse sat alone on the steps, cold, waiting.
Arrow House, Warwickshire, 1920s
The Shelby family home was loud with laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses. The fire roared in the hearth, casting long shadows on the walls as the family celebrated another hard-earned Christmas. Tommy, however, was outside, leaning against the side of the house with a cigarette in hand. The chill of the winter air bit at his skin, but it was a welcome reprieve from the noise inside.
He wasn’t surprised when he heard footsteps approaching, the crunch of snow under boots. What surprised him was who they belonged to.
“You’re still sneaking off for quiet moments,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the cold like a warm memory.
Tommy turned, his breath catching briefly in his chest. She was standing there, bundled in a thick coat, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Time had changed her—softened some things, hardened others—but her eyes were the same, sharp and full of meaning.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, his voice low, guarded.
“I wasn’t sure I would.” She hesitated, looking down at her gloved hands before stepping closer. “But it’s Christmas.”
Tommy dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his boot. “And Christmas has a way of dragging up the past, doesn’t it?”
She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s not just the past I came for.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the snow falling softly around them. Tommy finally gestured toward the small bench tucked against the side of the house. They sat, the distance between them feeling both vast and impossibly small.
“I visited the church,” he said, his voice breaking the quiet. “Every Christmas Eve since you left.”
Her head snapped toward him, surprise flickering in her expression. “You did?”
He nodded, his gaze fixed on the snowy ground. “Always hoped you’d come back. I even left something for you there. Thought maybe it’d remind you of what we had... or what we could have had.”
She exhaled a shaky breath, pinching her eyes shut. "I'm sorry I left, Tommy. I wanted to wait until you got back, I really did, but..." she hung her head, a mixture of shame and regret on her face. "So many men came back from the war before you, and none of them were the samw as when they left, I was scared that you wouldn't be the same when you got back."
They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of laughter and music from inside muffled.
She let out a deep breath, lifting her head to look at him as she spoke.
“I tried to find something better, somewhere else. A life that didn’t feel so heavy. But it always felt like something was missing.”
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and after a long pause, he asked quietly, “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Her answer came after a heartbeat, her voice soft but certain. “No. Because it was always here.”
Tommy’s breath hitched, and for the first time in years, the weight of his choices pressed down on him in a way he couldn’t ignore. He reached out, his hand brushing against hers, tentative and unsure.
“I’m not that boy anymore,” he said, his voice laced with regret.
“I know,” she replied, her hand turning to lace her fingers with his. “But he’s still in there. I see him.”
For a moment, everything else faded—the noise from inside, the cold night air, the years they’d spent apart. It was just the two of them, trying to reconnect after everything that had come between them.
And in that quiet moment, Tommy let himself believe, even if just for a second, that they could find their way back to each other.
summary: tommy's perfect life comes crashing down around him
warnings: angst, swearing, infidelity (sort of), talks of childbirth, terminal illness, child abandonment, infertility issues, period typical attitudes towards pregnancy and childbirth, period typical sexism/misogyny, loss of a parent, unedited
a/n: i will get to making a taglist, but life is a nightmare atm lmao
word count: 3.7k
In many ways, life had not been kind to Tommy Shelby. He had been raised in nothing more than a slum, in a town that saw no sunny days, any form of sunlight being covered by the thick smog of the factories that loomed over the town's residents - a constant reminder of their destiny. He had volunteered to fight for the King before he truly had time to understand what it meant, the thought of fighting men the same as him in a foreign country seeming better than being stuck in Small Heath for the rest of his miserable life.
He was meant for greater things, and he knew exactly what he had to do to get them.
As haunted as he was, Tommy excelled in nearly all aspects of his life. He had built an empire from nothing, he had secured a country manor for the cost of a shack in Small Heath, and he had a wife that had seemed to be put on this earth just for him.
Every decision he made, every step he took, was a calculated move to protect what he had built and to silence the ghosts that refused to let him be. Tommy Shelby was a man driven by both his aspirations and his demons, forever walking the line between triumph and torment.
She had married Tommy Shelby out of nothing but love. When they were wed, he had just arrived home from France, and people told her he was a shadow of the man he once was, though she never believed them. He was funny, charming, and clever; he just kept that part of himself hidden from everyone but her, which only endeared him to her even more.
They had come a long way since their wedding day. They had moved out of the terrace on Watery Lane into a mansion that was far too big for their small family. She no longer spent her days working in the shady betting office at the back of their house; now her days were filled with planning dinner parties and organising fundraising events for her husband's numerous charitable organisations.
Life was easier now, even if it felt a little emptier. She had thought her family would be bigger by now, expecting a few children to fill the vast house and keep her company, but it had never happened for her. She had wondered if there was something wrong with her, that her body was simply created wrong. It wasn't until she was having lunch at Polly's house that realisation dawned on her.
"You're pregnant," the older woman grinned behind her cigarette.
Her eyes widened at the words, and she dropped the china cup on the table. She had long given up on the thought of carrying a child, so the signs of her pregnancy had gone unnoticed. But the words Polly spoke hit her like a ton of bricks.
She was pregnant.
She left Polly's house hastily, barely glancing at the woman as she rushed to her car, a smile on her face, already imagining Tommy's reaction when she told him. She knew he would be thrilled. He had been pining for a child of his own even more than she had, and the hopeful looks he gave her whenever she was sick pierced her heart each time. But that didn't matter now, she was finally giving him a child, they were finally starting their family.
She called Frances' name as soon as she stepped through the door, asking if Tommy was home yet as she threw her bag and coat on the chair by the door. The housekeeper appeared in the foyer with a nervous look on her face, a rarity for the somewhat judgmental woman.
"Mrs. Shelby," Frances started, wringing her hands together in a timid manner, "you have a visitor."
"Who?" she asked, her joyful smile slowly fading.
"A woman," the older woman replied. "She claims to know your husband."
She understood Frances' apprehension in that moment. It was rare for Tommy to receive female visitors at the house, unless they were family or there for business.
She was about to question the housekeeper further but was interrupted by the front door swinging open. Her husband stepped inside, his eyes widening in confusion at the sight of the two women standing frozen in the foyer, their eyes burning into him.
"Mr. Shelby," Frances broke the silence. "You have a visitor."
"Who? I'm not expecting anyone," Tommy said, walking to stand beside his wife and placing a tentative hand on her waist, not missing the way she stiffened under his touch.
"A woman," his wife said, pinching her lips together.
"A woman," he echoed, his eyes flickering between his wife and Frances. "Did this woman happen to give you her name, Frances?"
"She said her name was Catherine, Mr. Shelby," Frances replied hesitantly. "There is something else..."
The husband and wife fixed her with such a burning gaze that the older woman had to lower her head to evade it, only daring to raise it again when Tommy cleared his throat, signaling for her to continue.
"She has a child with her, little thing, about ten years old."
The tension in the room thickened with Frances' words. All three bodies straightened, Tommy dropping his hand from his wife's waist to nervously rub along his lips.
He didn't notice his wife's absence at his side until he heard Frances' panicked voice call her name as she stormed towards his study, the skirt of her dress swinging from side to side with the force of her steps.
He joined Frances, calling out of her name, but she didn't listen, swinging the door to his study open, her heated gaze landing on the woman sitting on one of the seats at Tommy's desk.
"Who are you?" she spat out, shaking off Tommy as he caught up to her and grabbed her arm.
The woman's eyes widened. "My...my name is Catherine."
"I didn't mean your name," she hissed, approaching the desk. "Who are you?"
"I'd prefer to speak to Tommy alone," Catherine answered meekly, dropping her gaze.
"You'd prefer to speak to Tommy," she mocked, leaning a hand on the desk. Tommy called her name again, shaking his head at her when she looked at him.
"Do you know this woman?" she asked her husband, whose gaze flickered to the woman sat by his desk, a blank look on her face.
"No."
Catherine scoffed at his words, standing up from the chair on shaky feet. It was only then the frail state of the woman was clear. She may have been pretty once, but her sunken cheeks and pale skin aged her, and the drab clothes she wore made her seem worn and tired beyond her years.
"This," Catherine pointed to the child sitting beside her, and the other two adults in the room looked at the boy for the first time since they entered, "is Frank."
The young boy didn't look up at the mention of his name, his eyes fixed to his swinging feet.
"He's your son, Tommy."
"Ha," Tommy's wife scoffed. "I'm sure he is."
Your paragraph is mostly clear and grammatically correct. Here's a refined version:
Tommy called her name again, a warning in his voice that he seldom used when addressing her. She fixed him with a glare she seldom directed at him.
"It was before you went to France," Catherine interrupted the husband and wife's silent conversation. "You and your brothers were buying whiskey for the whole pub. I always remember you sitting in the corner, just watching everyone else have fun. I came over and asked you if you were drinking to celebrate or to forget, and you said..."
"Both," Tommy finished her sentence.
"Oh my God," his wife gasped, her hands covering her mouth.
Catherine ignored the other woman, turning her attention to Tommy.
"By the time I realised I was pregnant, you were already in France, and when you came back, everyone said you were different...I was managing fine so I didn't feel the need to tell you..."
"But now you need money," Tommy nodded, reaching into his breastpocket for a cigarette. "How much?"
"What?" Catherine frowned.
"How much?" Tommy mumbled as he lit his cigarette.
"I don't need your money," the woman had the decency to sound offended at the man's words.
"Bullshit," his wife scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
"I don't," Catherine insisted. "I'm sick, Tommy. Very sick, and I have no family. It's just me and Frankie."
The silent little boy in the chair finally lifted his head to look at his mother, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
"He'll have no one when I'm gone."
"We run an orphanage," his wife spoke, her voice cruel and cutting, "we can reserve him a space."
Tommy's head snapped towards her, shock written clearly on his features. His wife was many things—sarcastic, witty, clever—but he had never seen her as cruel, not until this very moment.
"No," the boy shouted, getting up from his chair to stand beside his mother. "I won't go to an orphanage."
"You won't, son," Tommy addressed the boy for the fist time. "My wife was just joking."
His wife rolled her eyes, stormed out of the room, muttering a 'fuck you, Thomas' as she passed him on her way to the door.
It was late when Tommy finally entered the bedroom; his wife sat at her vanity, removing her earrings.
"They've finally gone then," she sighed, beginning to unpin her hair. "How much did you give them?"
He ignored her, throwing himself down on the bed and placing a hand over his eyes, doing anything he could to avoid meeting her gaze.
"Thomas," she warned, "how much?"
"Nothing," he muttered.
"Nothing? They left without a penny?" she scoffed.
"They didn't leave," Tommy snapped, raising his voice and slamming the arm that covered his eyes onto the bed. He groaned as the hairbrush she had thrown hit him in the chest.
"They're still here?" she hissed, standing from the vanity and approaching the bed as Tommy sat up.
"Just listen," he attempted to place his hands on her hips, but she smacked them away, pacing the floor with her hands in her hair. "I am that boy's father, whether we like it or not, I am, alright?"
She shook her head, muttering under her breath as she paced.
"I'm not going to throw him and his sick mother out on the street," he continued. "That's not the man I am, and you know it's not."
"No, your moral compass is a beacon to us all, Tommy," she rolled her eyes.
"What do you want me to do?" he shouted, beginning to lose his temper.
"Not get whores pregnant, for one!" she shouted back, throwing her arms up. "You've betrayed me, Thomas."
"Betrayed?" he repeated, the disbelief evident in his tone. "I didn't know you fucking existed then."
"Well, I still feel betrayed."
Tommy sighed, rising from the bed and approaching his wife the way he would a skittish horse.
"I know, I know," he sighed, placing a hand on her cheek. She didn't resist, though she didn't lean into it either. "It's a fucking mess, and I'm sorry."
She choked out a sob, dropping her head. "It was supposed to be a good day."
"I know," Tommy murmured, moving the hand that was holding her cheek to the back of her neck and pulling her to his chest. "I'm sorry I ruined it."
If only he knew what he had ruined.
The clattering of knives and forks was all that could be heard in the dining room, there were more than ten people sat at the table and it appeared nobody could find a word to speak.
It had been exactly three days since Catherine and Frankie appeared on the Shelby's doorstep, and the tension had only been rising. She had thought she was doing a good job of being civil towards the woman and child who had ruined her life—nodding at them politely when her attempts to avoid them failed, and choking out a 'hello' whenever she ran into them in the corridors.
Tommy had been less than impressed with her attempts to hide from the strangers, and insisted he throw a dinner party to offically introduce his son to the rest of the family, much to his wife's chagrin.
"Lovely lamb," Arthur muttered awkwardly from the other end of the table, his words met with half-hearted murmurs of agreement.
"Frankie loves lamb," Catherine responded, receiving eye rolls from the woman sat beside her, and Polly who was sat opposite.
"How lovely," Polly offered a fake smile.
"I don't eat it a lot, though," Frank spoke from his mother's side. "Lamb's too expensive for mum."
She and Polly sniggered at the boy's words, covering their mouths when Tommy threw them both a glare.
"You enjoy school, Frankie?" John asked.
"It's okay," the boy shrugged. "I'm not very clever, though."
"Takes after his father," Polly muttered, earning a laugh from the man's wife.
"That's not true," Catherine placed a hand on Frank's shoulder. "He's a brilliant artist, and loves to read."
"What about you, Catherine?" Polly leaned forward, puffing on her cigarette. "Tell us about yourself."
"Well...I was a secretary until recently, I'm from not far from you..."
"Fascinating," Polly dismissed her.
"Polly," Tommy warned, subtly shaking his head.
"Why don't we take Frankie outside, Tom?" Arthur interrupted. "Show him how to shoot a gun."
"Oh, I don't-" Catherine started, but was interrupted by Polly.
"That's a wonderful idea, leave us ladies to chat."
Catherine conceded, not wanting to offend the older woman more than she already had. The men all left the table, Tommy having to gently drag Frank away from his mother, leaving the three women alone.
"So, Catherine," Polly began as soon as she heard the door close behind the boys. "Are you planning on staying here until you die?"
"Polly," the other woman gasped at her bluntness, but couldn't help but turn her head to Catherine to await the answer. She had been wondering that herself.
"Well, I hadn't thought about it," Catherine laughed awkwardly. "I just...needed to know Frank would be okay."
"He will be," Polly nodded.
"I know, I know that now." Catherine nodded. "Tommy has been very generous." Her eyes flickered to Tommy's wife, sat beside her, the omission in her statement clear.
"You have no other family that could take Frank?" Polly question, and Catherine shook her head, sweat beginning to pool on her forehead.
"No, my mother died when I was about his age, and my dad passed a few years ago. I'm an only child."
"Bless you," there was malice Mrs. Shelby's tone when she finally spoke.
"It must be scary, knowing you're not going to be here for your child. Trusing two strangers to care for him," Polly continued, not noticing Catherine's face getting paler, nor the way her hands shook when she lifted them to rub her head.
"Polly, I don't think she's feeling well," the other woman frowned when she noticed Catherine's body begin to slump in her chair.
"She's fine."
"No," Catherine said. "I'm not, I think I need to lay down."
They called Frances over, instructing them to take Catherine to bed, neither woman standing up from their seats to assist. They watched as Frances struggled to hold up the frail woman's body as she hald carried her out of the dining room.
"She's a fucking good actress," Polly muttered.
Frances returned to the dining room to inform the two women that Catherine had taken a turn, and the doctor would arrive soon to examine her.
Polly sat unaffected by the housekeeper's words; her counterpart's eyes, however, widened in horror.
"Oh my God, Polly," she gasped. "Have we killed her?"
"Oh, shut up," Polly scoffed, stamping out her cigarette in the ashtray. "She was dying before she even got here."
"Polly," she sputtered. "Your interrogation has literally put her in an early grave."
"Oh, because you were treating her splendidly?"
"I was just ignoring her. You've fucking killed her."
The dining room door slammed open. Tommy stood there, his face red, his eyes stormy.
"What did you two fucking do?"
Two days following the dinner party, Catherine's condition had not improved. The doctor had told them that her illness was so advanced that it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Still, she couldn't ignore the guilt that was bubbling in her stomach when she thought about the way she had acted at dinner.
She knocked lightly on the door, opening it gently, careful not to disturb the frail woman that was lying in bed.
"I'm surprised to see you," Catherine choked out, weakly pulling herself into a sitting position.
"I'm surprised too."
"Is there something wrong? Is Frankie okay?"
"Everything's fine," she reassured the woman, moving to sit in the chair beside the bed. "I came to apologise."
She didn't miss the way Catherine's eyebrow's rose.
"The way I've behaved since you arrived has been terrible. I'm not a cruel person, I swear. I was just angry."
"I understand."
She paused, her breath catching in her throat at Catherine's words.
"I would be angry, too, if I were you."
"It doesn't excuse the way I've treated you."
"No," Catherine breathed with a laugh. "But I understand it anyway. You felt like you lost everything in a few minutes, and I was easy to blame."
"I am very sorry," she spoke through the tears in her eyes.
"I am too."
"Well," she coughed, standing from her seat. "I should let you rest."
Catherine called her name when her hand was on the doorhandle, and she turned to look at the sick woman.
"Look after Frankie, please," she said, her voice weak and teary. "He's a sensitive boy. Please look after him, and love him, love him as much as the child in your belly."
"How did you know?"
"I had the same mood swings when I was pregnant," she said. Both women let out a small laugh.
"I promise to look after him... and to love him like my own."
"Thank you."
She approached Tommy, who was leaning in Frankie's doorway, quietly observing the boy as he slept peacefully. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his back. Tommy jumped in surprise before reaching to hold his wife's hands, which were clasped around his stomach.
"You'll be a good father," she spoke into his back.
"Just wish it didn't happen like this," Tommy mumbled. "It should have been you and me."
"It will be," she promised. "You, me, Frankie, and the baby."
Tommy unclasped her hands, turning to face her, a frown on his face.
"You're..."
"I am."
Tommy's expression softened as he processed the news, a mixture of surprise and tenderness crossing his features.
"You're pregnant," Tommy breathed, his voice filled with a mix of astonishment and wonder. He pulled her close again, holding her tightly against him. "We're having a baby."
She nodded against his chest, feeling his heart beat faster beneath her ear. "Yes, Tommy."
Tommy pressed a kiss to the top of her head, overwhelmed with emotions. "I love you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you and I'm so fucking sorry."
Tears welled up in her eyes as she hugged him back, her eyes landing on the boy asleep in the bed.
Catherine's funeral service was small. There weren't many people close to the woman, the majority of the mourners being the Shelby family.
Frankie didn't say much the whole day, he just stood at his mother's grave, an empty look in his eyes that she recognised all too well.
They arrived home in silence, Frankie jumping out of the car as soon as it pulled up in front of the house, running inside before anyone could stop him.
"He just needs time," she told her husband, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"I know," Tommy agreed. He was no stranger to death, nor the solemn emptiness that came after.
She knocked on Frankie's door later that evening, popping her head in to see him sat on the carpet, still in his suit from the funeral.
"I'm just checking in," she offered him a small smile, kneeling down beside him on the floor. "How are you feeling?"
Frankie shrugged in response, his eyes downcast.
"It's okay if you want to cry, there's no shame in it."
"I don't want to cry," his voice shook, "I just want my mum."
"Oh, sweetheart," she breathed out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I know you do."
He didn't respond, he just kept his gaze pinned to the blue carpet beneath him.
"I lost my mum too, you know?" she said. Frankie's eyes snapped to hers for a moment, then snapped back down. "She died when I was a bit older than you. She got sick and died a few weeks later; there was nothing anyone could do."
"Do you miss her?" Frankie asked, turning to face her.
"Every day," she told him, "it doesn't get easier. You just learn to live with it. And then, someday, you'll be able to think about her and your time together, and it won't hurt so much. But you'll always miss your mum."
Frankie's lips pinched together in thought, and he nodded, accepting her ineloquent words greatfully.
"I know I haven't been very nice to you," she said. "But we're a family, and if you ever want to talk about her, you can come to me, and I'll listen."
"Okay."
"Okay," she rose from the floor.
"I'm sorry about your mum," Frankie said once she was standing.
"I'm sorry about yours," she replied, offering him one last smile before leaving the room.
Elsie Catherine Shelby was born in the early hours of the morning. She came quickly and was less fussy than other babies, according to the midwife.
Her big brother was excited to meet her, pacing the bottom of the stairs until the midwife allowed him to enter the room, a smile on his face as he greeted his little sister with glee.
"I'm not an only child anymore," he had laughed, poking the infant's cheek gently.
And just like that, the Shelby family welcomed their newest member.
Can I just say how much better and more thought out this is than the actual series? Beautifully, beautifully written, especially the melancholy vibes of it. 10/10 ❤️
summary: tommy's perfect life comes crashing down around him
warnings: angst, swearing, infidelity (sort of), talks of childbirth, terminal illness, child abandonment, infertility issues, period typical attitudes towards pregnancy and childbirth, period typical sexism/misogyny, loss of a parent, unedited
a/n: i will get to making a taglist, but life is a nightmare atm lmao
word count: 3.7k
In many ways, life had not been kind to Tommy Shelby. He had been raised in nothing more than a slum, in a town that saw no sunny days, any form of sunlight being covered by the thick smog of the factories that loomed over the town's residents - a constant reminder of their destiny. He had volunteered to fight for the King before he truly had time to understand what it meant, the thought of fighting men the same as him in a foreign country seeming better than being stuck in Small Heath for the rest of his miserable life.
He was meant for greater things, and he knew exactly what he had to do to get them.
As haunted as he was, Tommy excelled in nearly all aspects of his life. He had built an empire from nothing, he had secured a country manor for the cost of a shack in Small Heath, and he had a wife that had seemed to be put on this earth just for him.
Every decision he made, every step he took, was a calculated move to protect what he had built and to silence the ghosts that refused to let him be. Tommy Shelby was a man driven by both his aspirations and his demons, forever walking the line between triumph and torment.
She had married Tommy Shelby out of nothing but love. When they were wed, he had just arrived home from France, and people told her he was a shadow of the man he once was, though she never believed them. He was funny, charming, and clever; he just kept that part of himself hidden from everyone but her, which only endeared him to her even more.
They had come a long way since their wedding day. They had moved out of the terrace on Watery Lane into a mansion that was far too big for their small family. She no longer spent her days working in the shady betting office at the back of their house; now her days were filled with planning dinner parties and organising fundraising events for her husband's numerous charitable organisations.
Life was easier now, even if it felt a little emptier. She had thought her family would be bigger by now, expecting a few children to fill the vast house and keep her company, but it had never happened for her. She had wondered if there was something wrong with her, that her body was simply created wrong. It wasn't until she was having lunch at Polly's house that realisation dawned on her.
"You're pregnant," the older woman grinned behind her cigarette.
Her eyes widened at the words, and she dropped the china cup on the table. She had long given up on the thought of carrying a child, so the signs of her pregnancy had gone unnoticed. But the words Polly spoke hit her like a ton of bricks.
She was pregnant.
She left Polly's house hastily, barely glancing at the woman as she rushed to her car, a smile on her face, already imagining Tommy's reaction when she told him. She knew he would be thrilled. He had been pining for a child of his own even more than she had, and the hopeful looks he gave her whenever she was sick pierced her heart each time. But that didn't matter now, she was finally giving him a child, they were finally starting their family.
She called Frances' name as soon as she stepped through the door, asking if Tommy was home yet as she threw her bag and coat on the chair by the door. The housekeeper appeared in the foyer with a nervous look on her face, a rarity for the somewhat judgmental woman.
"Mrs. Shelby," Frances started, wringing her hands together in a timid manner, "you have a visitor."
"Who?" she asked, her joyful smile slowly fading.
"A woman," the older woman replied. "She claims to know your husband."
She understood Frances' apprehension in that moment. It was rare for Tommy to receive female visitors at the house, unless they were family or there for business.
She was about to question the housekeeper further but was interrupted by the front door swinging open. Her husband stepped inside, his eyes widening in confusion at the sight of the two women standing frozen in the foyer, their eyes burning into him.
"Mr. Shelby," Frances broke the silence. "You have a visitor."
"Who? I'm not expecting anyone," Tommy said, walking to stand beside his wife and placing a tentative hand on her waist, not missing the way she stiffened under his touch.
"A woman," his wife said, pinching her lips together.
"A woman," he echoed, his eyes flickering between his wife and Frances. "Did this woman happen to give you her name, Frances?"
"She said her name was Catherine, Mr. Shelby," Frances replied hesitantly. "There is something else..."
The husband and wife fixed her with such a burning gaze that the older woman had to lower her head to evade it, only daring to raise it again when Tommy cleared his throat, signaling for her to continue.
"She has a child with her, little thing, about ten years old."
The tension in the room thickened with Frances' words. All three bodies straightened, Tommy dropping his hand from his wife's waist to nervously rub along his lips.
He didn't notice his wife's absence at his side until he heard Frances' panicked voice call her name as she stormed towards his study, the skirt of her dress swinging from side to side with the force of her steps.
He joined Frances, calling out of her name, but she didn't listen, swinging the door to his study open, her heated gaze landing on the woman sitting on one of the seats at Tommy's desk.
"Who are you?" she spat out, shaking off Tommy as he caught up to her and grabbed her arm.
The woman's eyes widened. "My...my name is Catherine."
"I didn't mean your name," she hissed, approaching the desk. "Who are you?"
"I'd prefer to speak to Tommy alone," Catherine answered meekly, dropping her gaze.
"You'd prefer to speak to Tommy," she mocked, leaning a hand on the desk. Tommy called her name again, shaking his head at her when she looked at him.
"Do you know this woman?" she asked her husband, whose gaze flickered to the woman sat by his desk, a blank look on her face.
"No."
Catherine scoffed at his words, standing up from the chair on shaky feet. It was only then the frail state of the woman was clear. She may have been pretty once, but her sunken cheeks and pale skin aged her, and the drab clothes she wore made her seem worn and tired beyond her years.
"This," Catherine pointed to the child sitting beside her, and the other two adults in the room looked at the boy for the first time since they entered, "is Frank."
The young boy didn't look up at the mention of his name, his eyes fixed to his swinging feet.
"He's your son, Tommy."
"Ha," Tommy's wife scoffed. "I'm sure he is."
Your paragraph is mostly clear and grammatically correct. Here's a refined version:
Tommy called her name again, a warning in his voice that he seldom used when addressing her. She fixed him with a glare she seldom directed at him.
"It was before you went to France," Catherine interrupted the husband and wife's silent conversation. "You and your brothers were buying whiskey for the whole pub. I always remember you sitting in the corner, just watching everyone else have fun. I came over and asked you if you were drinking to celebrate or to forget, and you said..."
"Both," Tommy finished her sentence.
"Oh my God," his wife gasped, her hands covering her mouth.
Catherine ignored the other woman, turning her attention to Tommy.
"By the time I realised I was pregnant, you were already in France, and when you came back, everyone said you were different...I was managing fine so I didn't feel the need to tell you..."
"But now you need money," Tommy nodded, reaching into his breastpocket for a cigarette. "How much?"
"What?" Catherine frowned.
"How much?" Tommy mumbled as he lit his cigarette.
"I don't need your money," the woman had the decency to sound offended at the man's words.
"Bullshit," his wife scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
"I don't," Catherine insisted. "I'm sick, Tommy. Very sick, and I have no family. It's just me and Frankie."
The silent little boy in the chair finally lifted his head to look at his mother, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
"He'll have no one when I'm gone."
"We run an orphanage," his wife spoke, her voice cruel and cutting, "we can reserve him a space."
Tommy's head snapped towards her, shock written clearly on his features. His wife was many things—sarcastic, witty, clever—but he had never seen her as cruel, not until this very moment.
"No," the boy shouted, getting up from his chair to stand beside his mother. "I won't go to an orphanage."
"You won't, son," Tommy addressed the boy for the fist time. "My wife was just joking."
His wife rolled her eyes, stormed out of the room, muttering a 'fuck you, Thomas' as she passed him on her way to the door.
It was late when Tommy finally entered the bedroom; his wife sat at her vanity, removing her earrings.
"They've finally gone then," she sighed, beginning to unpin her hair. "How much did you give them?"
He ignored her, throwing himself down on the bed and placing a hand over his eyes, doing anything he could to avoid meeting her gaze.
"Thomas," she warned, "how much?"
"Nothing," he muttered.
"Nothing? They left without a penny?" she scoffed.
"They didn't leave," Tommy snapped, raising his voice and slamming the arm that covered his eyes onto the bed. He groaned as the hairbrush she had thrown hit him in the chest.
"They're still here?" she hissed, standing from the vanity and approaching the bed as Tommy sat up.
"Just listen," he attempted to place his hands on her hips, but she smacked them away, pacing the floor with her hands in her hair. "I am that boy's father, whether we like it or not, I am, alright?"
She shook her head, muttering under her breath as she paced.
"I'm not going to throw him and his sick mother out on the street," he continued. "That's not the man I am, and you know it's not."
"No, your moral compass is a beacon to us all, Tommy," she rolled her eyes.
"What do you want me to do?" he shouted, beginning to lose his temper.
"Not get whores pregnant, for one!" she shouted back, throwing her arms up. "You've betrayed me, Thomas."
"Betrayed?" he repeated, the disbelief evident in his tone. "I didn't know you fucking existed then."
"Well, I still feel betrayed."
Tommy sighed, rising from the bed and approaching his wife the way he would a skittish horse.
"I know, I know," he sighed, placing a hand on her cheek. She didn't resist, though she didn't lean into it either. "It's a fucking mess, and I'm sorry."
She choked out a sob, dropping her head. "It was supposed to be a good day."
"I know," Tommy murmured, moving the hand that was holding her cheek to the back of her neck and pulling her to his chest. "I'm sorry I ruined it."
If only he knew what he had ruined.
The clattering of knives and forks was all that could be heard in the dining room, there were more than ten people sat at the table and it appeared nobody could find a word to speak.
It had been exactly three days since Catherine and Frankie appeared on the Shelby's doorstep, and the tension had only been rising. She had thought she was doing a good job of being civil towards the woman and child who had ruined her life—nodding at them politely when her attempts to avoid them failed, and choking out a 'hello' whenever she ran into them in the corridors.
Tommy had been less than impressed with her attempts to hide from the strangers, and insisted he throw a dinner party to offically introduce his son to the rest of the family, much to his wife's chagrin.
"Lovely lamb," Arthur muttered awkwardly from the other end of the table, his words met with half-hearted murmurs of agreement.
"Frankie loves lamb," Catherine responded, receiving eye rolls from the woman sat beside her, and Polly who was sat opposite.
"How lovely," Polly offered a fake smile.
"I don't eat it a lot, though," Frank spoke from his mother's side. "Lamb's too expensive for mum."
She and Polly sniggered at the boy's words, covering their mouths when Tommy threw them both a glare.
"You enjoy school, Frankie?" John asked.
"It's okay," the boy shrugged. "I'm not very clever, though."
"Takes after his father," Polly muttered, earning a laugh from the man's wife.
"That's not true," Catherine placed a hand on Frank's shoulder. "He's a brilliant artist, and loves to read."
"What about you, Catherine?" Polly leaned forward, puffing on her cigarette. "Tell us about yourself."
"Well...I was a secretary until recently, I'm from not far from you..."
"Fascinating," Polly dismissed her.
"Polly," Tommy warned, subtly shaking his head.
"Why don't we take Frankie outside, Tom?" Arthur interrupted. "Show him how to shoot a gun."
"Oh, I don't-" Catherine started, but was interrupted by Polly.
"That's a wonderful idea, leave us ladies to chat."
Catherine conceded, not wanting to offend the older woman more than she already had. The men all left the table, Tommy having to gently drag Frank away from his mother, leaving the three women alone.
"So, Catherine," Polly began as soon as she heard the door close behind the boys. "Are you planning on staying here until you die?"
"Polly," the other woman gasped at her bluntness, but couldn't help but turn her head to Catherine to await the answer. She had been wondering that herself.
"Well, I hadn't thought about it," Catherine laughed awkwardly. "I just...needed to know Frank would be okay."
"He will be," Polly nodded.
"I know, I know that now." Catherine nodded. "Tommy has been very generous." Her eyes flickered to Tommy's wife, sat beside her, the omission in her statement clear.
"You have no other family that could take Frank?" Polly question, and Catherine shook her head, sweat beginning to pool on her forehead.
"No, my mother died when I was about his age, and my dad passed a few years ago. I'm an only child."
"Bless you," there was malice Mrs. Shelby's tone when she finally spoke.
"It must be scary, knowing you're not going to be here for your child. Trusing two strangers to care for him," Polly continued, not noticing Catherine's face getting paler, nor the way her hands shook when she lifted them to rub her head.
"Polly, I don't think she's feeling well," the other woman frowned when she noticed Catherine's body begin to slump in her chair.
"She's fine."
"No," Catherine said. "I'm not, I think I need to lay down."
They called Frances over, instructing them to take Catherine to bed, neither woman standing up from their seats to assist. They watched as Frances struggled to hold up the frail woman's body as she hald carried her out of the dining room.
"She's a fucking good actress," Polly muttered.
Frances returned to the dining room to inform the two women that Catherine had taken a turn, and the doctor would arrive soon to examine her.
Polly sat unaffected by the housekeeper's words; her counterpart's eyes, however, widened in horror.
"Oh my God, Polly," she gasped. "Have we killed her?"
"Oh, shut up," Polly scoffed, stamping out her cigarette in the ashtray. "She was dying before she even got here."
"Polly," she sputtered. "Your interrogation has literally put her in an early grave."
"Oh, because you were treating her splendidly?"
"I was just ignoring her. You've fucking killed her."
The dining room door slammed open. Tommy stood there, his face red, his eyes stormy.
"What did you two fucking do?"
Two days following the dinner party, Catherine's condition had not improved. The doctor had told them that her illness was so advanced that it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Still, she couldn't ignore the guilt that was bubbling in her stomach when she thought about the way she had acted at dinner.
She knocked lightly on the door, opening it gently, careful not to disturb the frail woman that was lying in bed.
"I'm surprised to see you," Catherine choked out, weakly pulling herself into a sitting position.
"I'm surprised too."
"Is there something wrong? Is Frankie okay?"
"Everything's fine," she reassured the woman, moving to sit in the chair beside the bed. "I came to apologise."
She didn't miss the way Catherine's eyebrow's rose.
"The way I've behaved since you arrived has been terrible. I'm not a cruel person, I swear. I was just angry."
"I understand."
She paused, her breath catching in her throat at Catherine's words.
"I would be angry, too, if I were you."
"It doesn't excuse the way I've treated you."
"No," Catherine breathed with a laugh. "But I understand it anyway. You felt like you lost everything in a few minutes, and I was easy to blame."
"I am very sorry," she spoke through the tears in her eyes.
"I am too."
"Well," she coughed, standing from her seat. "I should let you rest."
Catherine called her name when her hand was on the doorhandle, and she turned to look at the sick woman.
"Look after Frankie, please," she said, her voice weak and teary. "He's a sensitive boy. Please look after him, and love him, love him as much as the child in your belly."
"How did you know?"
"I had the same mood swings when I was pregnant," she said. Both women let out a small laugh.
"I promise to look after him... and to love him like my own."
"Thank you."
She approached Tommy, who was leaning in Frankie's doorway, quietly observing the boy as he slept peacefully. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his back. Tommy jumped in surprise before reaching to hold his wife's hands, which were clasped around his stomach.
"You'll be a good father," she spoke into his back.
"Just wish it didn't happen like this," Tommy mumbled. "It should have been you and me."
"It will be," she promised. "You, me, Frankie, and the baby."
Tommy unclasped her hands, turning to face her, a frown on his face.
"You're..."
"I am."
Tommy's expression softened as he processed the news, a mixture of surprise and tenderness crossing his features.
"You're pregnant," Tommy breathed, his voice filled with a mix of astonishment and wonder. He pulled her close again, holding her tightly against him. "We're having a baby."
She nodded against his chest, feeling his heart beat faster beneath her ear. "Yes, Tommy."
Tommy pressed a kiss to the top of her head, overwhelmed with emotions. "I love you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you and I'm so fucking sorry."
Tears welled up in her eyes as she hugged him back, her eyes landing on the boy asleep in the bed.
Catherine's funeral service was small. There weren't many people close to the woman, the majority of the mourners being the Shelby family.
Frankie didn't say much the whole day, he just stood at his mother's grave, an empty look in his eyes that she recognised all too well.
They arrived home in silence, Frankie jumping out of the car as soon as it pulled up in front of the house, running inside before anyone could stop him.
"He just needs time," she told her husband, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"I know," Tommy agreed. He was no stranger to death, nor the solemn emptiness that came after.
She knocked on Frankie's door later that evening, popping her head in to see him sat on the carpet, still in his suit from the funeral.
"I'm just checking in," she offered him a small smile, kneeling down beside him on the floor. "How are you feeling?"
Frankie shrugged in response, his eyes downcast.
"It's okay if you want to cry, there's no shame in it."
"I don't want to cry," his voice shook, "I just want my mum."
"Oh, sweetheart," she breathed out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I know you do."
He didn't respond, he just kept his gaze pinned to the blue carpet beneath him.
"I lost my mum too, you know?" she said. Frankie's eyes snapped to hers for a moment, then snapped back down. "She died when I was a bit older than you. She got sick and died a few weeks later; there was nothing anyone could do."
"Do you miss her?" Frankie asked, turning to face her.
"Every day," she told him, "it doesn't get easier. You just learn to live with it. And then, someday, you'll be able to think about her and your time together, and it won't hurt so much. But you'll always miss your mum."
Frankie's lips pinched together in thought, and he nodded, accepting her ineloquent words greatfully.
"I know I haven't been very nice to you," she said. "But we're a family, and if you ever want to talk about her, you can come to me, and I'll listen."
"Okay."
"Okay," she rose from the floor.
"I'm sorry about your mum," Frankie said once she was standing.
"I'm sorry about yours," she replied, offering him one last smile before leaving the room.
Elsie Catherine Shelby was born in the early hours of the morning. She came quickly and was less fussy than other babies, according to the midwife.
Her big brother was excited to meet her, pacing the bottom of the stairs until the midwife allowed him to enter the room, a smile on his face as he greeted his little sister with glee.
"I'm not an only child anymore," he had laughed, poking the infant's cheek gently.
And just like that, the Shelby family welcomed their newest member.
This was such a bittersweet fic. I completely get Y/N's intial anger and feelings of betrayal bc despite Catherine and Tommy's time together happening before Y/N was in the picture, realizing that a child was conceived through it must've felt like a punch in the gut to her. I'm glad she was able to see the error in her ways though and make peace with Catherine bc I don't think Catherine had any malicious intentions when she brought Frank to Tommy, she just didn't want her son to be left alone. It's also bittersweet how Frank and Y/N were able to connect with one another through their mutual maternal loss. I know to some it might seem weird that they gave their new baby part of Catherine as their name but I think it was lovely for them to do so, knowing that the baby will also be Frank's sibling and also bc of the respect Catherine + Y/N were able to find for one another in the end. Amazing work as always angel 🥺🤍
Thank you for your lovely comment! I'm really glad the bittersweet nature of the fic came through for you. Her initial anger and feelings of betrayal were intense to write, especially considering the circumstances with Catherine and Tommy. It definitely would have felt like a punch in the gut for her, even if it all happened before she was in the picture.
I'm happy you saw her journey towards making peace with Catherine. Catherine really just wanted the best for her son, and I wanted to show that she had no malicious intentions. The connection between Frank and his stepmother through their shared loss was an important part of the story for me, and I'm glad it resonated with you.
As for naming the new baby after Catherine, I thought it was a meaningful way to honor the respect and understanding they develoed developed for each other, as well as assuring Frank that his mother wouldn't be forgotten. It's great to hear you found it lovely too. Thanks again for your kind words and support! It means a lot to me.
summary: tommy's perfect life comes crashing down around him
warnings: angst, swearing, infidelity (sort of), talks of childbirth, terminal illness, child abandonment, infertility issues, period typical attitudes towards pregnancy and childbirth, period typical sexism/misogyny, loss of a parent, unedited
a/n: i will get to making a taglist, but life is a nightmare atm lmao
word count: 3.7k
In many ways, life had not been kind to Tommy Shelby. He had been raised in nothing more than a slum, in a town that saw no sunny days, any form of sunlight being covered by the thick smog of the factories that loomed over the town's residents - a constant reminder of their destiny. He had volunteered to fight for the King before he truly had time to understand what it meant, the thought of fighting men the same as him in a foreign country seeming better than being stuck in Small Heath for the rest of his miserable life.
He was meant for greater things, and he knew exactly what he had to do to get them.
As haunted as he was, Tommy excelled in nearly all aspects of his life. He had built an empire from nothing, he had secured a country manor for the cost of a shack in Small Heath, and he had a wife that had seemed to be put on this earth just for him.
Every decision he made, every step he took, was a calculated move to protect what he had built and to silence the ghosts that refused to let him be. Tommy Shelby was a man driven by both his aspirations and his demons, forever walking the line between triumph and torment.
She had married Tommy Shelby out of nothing but love. When they were wed, he had just arrived home from France, and people told her he was a shadow of the man he once was, though she never believed them. He was funny, charming, and clever; he just kept that part of himself hidden from everyone but her, which only endeared him to her even more.
They had come a long way since their wedding day. They had moved out of the terrace on Watery Lane into a mansion that was far too big for their small family. She no longer spent her days working in the shady betting office at the back of their house; now her days were filled with planning dinner parties and organising fundraising events for her husband's numerous charitable organisations.
Life was easier now, even if it felt a little emptier. She had thought her family would be bigger by now, expecting a few children to fill the vast house and keep her company, but it had never happened for her. She had wondered if there was something wrong with her, that her body was simply created wrong. It wasn't until she was having lunch at Polly's house that realisation dawned on her.
"You're pregnant," the older woman grinned behind her cigarette.
Her eyes widened at the words, and she dropped the china cup on the table. She had long given up on the thought of carrying a child, so the signs of her pregnancy had gone unnoticed. But the words Polly spoke hit her like a ton of bricks.
She was pregnant.
She left Polly's house hastily, barely glancing at the woman as she rushed to her car, a smile on her face, already imagining Tommy's reaction when she told him. She knew he would be thrilled. He had been pining for a child of his own even more than she had, and the hopeful looks he gave her whenever she was sick pierced her heart each time. But that didn't matter now, she was finally giving him a child, they were finally starting their family.
She called Frances' name as soon as she stepped through the door, asking if Tommy was home yet as she threw her bag and coat on the chair by the door. The housekeeper appeared in the foyer with a nervous look on her face, a rarity for the somewhat judgmental woman.
"Mrs. Shelby," Frances started, wringing her hands together in a timid manner, "you have a visitor."
"Who?" she asked, her joyful smile slowly fading.
"A woman," the older woman replied. "She claims to know your husband."
She understood Frances' apprehension in that moment. It was rare for Tommy to receive female visitors at the house, unless they were family or there for business.
She was about to question the housekeeper further but was interrupted by the front door swinging open. Her husband stepped inside, his eyes widening in confusion at the sight of the two women standing frozen in the foyer, their eyes burning into him.
"Mr. Shelby," Frances broke the silence. "You have a visitor."
"Who? I'm not expecting anyone," Tommy said, walking to stand beside his wife and placing a tentative hand on her waist, not missing the way she stiffened under his touch.
"A woman," his wife said, pinching her lips together.
"A woman," he echoed, his eyes flickering between his wife and Frances. "Did this woman happen to give you her name, Frances?"
"She said her name was Catherine, Mr. Shelby," Frances replied hesitantly. "There is something else..."
The husband and wife fixed her with such a burning gaze that the older woman had to lower her head to evade it, only daring to raise it again when Tommy cleared his throat, signaling for her to continue.
"She has a child with her, little thing, about ten years old."
The tension in the room thickened with Frances' words. All three bodies straightened, Tommy dropping his hand from his wife's waist to nervously rub along his lips.
He didn't notice his wife's absence at his side until he heard Frances' panicked voice call her name as she stormed towards his study, the skirt of her dress swinging from side to side with the force of her steps.
He joined Frances, calling out of her name, but she didn't listen, swinging the door to his study open, her heated gaze landing on the woman sitting on one of the seats at Tommy's desk.
"Who are you?" she spat out, shaking off Tommy as he caught up to her and grabbed her arm.
The woman's eyes widened. "My...my name is Catherine."
"I didn't mean your name," she hissed, approaching the desk. "Who are you?"
"I'd prefer to speak to Tommy alone," Catherine answered meekly, dropping her gaze.
"You'd prefer to speak to Tommy," she mocked, leaning a hand on the desk. Tommy called her name again, shaking his head at her when she looked at him.
"Do you know this woman?" she asked her husband, whose gaze flickered to the woman sat by his desk, a blank look on her face.
"No."
Catherine scoffed at his words, standing up from the chair on shaky feet. It was only then the frail state of the woman was clear. She may have been pretty once, but her sunken cheeks and pale skin aged her, and the drab clothes she wore made her seem worn and tired beyond her years.
"This," Catherine pointed to the child sitting beside her, and the other two adults in the room looked at the boy for the first time since they entered, "is Frank."
The young boy didn't look up at the mention of his name, his eyes fixed to his swinging feet.
"He's your son, Tommy."
"Ha," Tommy's wife scoffed. "I'm sure he is."
Your paragraph is mostly clear and grammatically correct. Here's a refined version:
Tommy called her name again, a warning in his voice that he seldom used when addressing her. She fixed him with a glare she seldom directed at him.
"It was before you went to France," Catherine interrupted the husband and wife's silent conversation. "You and your brothers were buying whiskey for the whole pub. I always remember you sitting in the corner, just watching everyone else have fun. I came over and asked you if you were drinking to celebrate or to forget, and you said..."
"Both," Tommy finished her sentence.
"Oh my God," his wife gasped, her hands covering her mouth.
Catherine ignored the other woman, turning her attention to Tommy.
"By the time I realised I was pregnant, you were already in France, and when you came back, everyone said you were different...I was managing fine so I didn't feel the need to tell you..."
"But now you need money," Tommy nodded, reaching into his breastpocket for a cigarette. "How much?"
"What?" Catherine frowned.
"How much?" Tommy mumbled as he lit his cigarette.
"I don't need your money," the woman had the decency to sound offended at the man's words.
"Bullshit," his wife scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
"I don't," Catherine insisted. "I'm sick, Tommy. Very sick, and I have no family. It's just me and Frankie."
The silent little boy in the chair finally lifted his head to look at his mother, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
"He'll have no one when I'm gone."
"We run an orphanage," his wife spoke, her voice cruel and cutting, "we can reserve him a space."
Tommy's head snapped towards her, shock written clearly on his features. His wife was many things—sarcastic, witty, clever—but he had never seen her as cruel, not until this very moment.
"No," the boy shouted, getting up from his chair to stand beside his mother. "I won't go to an orphanage."
"You won't, son," Tommy addressed the boy for the fist time. "My wife was just joking."
His wife rolled her eyes, stormed out of the room, muttering a 'fuck you, Thomas' as she passed him on her way to the door.
It was late when Tommy finally entered the bedroom; his wife sat at her vanity, removing her earrings.
"They've finally gone then," she sighed, beginning to unpin her hair. "How much did you give them?"
He ignored her, throwing himself down on the bed and placing a hand over his eyes, doing anything he could to avoid meeting her gaze.
"Thomas," she warned, "how much?"
"Nothing," he muttered.
"Nothing? They left without a penny?" she scoffed.
"They didn't leave," Tommy snapped, raising his voice and slamming the arm that covered his eyes onto the bed. He groaned as the hairbrush she had thrown hit him in the chest.
"They're still here?" she hissed, standing from the vanity and approaching the bed as Tommy sat up.
"Just listen," he attempted to place his hands on her hips, but she smacked them away, pacing the floor with her hands in her hair. "I am that boy's father, whether we like it or not, I am, alright?"
She shook her head, muttering under her breath as she paced.
"I'm not going to throw him and his sick mother out on the street," he continued. "That's not the man I am, and you know it's not."
"No, your moral compass is a beacon to us all, Tommy," she rolled her eyes.
"What do you want me to do?" he shouted, beginning to lose his temper.
"Not get whores pregnant, for one!" she shouted back, throwing her arms up. "You've betrayed me, Thomas."
"Betrayed?" he repeated, the disbelief evident in his tone. "I didn't know you fucking existed then."
"Well, I still feel betrayed."
Tommy sighed, rising from the bed and approaching his wife the way he would a skittish horse.
"I know, I know," he sighed, placing a hand on her cheek. She didn't resist, though she didn't lean into it either. "It's a fucking mess, and I'm sorry."
She choked out a sob, dropping her head. "It was supposed to be a good day."
"I know," Tommy murmured, moving the hand that was holding her cheek to the back of her neck and pulling her to his chest. "I'm sorry I ruined it."
If only he knew what he had ruined.
The clattering of knives and forks was all that could be heard in the dining room, there were more than ten people sat at the table and it appeared nobody could find a word to speak.
It had been exactly three days since Catherine and Frankie appeared on the Shelby's doorstep, and the tension had only been rising. She had thought she was doing a good job of being civil towards the woman and child who had ruined her life—nodding at them politely when her attempts to avoid them failed, and choking out a 'hello' whenever she ran into them in the corridors.
Tommy had been less than impressed with her attempts to hide from the strangers, and insisted he throw a dinner party to offically introduce his son to the rest of the family, much to his wife's chagrin.
"Lovely lamb," Arthur muttered awkwardly from the other end of the table, his words met with half-hearted murmurs of agreement.
"Frankie loves lamb," Catherine responded, receiving eye rolls from the woman sat beside her, and Polly who was sat opposite.
"How lovely," Polly offered a fake smile.
"I don't eat it a lot, though," Frank spoke from his mother's side. "Lamb's too expensive for mum."
She and Polly sniggered at the boy's words, covering their mouths when Tommy threw them both a glare.
"You enjoy school, Frankie?" John asked.
"It's okay," the boy shrugged. "I'm not very clever, though."
"Takes after his father," Polly muttered, earning a laugh from the man's wife.
"That's not true," Catherine placed a hand on Frank's shoulder. "He's a brilliant artist, and loves to read."
"What about you, Catherine?" Polly leaned forward, puffing on her cigarette. "Tell us about yourself."
"Well...I was a secretary until recently, I'm from not far from you..."
"Fascinating," Polly dismissed her.
"Polly," Tommy warned, subtly shaking his head.
"Why don't we take Frankie outside, Tom?" Arthur interrupted. "Show him how to shoot a gun."
"Oh, I don't-" Catherine started, but was interrupted by Polly.
"That's a wonderful idea, leave us ladies to chat."
Catherine conceded, not wanting to offend the older woman more than she already had. The men all left the table, Tommy having to gently drag Frank away from his mother, leaving the three women alone.
"So, Catherine," Polly began as soon as she heard the door close behind the boys. "Are you planning on staying here until you die?"
"Polly," the other woman gasped at her bluntness, but couldn't help but turn her head to Catherine to await the answer. She had been wondering that herself.
"Well, I hadn't thought about it," Catherine laughed awkwardly. "I just...needed to know Frank would be okay."
"He will be," Polly nodded.
"I know, I know that now." Catherine nodded. "Tommy has been very generous." Her eyes flickered to Tommy's wife, sat beside her, the omission in her statement clear.
"You have no other family that could take Frank?" Polly question, and Catherine shook her head, sweat beginning to pool on her forehead.
"No, my mother died when I was about his age, and my dad passed a few years ago. I'm an only child."
"Bless you," there was malice Mrs. Shelby's tone when she finally spoke.
"It must be scary, knowing you're not going to be here for your child. Trusing two strangers to care for him," Polly continued, not noticing Catherine's face getting paler, nor the way her hands shook when she lifted them to rub her head.
"Polly, I don't think she's feeling well," the other woman frowned when she noticed Catherine's body begin to slump in her chair.
"She's fine."
"No," Catherine said. "I'm not, I think I need to lay down."
They called Frances over, instructing them to take Catherine to bed, neither woman standing up from their seats to assist. They watched as Frances struggled to hold up the frail woman's body as she hald carried her out of the dining room.
"She's a fucking good actress," Polly muttered.
Frances returned to the dining room to inform the two women that Catherine had taken a turn, and the doctor would arrive soon to examine her.
Polly sat unaffected by the housekeeper's words; her counterpart's eyes, however, widened in horror.
"Oh my God, Polly," she gasped. "Have we killed her?"
"Oh, shut up," Polly scoffed, stamping out her cigarette in the ashtray. "She was dying before she even got here."
"Polly," she sputtered. "Your interrogation has literally put her in an early grave."
"Oh, because you were treating her splendidly?"
"I was just ignoring her. You've fucking killed her."
The dining room door slammed open. Tommy stood there, his face red, his eyes stormy.
"What did you two fucking do?"
Two days following the dinner party, Catherine's condition had not improved. The doctor had told them that her illness was so advanced that it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Still, she couldn't ignore the guilt that was bubbling in her stomach when she thought about the way she had acted at dinner.
She knocked lightly on the door, opening it gently, careful not to disturb the frail woman that was lying in bed.
"I'm surprised to see you," Catherine choked out, weakly pulling herself into a sitting position.
"I'm surprised too."
"Is there something wrong? Is Frankie okay?"
"Everything's fine," she reassured the woman, moving to sit in the chair beside the bed. "I came to apologise."
She didn't miss the way Catherine's eyebrow's rose.
"The way I've behaved since you arrived has been terrible. I'm not a cruel person, I swear. I was just angry."
"I understand."
She paused, her breath catching in her throat at Catherine's words.
"I would be angry, too, if I were you."
"It doesn't excuse the way I've treated you."
"No," Catherine breathed with a laugh. "But I understand it anyway. You felt like you lost everything in a few minutes, and I was easy to blame."
"I am very sorry," she spoke through the tears in her eyes.
"I am too."
"Well," she coughed, standing from her seat. "I should let you rest."
Catherine called her name when her hand was on the doorhandle, and she turned to look at the sick woman.
"Look after Frankie, please," she said, her voice weak and teary. "He's a sensitive boy. Please look after him, and love him, love him as much as the child in your belly."
"How did you know?"
"I had the same mood swings when I was pregnant," she said. Both women let out a small laugh.
"I promise to look after him... and to love him like my own."
"Thank you."
She approached Tommy, who was leaning in Frankie's doorway, quietly observing the boy as he slept peacefully. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his back. Tommy jumped in surprise before reaching to hold his wife's hands, which were clasped around his stomach.
"You'll be a good father," she spoke into his back.
"Just wish it didn't happen like this," Tommy mumbled. "It should have been you and me."
"It will be," she promised. "You, me, Frankie, and the baby."
Tommy unclasped her hands, turning to face her, a frown on his face.
"You're..."
"I am."
Tommy's expression softened as he processed the news, a mixture of surprise and tenderness crossing his features.
"You're pregnant," Tommy breathed, his voice filled with a mix of astonishment and wonder. He pulled her close again, holding her tightly against him. "We're having a baby."
She nodded against his chest, feeling his heart beat faster beneath her ear. "Yes, Tommy."
Tommy pressed a kiss to the top of her head, overwhelmed with emotions. "I love you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you and I'm so fucking sorry."
Tears welled up in her eyes as she hugged him back, her eyes landing on the boy asleep in the bed.
Catherine's funeral service was small. There weren't many people close to the woman, the majority of the mourners being the Shelby family.
Frankie didn't say much the whole day, he just stood at his mother's grave, an empty look in his eyes that she recognised all too well.
They arrived home in silence, Frankie jumping out of the car as soon as it pulled up in front of the house, running inside before anyone could stop him.
"He just needs time," she told her husband, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"I know," Tommy agreed. He was no stranger to death, nor the solemn emptiness that came after.
She knocked on Frankie's door later that evening, popping her head in to see him sat on the carpet, still in his suit from the funeral.
"I'm just checking in," she offered him a small smile, kneeling down beside him on the floor. "How are you feeling?"
Frankie shrugged in response, his eyes downcast.
"It's okay if you want to cry, there's no shame in it."
"I don't want to cry," his voice shook, "I just want my mum."
"Oh, sweetheart," she breathed out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I know you do."
He didn't respond, he just kept his gaze pinned to the blue carpet beneath him.
"I lost my mum too, you know?" she said. Frankie's eyes snapped to hers for a moment, then snapped back down. "She died when I was a bit older than you. She got sick and died a few weeks later; there was nothing anyone could do."
"Do you miss her?" Frankie asked, turning to face her.
"Every day," she told him, "it doesn't get easier. You just learn to live with it. And then, someday, you'll be able to think about her and your time together, and it won't hurt so much. But you'll always miss your mum."
Frankie's lips pinched together in thought, and he nodded, accepting her ineloquent words greatfully.
"I know I haven't been very nice to you," she said. "But we're a family, and if you ever want to talk about her, you can come to me, and I'll listen."
"Okay."
"Okay," she rose from the floor.
"I'm sorry about your mum," Frankie said once she was standing.
"I'm sorry about yours," she replied, offering him one last smile before leaving the room.
Elsie Catherine Shelby was born in the early hours of the morning. She came quickly and was less fussy than other babies, according to the midwife.
Her big brother was excited to meet her, pacing the bottom of the stairs until the midwife allowed him to enter the room, a smile on his face as he greeted his little sister with glee.
"I'm not an only child anymore," he had laughed, poking the infant's cheek gently.
And just like that, the Shelby family welcomed their newest member.
@loulouwrites Wow, what an incredible journey of forgiveness and acceptance! The angsty beginning pulled me in instantly. Mrs. Shelby's pain over the betrayal is palpable and I wasn't sure what she might do in her distress. You've written the tortured scene with Tommy beautifully, a picture of their marriage strained to a breaking point.
I never questioned Tommy's decision to keep his child, but I did wonder about Catherine's motives for staying bc of Pol's suspicion. However, it's clear she was a loving mother who only wanted the best for Frank. I adored the scene between Mrs. Shelby and Frank after his mum's death, their bond forged by mutual loss. There is such empathy and understanding there. To see them come together as a family in the last part was so moving 🥹 If only SK could have written Duke's storyline with such care. Well done!
Thank you so much for your thoughtful comment! I'm really glad the story resonated with you. Writing her pain and the angsty beginning was a challenge, so it means a lot that it pulled you in. The strained marriage was a key part of the story, and I'm thrilled you found it impactful.
Catherine's motives were meant to be a bit mysterious, so it's great to hear Pol's suspicion added to that complexity. I'm glad her love for Frank came through clearly. The scene after Catherine's death was one of my favorites to write, capturing their shared loss and new bond.
I have tried to wipe the Duke storyline from my mind hahaha. They should hire all of us from Tumblr to write the new PK film instead!
summary: tommy's perfect life comes crashing down around him
warnings: angst, swearing, infidelity (sort of), talks of childbirth, terminal illness, child abandonment, infertility issues, period typical attitudes towards pregnancy and childbirth, period typical sexism/misogyny, loss of a parent, unedited
a/n: i will get to making a taglist, but life is a nightmare atm lmao
word count: 3.7k
In many ways, life had not been kind to Tommy Shelby. He had been raised in nothing more than a slum, in a town that saw no sunny days, any form of sunlight being covered by the thick smog of the factories that loomed over the town's residents - a constant reminder of their destiny. He had volunteered to fight for the King before he truly had time to understand what it meant, the thought of fighting men the same as him in a foreign country seeming better than being stuck in Small Heath for the rest of his miserable life.
He was meant for greater things, and he knew exactly what he had to do to get them.
As haunted as he was, Tommy excelled in nearly all aspects of his life. He had built an empire from nothing, he had secured a country manor for the cost of a shack in Small Heath, and he had a wife that had seemed to be put on this earth just for him.
Every decision he made, every step he took, was a calculated move to protect what he had built and to silence the ghosts that refused to let him be. Tommy Shelby was a man driven by both his aspirations and his demons, forever walking the line between triumph and torment.
She had married Tommy Shelby out of nothing but love. When they were wed, he had just arrived home from France, and people told her he was a shadow of the man he once was, though she never believed them. He was funny, charming, and clever; he just kept that part of himself hidden from everyone but her, which only endeared him to her even more.
They had come a long way since their wedding day. They had moved out of the terrace on Watery Lane into a mansion that was far too big for their small family. She no longer spent her days working in the shady betting office at the back of their house; now her days were filled with planning dinner parties and organising fundraising events for her husband's numerous charitable organisations.
Life was easier now, even if it felt a little emptier. She had thought her family would be bigger by now, expecting a few children to fill the vast house and keep her company, but it had never happened for her. She had wondered if there was something wrong with her, that her body was simply created wrong. It wasn't until she was having lunch at Polly's house that realisation dawned on her.
"You're pregnant," the older woman grinned behind her cigarette.
Her eyes widened at the words, and she dropped the china cup on the table. She had long given up on the thought of carrying a child, so the signs of her pregnancy had gone unnoticed. But the words Polly spoke hit her like a ton of bricks.
She was pregnant.
She left Polly's house hastily, barely glancing at the woman as she rushed to her car, a smile on her face, already imagining Tommy's reaction when she told him. She knew he would be thrilled. He had been pining for a child of his own even more than she had, and the hopeful looks he gave her whenever she was sick pierced her heart each time. But that didn't matter now, she was finally giving him a child, they were finally starting their family.
She called Frances' name as soon as she stepped through the door, asking if Tommy was home yet as she threw her bag and coat on the chair by the door. The housekeeper appeared in the foyer with a nervous look on her face, a rarity for the somewhat judgmental woman.
"Mrs. Shelby," Frances started, wringing her hands together in a timid manner, "you have a visitor."
"Who?" she asked, her joyful smile slowly fading.
"A woman," the older woman replied. "She claims to know your husband."
She understood Frances' apprehension in that moment. It was rare for Tommy to receive female visitors at the house, unless they were family or there for business.
She was about to question the housekeeper further but was interrupted by the front door swinging open. Her husband stepped inside, his eyes widening in confusion at the sight of the two women standing frozen in the foyer, their eyes burning into him.
"Mr. Shelby," Frances broke the silence. "You have a visitor."
"Who? I'm not expecting anyone," Tommy said, walking to stand beside his wife and placing a tentative hand on her waist, not missing the way she stiffened under his touch.
"A woman," his wife said, pinching her lips together.
"A woman," he echoed, his eyes flickering between his wife and Frances. "Did this woman happen to give you her name, Frances?"
"She said her name was Catherine, Mr. Shelby," Frances replied hesitantly. "There is something else..."
The husband and wife fixed her with such a burning gaze that the older woman had to lower her head to evade it, only daring to raise it again when Tommy cleared his throat, signaling for her to continue.
"She has a child with her, little thing, about ten years old."
The tension in the room thickened with Frances' words. All three bodies straightened, Tommy dropping his hand from his wife's waist to nervously rub along his lips.
He didn't notice his wife's absence at his side until he heard Frances' panicked voice call her name as she stormed towards his study, the skirt of her dress swinging from side to side with the force of her steps.
He joined Frances, calling out of her name, but she didn't listen, swinging the door to his study open, her heated gaze landing on the woman sitting on one of the seats at Tommy's desk.
"Who are you?" she spat out, shaking off Tommy as he caught up to her and grabbed her arm.
The woman's eyes widened. "My...my name is Catherine."
"I didn't mean your name," she hissed, approaching the desk. "Who are you?"
"I'd prefer to speak to Tommy alone," Catherine answered meekly, dropping her gaze.
"You'd prefer to speak to Tommy," she mocked, leaning a hand on the desk. Tommy called her name again, shaking his head at her when she looked at him.
"Do you know this woman?" she asked her husband, whose gaze flickered to the woman sat by his desk, a blank look on her face.
"No."
Catherine scoffed at his words, standing up from the chair on shaky feet. It was only then the frail state of the woman was clear. She may have been pretty once, but her sunken cheeks and pale skin aged her, and the drab clothes she wore made her seem worn and tired beyond her years.
"This," Catherine pointed to the child sitting beside her, and the other two adults in the room looked at the boy for the first time since they entered, "is Frank."
The young boy didn't look up at the mention of his name, his eyes fixed to his swinging feet.
"He's your son, Tommy."
"Ha," Tommy's wife scoffed. "I'm sure he is."
Your paragraph is mostly clear and grammatically correct. Here's a refined version:
Tommy called her name again, a warning in his voice that he seldom used when addressing her. She fixed him with a glare she seldom directed at him.
"It was before you went to France," Catherine interrupted the husband and wife's silent conversation. "You and your brothers were buying whiskey for the whole pub. I always remember you sitting in the corner, just watching everyone else have fun. I came over and asked you if you were drinking to celebrate or to forget, and you said..."
"Both," Tommy finished her sentence.
"Oh my God," his wife gasped, her hands covering her mouth.
Catherine ignored the other woman, turning her attention to Tommy.
"By the time I realised I was pregnant, you were already in France, and when you came back, everyone said you were different...I was managing fine so I didn't feel the need to tell you..."
"But now you need money," Tommy nodded, reaching into his breastpocket for a cigarette. "How much?"
"What?" Catherine frowned.
"How much?" Tommy mumbled as he lit his cigarette.
"I don't need your money," the woman had the decency to sound offended at the man's words.
"Bullshit," his wife scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
"I don't," Catherine insisted. "I'm sick, Tommy. Very sick, and I have no family. It's just me and Frankie."
The silent little boy in the chair finally lifted his head to look at his mother, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
"He'll have no one when I'm gone."
"We run an orphanage," his wife spoke, her voice cruel and cutting, "we can reserve him a space."
Tommy's head snapped towards her, shock written clearly on his features. His wife was many things—sarcastic, witty, clever—but he had never seen her as cruel, not until this very moment.
"No," the boy shouted, getting up from his chair to stand beside his mother. "I won't go to an orphanage."
"You won't, son," Tommy addressed the boy for the fist time. "My wife was just joking."
His wife rolled her eyes, stormed out of the room, muttering a 'fuck you, Thomas' as she passed him on her way to the door.
It was late when Tommy finally entered the bedroom; his wife sat at her vanity, removing her earrings.
"They've finally gone then," she sighed, beginning to unpin her hair. "How much did you give them?"
He ignored her, throwing himself down on the bed and placing a hand over his eyes, doing anything he could to avoid meeting her gaze.
"Thomas," she warned, "how much?"
"Nothing," he muttered.
"Nothing? They left without a penny?" she scoffed.
"They didn't leave," Tommy snapped, raising his voice and slamming the arm that covered his eyes onto the bed. He groaned as the hairbrush she had thrown hit him in the chest.
"They're still here?" she hissed, standing from the vanity and approaching the bed as Tommy sat up.
"Just listen," he attempted to place his hands on her hips, but she smacked them away, pacing the floor with her hands in her hair. "I am that boy's father, whether we like it or not, I am, alright?"
She shook her head, muttering under her breath as she paced.
"I'm not going to throw him and his sick mother out on the street," he continued. "That's not the man I am, and you know it's not."
"No, your moral compass is a beacon to us all, Tommy," she rolled her eyes.
"What do you want me to do?" he shouted, beginning to lose his temper.
"Not get whores pregnant, for one!" she shouted back, throwing her arms up. "You've betrayed me, Thomas."
"Betrayed?" he repeated, the disbelief evident in his tone. "I didn't know you fucking existed then."
"Well, I still feel betrayed."
Tommy sighed, rising from the bed and approaching his wife the way he would a skittish horse.
"I know, I know," he sighed, placing a hand on her cheek. She didn't resist, though she didn't lean into it either. "It's a fucking mess, and I'm sorry."
She choked out a sob, dropping her head. "It was supposed to be a good day."
"I know," Tommy murmured, moving the hand that was holding her cheek to the back of her neck and pulling her to his chest. "I'm sorry I ruined it."
If only he knew what he had ruined.
The clattering of knives and forks was all that could be heard in the dining room, there were more than ten people sat at the table and it appeared nobody could find a word to speak.
It had been exactly three days since Catherine and Frankie appeared on the Shelby's doorstep, and the tension had only been rising. She had thought she was doing a good job of being civil towards the woman and child who had ruined her life—nodding at them politely when her attempts to avoid them failed, and choking out a 'hello' whenever she ran into them in the corridors.
Tommy had been less than impressed with her attempts to hide from the strangers, and insisted he throw a dinner party to offically introduce his son to the rest of the family, much to his wife's chagrin.
"Lovely lamb," Arthur muttered awkwardly from the other end of the table, his words met with half-hearted murmurs of agreement.
"Frankie loves lamb," Catherine responded, receiving eye rolls from the woman sat beside her, and Polly who was sat opposite.
"How lovely," Polly offered a fake smile.
"I don't eat it a lot, though," Frank spoke from his mother's side. "Lamb's too expensive for mum."
She and Polly sniggered at the boy's words, covering their mouths when Tommy threw them both a glare.
"You enjoy school, Frankie?" John asked.
"It's okay," the boy shrugged. "I'm not very clever, though."
"Takes after his father," Polly muttered, earning a laugh from the man's wife.
"That's not true," Catherine placed a hand on Frank's shoulder. "He's a brilliant artist, and loves to read."
"What about you, Catherine?" Polly leaned forward, puffing on her cigarette. "Tell us about yourself."
"Well...I was a secretary until recently, I'm from not far from you..."
"Fascinating," Polly dismissed her.
"Polly," Tommy warned, subtly shaking his head.
"Why don't we take Frankie outside, Tom?" Arthur interrupted. "Show him how to shoot a gun."
"Oh, I don't-" Catherine started, but was interrupted by Polly.
"That's a wonderful idea, leave us ladies to chat."
Catherine conceded, not wanting to offend the older woman more than she already had. The men all left the table, Tommy having to gently drag Frank away from his mother, leaving the three women alone.
"So, Catherine," Polly began as soon as she heard the door close behind the boys. "Are you planning on staying here until you die?"
"Polly," the other woman gasped at her bluntness, but couldn't help but turn her head to Catherine to await the answer. She had been wondering that herself.
"Well, I hadn't thought about it," Catherine laughed awkwardly. "I just...needed to know Frank would be okay."
"He will be," Polly nodded.
"I know, I know that now." Catherine nodded. "Tommy has been very generous." Her eyes flickered to Tommy's wife, sat beside her, the omission in her statement clear.
"You have no other family that could take Frank?" Polly question, and Catherine shook her head, sweat beginning to pool on her forehead.
"No, my mother died when I was about his age, and my dad passed a few years ago. I'm an only child."
"Bless you," there was malice Mrs. Shelby's tone when she finally spoke.
"It must be scary, knowing you're not going to be here for your child. Trusing two strangers to care for him," Polly continued, not noticing Catherine's face getting paler, nor the way her hands shook when she lifted them to rub her head.
"Polly, I don't think she's feeling well," the other woman frowned when she noticed Catherine's body begin to slump in her chair.
"She's fine."
"No," Catherine said. "I'm not, I think I need to lay down."
They called Frances over, instructing them to take Catherine to bed, neither woman standing up from their seats to assist. They watched as Frances struggled to hold up the frail woman's body as she hald carried her out of the dining room.
"She's a fucking good actress," Polly muttered.
Frances returned to the dining room to inform the two women that Catherine had taken a turn, and the doctor would arrive soon to examine her.
Polly sat unaffected by the housekeeper's words; her counterpart's eyes, however, widened in horror.
"Oh my God, Polly," she gasped. "Have we killed her?"
"Oh, shut up," Polly scoffed, stamping out her cigarette in the ashtray. "She was dying before she even got here."
"Polly," she sputtered. "Your interrogation has literally put her in an early grave."
"Oh, because you were treating her splendidly?"
"I was just ignoring her. You've fucking killed her."
The dining room door slammed open. Tommy stood there, his face red, his eyes stormy.
"What did you two fucking do?"
Two days following the dinner party, Catherine's condition had not improved. The doctor had told them that her illness was so advanced that it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Still, she couldn't ignore the guilt that was bubbling in her stomach when she thought about the way she had acted at dinner.
She knocked lightly on the door, opening it gently, careful not to disturb the frail woman that was lying in bed.
"I'm surprised to see you," Catherine choked out, weakly pulling herself into a sitting position.
"I'm surprised too."
"Is there something wrong? Is Frankie okay?"
"Everything's fine," she reassured the woman, moving to sit in the chair beside the bed. "I came to apologise."
She didn't miss the way Catherine's eyebrow's rose.
"The way I've behaved since you arrived has been terrible. I'm not a cruel person, I swear. I was just angry."
"I understand."
She paused, her breath catching in her throat at Catherine's words.
"I would be angry, too, if I were you."
"It doesn't excuse the way I've treated you."
"No," Catherine breathed with a laugh. "But I understand it anyway. You felt like you lost everything in a few minutes, and I was easy to blame."
"I am very sorry," she spoke through the tears in her eyes.
"I am too."
"Well," she coughed, standing from her seat. "I should let you rest."
Catherine called her name when her hand was on the doorhandle, and she turned to look at the sick woman.
"Look after Frankie, please," she said, her voice weak and teary. "He's a sensitive boy. Please look after him, and love him, love him as much as the child in your belly."
"How did you know?"
"I had the same mood swings when I was pregnant," she said. Both women let out a small laugh.
"I promise to look after him... and to love him like my own."
"Thank you."
She approached Tommy, who was leaning in Frankie's doorway, quietly observing the boy as he slept peacefully. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his back. Tommy jumped in surprise before reaching to hold his wife's hands, which were clasped around his stomach.
"You'll be a good father," she spoke into his back.
"Just wish it didn't happen like this," Tommy mumbled. "It should have been you and me."
"It will be," she promised. "You, me, Frankie, and the baby."
Tommy unclasped her hands, turning to face her, a frown on his face.
"You're..."
"I am."
Tommy's expression softened as he processed the news, a mixture of surprise and tenderness crossing his features.
"You're pregnant," Tommy breathed, his voice filled with a mix of astonishment and wonder. He pulled her close again, holding her tightly against him. "We're having a baby."
She nodded against his chest, feeling his heart beat faster beneath her ear. "Yes, Tommy."
Tommy pressed a kiss to the top of her head, overwhelmed with emotions. "I love you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you and I'm so fucking sorry."
Tears welled up in her eyes as she hugged him back, her eyes landing on the boy asleep in the bed.
Catherine's funeral service was small. There weren't many people close to the woman, the majority of the mourners being the Shelby family.
Frankie didn't say much the whole day, he just stood at his mother's grave, an empty look in his eyes that she recognised all too well.
They arrived home in silence, Frankie jumping out of the car as soon as it pulled up in front of the house, running inside before anyone could stop him.
"He just needs time," she told her husband, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"I know," Tommy agreed. He was no stranger to death, nor the solemn emptiness that came after.
She knocked on Frankie's door later that evening, popping her head in to see him sat on the carpet, still in his suit from the funeral.
"I'm just checking in," she offered him a small smile, kneeling down beside him on the floor. "How are you feeling?"
Frankie shrugged in response, his eyes downcast.
"It's okay if you want to cry, there's no shame in it."
"I don't want to cry," his voice shook, "I just want my mum."
"Oh, sweetheart," she breathed out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I know you do."
He didn't respond, he just kept his gaze pinned to the blue carpet beneath him.
"I lost my mum too, you know?" she said. Frankie's eyes snapped to hers for a moment, then snapped back down. "She died when I was a bit older than you. She got sick and died a few weeks later; there was nothing anyone could do."
"Do you miss her?" Frankie asked, turning to face her.
"Every day," she told him, "it doesn't get easier. You just learn to live with it. And then, someday, you'll be able to think about her and your time together, and it won't hurt so much. But you'll always miss your mum."
Frankie's lips pinched together in thought, and he nodded, accepting her ineloquent words greatfully.
"I know I haven't been very nice to you," she said. "But we're a family, and if you ever want to talk about her, you can come to me, and I'll listen."
"Okay."
"Okay," she rose from the floor.
"I'm sorry about your mum," Frankie said once she was standing.
"I'm sorry about yours," she replied, offering him one last smile before leaving the room.
Elsie Catherine Shelby was born in the early hours of the morning. She came quickly and was less fussy than other babies, according to the midwife.
Her big brother was excited to meet her, pacing the bottom of the stairs until the midwife allowed him to enter the room, a smile on his face as he greeted his little sister with glee.
"I'm not an only child anymore," he had laughed, poking the infant's cheek gently.
And just like that, the Shelby family welcomed their newest member.
summary: alfie's secretary makes the decision to marry, it's a shame her prospective husbands seem to disappear after one meeting
warnings: angst, violence, swearing, jealousy, threats, borderline stalking honestly, muderous thoughts, unedited, unrequited love
word count: 3.5k
a/n: i've been away for a while bc life is hard. i wanted to write a little alfie story not related to the 'home series' and came up with whatever this is so i hope you enjoy. i'm working on a taglist, so if you would like to be included, lmk <3 also lmk if you'd like a part 2 to this, i've already cooked something up!
She had known Alfie Solomons for about three years, and they had been friends since they had met.
Two years into their strange friendship, she had been sacked from her job as a secretary for an Italian businessman, he didn't say why he suddenly decided he didn't require her services, but they both knew. Tensions were rising between the Jewish quarter and Italian quarter in Camden, and everybody was sticking to their own side of town.
When she had told Alfie about it, he had offered her a job immediately - the rising tensions were partly his fault anyways.
Her mother had not been happy when her daughter came home with news she would be working for Alfie Solomons, but when she saw the stack of notes Mr Solomons had given as a 'pay advance', she warmed to the idea.
It was easy work. He had his men for the nitty-gritty stuff, she merely typed up Alfie's ramblings and sent threatening telegrams to people - it was easier than any legitimate job she had ever had, and it paid better, too.
She would often have lunch with Ollie, Alfie's second in command if you wanted to call him that. She was allowed a longer lunch than he was, Ollie wasn't supposed to have a lunch break at all, but if she were talking to him, it was rare they would be interrupted, unless there was an urgent matter to attend to.
Ollie was a good gossip, better than any of the other men in the bakery, Alfie excluded. But, unlike Alfie, Ollie had no interest in her, sexually or romantically, so she enjoyed the time she could spend talking to him, discussing rumours or chatting about their lives outside of work without it turning into something else within minutes.
"Do you think he'll let me leave an hour early?" She asked from where she was perched on the man's desk, swinging her feet back and forth.
"He'd let you leave now if you asked," Ollie replied, rolling his eyes at the girl. It was true, Alfie would probably still pay her if she didn't show up, he'd let her release a group of pigs in his office if she wanted to.
"He's in a mood, though."
"He's always in a mood."
"Not as bad as this," she pointed to their boss' office, where the blinds were pulled up, showing his figure stomping around the small room, throwing pieces of paper and trinkets onto the ground.
"Fuck," she sighed as a loud crash was heard, though they couldn't see what had bared the brunt of the man's rage from their seats.
"Maybe reschedule?" Ollie offered, his eyes not leaving the glass window of Alfie's office.
"I'm just going to ask him," she planted her feet on the ground, ignoring Ollie's protests. "The worst he can do is say no," she shrugged, walking towards the office door.
"That is not the worst he can do," he called after her in an urgent whisper.
She didn't knock when she entered, she never had, and she wasn't about to start now.
A book flew past her face when she stepped inside, and she quickly stepped to the side, it hitting the wall behind her and falling to the floor.
"What did...that Russian book ever do to you?" She asked, and his head snapped up to look at her, his eyes wide.
"Shit, sorry 'bout that, love," he sighed, wiping a hand over his face but she waved him off, moving to sit in one of the chairs at his desk.
"Bad day?"
"Better now," he winked at her, and she rolled her eyes playfully. "What do you want?"
"I want to leave an hour early," she offered him a wary smile, clasping her hands together pleadingly.
"You fuckin' what?"
"Please, Alfie-" she started, but he was up from his seat before she could finish her sentence, pacing up and down the cramped office with his hands on his hips. "It's only an hour, and I'm not doing anything anyway."
"You're not doing anything?" his eyebrows raised as he turned to face her. "You're really admitting that to your boss?"
"Please, Alfie," she stood up, taking a few steps towards him. "I never ask you for anything."
She scowled at the obnoxious laugh he let out in response.
"Never ask me for anything?" his voice raised an octave to mock her. "A pay advance that you still haven't paid back," he help up a finger as he counted. "A weekday off so you can go shopping when it's less crowded, a bonus so you can get your mum a birthday present, a day off when your fucking cat died," he stepped towards her. "Asking me to come to it's fucking funeral."
"You said it was a lovely service," she placed a hand on her chest in offense.
"You know what?" he sighed, rubbing a hand up and down his face. "Just fuck off, yeah?"
"Really?" She smiled, clapping her hands.
"But you will come in an hour early tomorrow to make up for it, or so help me God, I will come to your house and drag you here myself."
It was an empty threat, and they both knew it.
"Thank you, Alfie." She reached to place a kiss on his cheek, not taking offense when he reached to wipe his cheek when she pulled away, already opening the door to leave. "I'll see you bright an early tomorrow."
She couldn't make out what he grumbled after her.
Alfie waited until she had left the bakery to slink out of his office, approaching Ollie's desk, and tapping on it with his knuckles.
"Why'd she want to leave early?" he asked his assistant, not missing the way the younger man sunk down in his seat.
"I don't want to tell you," Ollie replied, sheepishly.
"Ollie," Alfie warned.
"She's meeting up with someone?"
"Ollie."
"A man. She's meeting up with a man, her mum's friend's son or something. Think she's looking to settle down, you know?"
Alfie hummed, a hand coming up to rub his beard. "Interesting," he mumbled, walking back to his office, landing a smack to Ollie's head as he passed.
Her suitor had been a perfect gentleman. Jacob had taken her to a fancy club in a nicer part of London, had bought her dinner and drinks without grumbling about the prices, and had dropped her off at home with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to take her out again the following weekend.
She hadn't thought a man her mother had set her up with would be particularly charming, but she had been proven wrong, the stupid smile she wore on her face all week being proof of that.
She had been thinking of settling down for a while. All of her childhood friends were married with several children at this point, and she didn't miss the sympathetic looks they would give her when she told them she was still unmarried, still childless, and still working.
Marriage was always something she thought would come naturally -as it seemed to do with everyone else around her - but years rolled by and she was still no closer to the life that had seemed so easily achievable when she was young. So, she had decided to take matters in her own hands, informing her mother and everyone else she could that she was ready to marry, and asking them to let her know if they knew a boy they thought would be a good match.
And, she thought she had found the good match on her first try, but when the week after her date rolled on, and there was no word from Jacob, she realised how stupid she had been.
She had been moodier than ever that week, stomping around the bakery with a scowl on her face, smacking the keys of her typewriter harder than necessary, and barely speaking two words to whoever approached her.
She was not dealing with the rejection well.
So, when a handsome worker - who she recalled was named James -- passed her desk, offering a confident smile as he did, she wasted no time.
She wandered into Alfie's office with her hands clasped behind her back, swaying slightly as she waited for him to look up from the papers on his desk.
"What?" He asked, still reading the scribbles on the page.
"Didn't know you'd taken new people on," she shrugged nonchalantly, keeping her tone light and unbothered.
"And? What about it?"
"I don't know," she shrugged again, stepping further into his office. "Just a lot of new faces around here,"
Alfie groaned, dropping the papers from his hand and removing the glasses he wore from his face. "Since when do you care about new faces?"
"I don't," she laughed defensively. "I was just wondering about one of them, is all."
"You were just wondering about one of them," Alfie's eyebrows rose, and he leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. "What were you wondering about?"
"I mean...maybe some background..."
"Like what? His favourite fucking book? The fuck you expect me to know?"
"I was just wondering, that's all," she held her hands up in defense, and her boss' eyes squinted at her words.
"I thought you were already seein' someone, that is why you left early a couple weeks ago, ain't it?"
"Who the fuck told you that?"
"Don't matter," Alfie offered her a smile. "Didn't work out or something..."
"No, it didn't," she huffed. "So...about James..." she trailed off, waiting for Alfie to step in, but he merely offered her a blank look. "Alfie," she whined, stomping her foot against the floor."
"Don't know 'im. Sorry, love," he waved a hand dismissively.
"Fine," she spun on her heel, storming out of his office. "I'll find out myself."
James was lovely. She had 'bumped' into him when she was leaving, and it hadn't taken him long to offer to take her out for drinks when he finished his shift, which she had accepted with a grateful smile.
He had met her outside of the local pub near the 'bakery', it wasn't a particularly nice establishment, but the lager was cheap, and she supposed he didn't have the money to spend in a fancy club like Jacob had - not with the pittance she was sure Alfie was paying him.
He was funny, and quite respectful in comparison with some of his colleagues. He had asked her questions about her interests, had shared his own, and she was delighted that they seemed to have quite a bit in common.
They had ended the night at her door, with chaste kiss, and another promise to go out again the following week, and she had closed the door with a grin on her face.
"See you at work tomorrow," he had said as he walked away.
When she arrived to work the next morning, the same grin still on her face, she couldn't stop her eyes scanning the floor as she walked to her desk, desperately trying to seek out James, but, when she couldn't find him, she had shrugged it off.
Maybe he was ill or something.
It was now Thursday. Her date with James had been on Monday, and there had been no sign of him ever since.
It was hard not wonder, had something bad happed to him? Had he been hiding every time he saw her walking through the distillery? Had he been so repulsed by her that he had quit his job just to avoid seeing her again?
The thoughts had consumed her all week, and they had affected her mood significantly. Unlike with Jacob, where she had been an angry force at work, she was now forlorn, barely speaking to anybody, and zoning out of conversations with a vacant look on her face.
It was starting to worry her boss, who spent longer than appropriate watching her from his office window.
He had called her into the office that afternoon, watching as she walked seemingly in a daze, her eyes were duller, and he face appeared more sunken.
She didn't say anything when she took a seat at his desk, nor did she meet his eyes when he said her name.
"You alright?" he had asked, his tone more concerned than he wanted it to be.
"Wonderful," she replied, her voice flat, fiddling with a thread on her skirt.
"You've been wandering 'round like a ghost for the past week, love. What's goin' on with ya? Please don't tell me another fucking cat died."
She huffed a laugh that was clearly fake, still fiddling with the thread when she responded. "I think I'm unmarriable, Alfie."
Alfie's shoulder's straightened at her words, leaning his arms on his desk, he studied her face, watching as she blinked away the tears that were beginning to pool in her eyes. "The fuck are you talking about?"
"Two men in two weeks, Alfie. I have gone out with two men in two weeks and they have both disappeared...literally disappeared, I haven't seen them since."
Her eyes lifted from her dress to meet his, and Alfie was struck by how sad she looked. He had never thought she would be this upset by a couple of boys not getting back to her after one night.
"That's silly, love," he sighed. "It don't mean nothin'"
"Yeah," she scoffed, "it does."
He considered telling her in that moment, he truly did. A better man would have, would have confessed right then and there.
A better man would have told her that they had cornered Jacob after he had dropped her off at her door. How he had almost certainly broken the young man's nose before he had a chance to blink, how he had had his men hold the boy by the shoulders while he whispered a warning in his ear.
"Stay away from her."
He really should have told her that he had turned up at James' shitty flat on Monday night, waiting for the man to return from his date with her. That his worker's body had began to shake when he saw his boss leaning against his front door, his arms crossed against his chest and a cold look in his eye.
"Have to let you go, son," Alfie had said. "A worker that is more concerned about fucking my secretary isn't one I want workin' with me."
James had begun to splutter a reply, but Alfie was already heading for the stairs.
"Best you stay away from her, yeah?"
It hadn't been a question.
He really should have told her, but he didn't. Instead, he had sighed and rose from his seat, moving into the empty chair beside her.
"You ain't unmarriable, woman," he told her, patting her shoulder. "You just chose two fuckin' idiots."
"Whatever you say, Alfie," she said, standing up and walking out of the office without another word.
He should have confessed, but he didn't. He did, however, promise himself he would not get involved in her personal life anymore. The next man she met, would not have to face a threat from Alfie Solomons.
She had been leaving her home to go to work when she had ran into Elijah on the street. He had chased after her, holding an envelope in his hands, waving it frantically when she finally turned around when she heard the stranger's voice calling after her.
"I think you dropped this," he handed her the envelope, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she took it from his hands.
"Oh, thank you," she laughed. "My boss would have murdered me if I lost it."
He had laughed at her words, not realising she wasn't exactly joking about her boss.
"I'm Elijah," he held out a hand, which she took with a smile.
"He's really nice, Ollie," her words were muffled as they travelled into Alfie's office, and he had to press his ear closer to the door to be able to hear her clearly. "A real gentleman."
'A real gentleman.'
Alfie rolled his eyes, 'gentleman' was just another word for a soft prick.
"We're going out again tonight," she told her friend. "Said he has a surprise for me."
"What do you think it is?" Ollie asked her, and Alfie rolled his eyes again. Ollie was worse than a fucking twelve year old girl.
"I mean we've been seeing each other for a while, he's met my family, I've met his..." she trailed off, and Ollie's gasp was clear as day from where Alfie was standing.
"You think he's going to propose?"
And just like that, Alfie's heart dropped to his stomach. He tore his ear from the wall, storming back to his desk, dropping to the seat with a heavy thud.
Of course Elijah was going to propose, of fucking course. She had been seeing him for the better part of four months, and she spent every waking minute talking about the nice doctor, it was natural that his was how it was going to progress.
He regretted not cornering Elijah on is way to work the moment she had mentioned his name, regretted not giving him the same treatment he gave the two men that came before him. He should have, should have twisted the man's arm behind his back until he was crying like a little girl, should have had his men hold him down while he kicked him in his ribs until blood came out of his mouth, he should have put the barrel of his gun to his head an pulled the trigger.
But to what end?
She was a good girl. She wanted to get married, have a few children and take care of the house while her husband was at work.
Alfie couldn't offer her that.
Everything he could offer her, he already had. He had given her protection, a stable income, and some form of friendship. He could never give her what she truly craved. He knew that, no matter his feelings for her - feelings he didn't understand himself - he couldn't give her the life she deserved.
And that thought made him sick.
The room was too hot for him to sit in any longer. Alfie pushed through the crowd of people, shoving them harder than necessary until he reached the door, the sound of music and laughter fading as the heavy door closed behind him.
He took a seat on a damp wooden bench, his head dropping in his hands.
It had been a lovely ceremony, a bit small, and a bit cheap for his tastes, but she had managed to make it lovely anyways.
He stood when she entered, her parents on either side of her, walking her to the end of the aisle.
She didn't spare Alfie a glance, too busy looking ahead - looking at him. The bitterness twisted in his stomach and it took all the self control he possessed to keep a neutral look on his face.
Elijah met her at the end of the aisle, taking her hand and helping her up the little steps, a sickening smile on his face.
Alfie didn't miss the sympathetic glance Ollie, who was beside him, threw him.
"Not enjoying the party?" her voice was as sweet as anything, full of happiness.
"Weddings ain't really my thing, love," he offered her a smile, it dropping as quickly as it came.
"But this isn't just any wedding, Alfie," she said, taking a seat next to him. "It's mine, you should be happy."
"Why is that?"
"You've finally gotten rid of me," she laughed, nudging his shoulder with hers. "You don't have to pay me to sit around and do nothing all day, should save you a bit of money."
Alfie didn't laugh with her, a bitter smile on his face as he looked down at his hands.
"Oh don't tell me you're sad about me leaving?" her voice held nothing but humour and Alfie wanted to scream at her.
How can you be so blind?
Can't you see I love you?
"Nah, I'm just upset it took this long," he said eventually, rising from his seat, patting her on the shoulder as did. "I'm gonna head out, but congratulations, love. You look very beautiful."
Her eyes softened at his words, her smile widening from where she was sat, looking up at him, her eyes sparkling.
He didn't have time to react when she shot up from her seat, throwing her arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer to her.
"You're the best friend I could have asked for, Alfie," she whispered, placing a kiss on his cheek.
"Yeah, well," he cleared his throat, pulling her arms away from his shoulders and taking a step back. "Fuck off, now. You're missing your own wedding you stupid woman."
She laughed, nodding her head and disappearing back into the building before Alfie could blink, leaving him frozen in place, the bitterness that once consumed him being replaced by what felt like an all-encompassing sadness.
summary: alfie's eldest son is sick - he won't leave his bedside.
warnings: illness, swearing, thoughts surrounding the death of a child, melancholy, unedited, angst, violence, discussions regarding the death of a child
word count: 1.5k
a/n: a lil drabble form the home series! i'm honoured by the love people have for this family. i know i'm not the most active on here but i just wanna say if anybody wants to talk to me (about anything) don't hesitate to hit me up! (i am still putting my taglist together but I completely forgot about it when I wrote this - forgive me pls)
It had been going around for a while now.
Some illness spreading around London that had children dropping left, right and centre.
Some children barely got a sore throat, and those that did were usually better after a few days, but he had heard the stories of the unlucky few, the children that had been bed bound for weeks before silently passing in their sleep.
He hadn't thought much of it at first - he found stories about other people's children mind alnumbingly boring - even the saddest accounts he had heard had barely registered in his mind.
When Benjamin had started coughing one morning, he had rolled his eyes, insisting he wouldn't get out of school that easily. His wife - who was gentler and kinder than he could ever be - had laid her hands on her son's cheeks, instructing him to go back to bed with a kiss on his forehead.
It had caused quite a tiff between the couple.
"You're too fuckin' soft," Alfie had told her, pointing an accusatory finger in her face.
"And you're too fucking hard on him," she had spat back, smacking his hand away.
She had been right, of course.
When Alfie returned home that night, the house was eerily quiet. No children greeted him at the door, even Bubbe the dog had barely looked up from her bed by the fireplace.
He had found them in the master bedroom, his wife had pulled up a chair next to the bed, and was dabbing a damp cloth on his son's forehead.
He would never forget the way Benjamin looked lying on the bed, his face pale and his hair sticking to his forehead, the wheezing breaths he took being the only sound in the room.
"I sent the children to my mum's," his wife had said, sitting with her back to him, her eyes completely focused on her little boy lying in the bed. "The doctor said it's highly contagious so they shouldn't be around him - or us."
He could tell she had been crying, her voice quiet and shaky.
Alfie didn't say anything in response, because what could he say? He stepped further in the room, moving to sit at the foot of the bed, his eyes trained on Benjamin's limp body.
"He's fucking boiling, Alfie," she choked out a sob, "he's so hot but he won't stop fucking shivering, I don't know what to do."
Alfie watched as his wife's body shook with sobs, putting her head in her hands as he sat on the bed, silent, confused, and so very scared.
"He'll be alright," his voice held no conviction, almost as shaky as her's was. "He's a tough lad-"
"No, he isn't," she cried, lifting her head from her hands to look at her husband. "He isn't. He's sweet and gentle, he isn't tough."
"Love," Alfie shook his head, leaning forward slightly, but she cut him off.
"It doesn't matter anyways, it doesn't matter how tough he is - or isn't - kids have died, Alfie, they've died from this."
She stood from her seat, pacing the room as he looked on helplessly. He had seen her scared before, he had seen her sad and everything in between, but nothing compared to how she looked now. Her hair was a mess, her makeup had smudged, and there was already dark circles beginning to form underneath her damp eyes.
"Listen," Alfie rose from the bed, placing his hands on her shoulders to keep her in place. "He's going to be fine."
"You don't know that," she whispered, hanging her head.
"And you don't know he won't be," he bowed his head to meet her eyes, "but we're going to do everything we can do to help him, yeah?"
"Yeah," she sighed.
That had been hours ago.
It was almost three in the morning as Alfie sat on the chair beside the bed, a dimp lamp casting a soft glow on his son's pale face. His wife had fallen asleep on the bed next to Benjamin, and the room was silent apart from the occasional raspy breath from his son.
This was all he could do.
All he could do to help his son was to sit by his bedside and watch him breathe, watch for any sign that Benjamin was struggling, and to press the damp cloth to his face whenever a shiver broke out of his body.
He had never felt more useless in his life.
If it were any other situation, they would know what to do. If Benjamin had cut his knee when he was playing, his mother would be able to patch him up and make him feel better, if he had gotten into trouble at school, Alfie could pay the teacher's a visit to make sure it never happened again.
But this was completely in the hands of God.
Alfie wasn't a particularly religious man - not in the common sense of the word, at least. He was proud of his identity, he enjoyed the community and sense of belonging it gave him, but he fell short when it came to the believing part of his religion.
He had always thought God was something people used as a comfort in their darkest times, or as an excuse for things not working out the way they had wanted it to, it was never particularly real to him. Yet, as he sat at his son's bedside, with nothing to offer him but a damp cloth, he found himself bowing his head, and silently praying to God that Benjamin would be okay.
He hoped this would be the first time God listened to him.
The doctor had arrived early the next morning, prodding and poking the sick child and humming to himself.
Alfie stood by the doorway with his wife, both of them shuffling slightly on the feet as they waited for the doctor to finish his assessment, their patience wearing thinner with every passing second.
The doctor sighed when he turned to face the parents, a frown on his old and battered face, his beard moving as he scrunched his mouth.
"I see no improvements," he had spoke, and Alfie had to grasp his wife by her waist when he body began to collapse, another sob racking her body.
"What does that mean?" Alfie asked, his hands still secure around his crying wife.
"It means that you should prepare for the worst."
"No, no, no, no," she whispered, her legs giving way for the second time.
"If he recovers it will be a miracle, I've seen stronger boys succumb to this illness."
Maybe it was the doctor's tone of indifference when he spoke, maybe it was the feeling of his wife's body shaking uncontrollably in his arms, maybe he was just looking for somebody to take his frustration out on, whatever possessed Alfie in that moment to let go of his wife and grab the doctor by the collar, slamming his body into the wall, was as fierce and raw as the fear gripping his heart.
"Now you listen here," Alfie growled, his face inches away from the doctor's. "My son will not die. You know how I know that?" the doctor shook his head, his face reddening in fear. "I know that because you are going to fix him. If you don't, it'll be your body they wheel out of here."
The doctor's eyes widened, and Alfie was sure he was about to start crying. "Mr Solomons, there's nothing I can do, I would if I could-"
"You will," Alfie roared, pulling the doctor back slightly only to slam him back into the wall harder. "You will find a way."
Just as Alfie pulled his arm back, his hand curled into a fist, his wife's voice called out to him.
"This won't help Benjamin, Alfie. Just stop it."
Alfie released the doctor, who gasped for breath, his face pale. He turned to his wife, his face softening. "He can't die."
She walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "He won't die," she muttered into his chest, "you won't let him."
It was nearing nine o'clock at night when Benjamin started to stir in the bed. His mother had yet again, fallen asleep at his side, and Alfie was sat in the uncomfortable chair by the bed.
"Dad?" He whispered, his voice weak.
"I'm here, mate," Alfie said, his voice catching in his throat. "I'm here."
"I don't feel well."
"You're not well, mate," Alfie leaned forward, placing his palm on Benjamin's forehead, which was already beginning to cool.
"I told you I wasn't just trying to get out of school," Benjamin choked out, and Alfie let out a hearty laugh, startling his wife awake.
"Oh, thank God," she breathed, sitting up and cupping Benjamin's face in her hands. "Thank God."
"You might catch it, mum," Benjamin groaned when his mother bent down to pepper kisses on his face.
"Still sharp as ever, I see," Alfie muttered, the tension in his body seemingly disappearing.
"We need to ring the doctor," his wife said, and Alfie shot her an unimpressed look in response. "A different doctor," she conceded. "Though him being awake means the worst is over."
"What did I tell ya?" Alfie grinned. "Tough as nails, this one."
Oh Lou 🥺🥺 Your beautiful writing always moves me but this was particularly gut-wrenching 😔
Their pain and fear and Alfie’s completely sense of helplessness at his son’s bedside was so vividly drawn that I could feel it like I was sitting beside them. And Alfie’s frustration was completely understandable - he is not a patient man! Thank you though for not completely breaking my heart and letting little Benjamin recover! 🙈
Finally, I had to giggle at Alfie’s views on other people’s children 😂😂 girl, same 🤭
Gorgeous work, as always - thank you for sharing and sorry I’m a bit late to the party (as usual!), xx
Thank you so much for your lovely comment! It means a lot that the story moved you like that. Writing about Alfie's pain and frustration was challenging, but I'm glad it came through so vividly for you.
I couldn’t bear to break everyone's hearts, so I had to let little Benjamin recover.
Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts. Your support means everything! xx
summary: alfie's eldest son is sick - he won't leave his bedside.
warnings: illness, swearing, thoughts surrounding the death of a child, melancholy, unedited, angst, violence, discussions regarding the death of a child
word count: 1.5k
a/n: a lil drabble form the home series! i'm honoured by the love people have for this family. i know i'm not the most active on here but i just wanna say if anybody wants to talk to me (about anything) don't hesitate to hit me up! (i am still putting my taglist together but I completely forgot about it when I wrote this - forgive me pls)
It had been going around for a while now.
Some illness spreading around London that had children dropping left, right and centre.
Some children barely got a sore throat, and those that did were usually better after a few days, but he had heard the stories of the unlucky few, the children that had been bed bound for weeks before silently passing in their sleep.
He hadn't thought much of it at first - he found stories about other people's children mind alnumbingly boring - even the saddest accounts he had heard had barely registered in his mind.
When Benjamin had started coughing one morning, he had rolled his eyes, insisting he wouldn't get out of school that easily. His wife - who was gentler and kinder than he could ever be - had laid her hands on her son's cheeks, instructing him to go back to bed with a kiss on his forehead.
It had caused quite a tiff between the couple.
"You're too fuckin' soft," Alfie had told her, pointing an accusatory finger in her face.
"And you're too fucking hard on him," she had spat back, smacking his hand away.
She had been right, of course.
When Alfie returned home that night, the house was eerily quiet. No children greeted him at the door, even Bubbe the dog had barely looked up from her bed by the fireplace.
He had found them in the master bedroom, his wife had pulled up a chair next to the bed, and was dabbing a damp cloth on his son's forehead.
He would never forget the way Benjamin looked lying on the bed, his face pale and his hair sticking to his forehead, the wheezing breaths he took being the only sound in the room.
"I sent the children to my mum's," his wife had said, sitting with her back to him, her eyes completely focused on her little boy lying in the bed. "The doctor said it's highly contagious so they shouldn't be around him - or us."
He could tell she had been crying, her voice quiet and shaky.
Alfie didn't say anything in response, because what could he say? He stepped further in the room, moving to sit at the foot of the bed, his eyes trained on Benjamin's limp body.
"He's fucking boiling, Alfie," she choked out a sob, "he's so hot but he won't stop fucking shivering, I don't know what to do."
Alfie watched as his wife's body shook with sobs, putting her head in her hands as he sat on the bed, silent, confused, and so very scared.
"He'll be alright," his voice held no conviction, almost as shaky as her's was. "He's a tough lad-"
"No, he isn't," she cried, lifting her head from her hands to look at her husband. "He isn't. He's sweet and gentle, he isn't tough."
"Love," Alfie shook his head, leaning forward slightly, but she cut him off.
"It doesn't matter anyways, it doesn't matter how tough he is - or isn't - kids have died, Alfie, they've died from this."
She stood from her seat, pacing the room as he looked on helplessly. He had seen her scared before, he had seen her sad and everything in between, but nothing compared to how she looked now. Her hair was a mess, her makeup had smudged, and there was already dark circles beginning to form underneath her damp eyes.
"Listen," Alfie rose from the bed, placing his hands on her shoulders to keep her in place. "He's going to be fine."
"You don't know that," she whispered, hanging her head.
"And you don't know he won't be," he bowed his head to meet her eyes, "but we're going to do everything we can do to help him, yeah?"
"Yeah," she sighed.
That had been hours ago.
It was almost three in the morning as Alfie sat on the chair beside the bed, a dimp lamp casting a soft glow on his son's pale face. His wife had fallen asleep on the bed next to Benjamin, and the room was silent apart from the occasional raspy breath from his son.
This was all he could do.
All he could do to help his son was to sit by his bedside and watch him breathe, watch for any sign that Benjamin was struggling, and to press the damp cloth to his face whenever a shiver broke out of his body.
He had never felt more useless in his life.
If it were any other situation, they would know what to do. If Benjamin had cut his knee when he was playing, his mother would be able to patch him up and make him feel better, if he had gotten into trouble at school, Alfie could pay the teacher's a visit to make sure it never happened again.
But this was completely in the hands of God.
Alfie wasn't a particularly religious man - not in the common sense of the word, at least. He was proud of his identity, he enjoyed the community and sense of belonging it gave him, but he fell short when it came to the believing part of his religion.
He had always thought God was something people used as a comfort in their darkest times, or as an excuse for things not working out the way they had wanted it to, it was never particularly real to him. Yet, as he sat at his son's bedside, with nothing to offer him but a damp cloth, he found himself bowing his head, and silently praying to God that Benjamin would be okay.
He hoped this would be the first time God listened to him.
The doctor had arrived early the next morning, prodding and poking the sick child and humming to himself.
Alfie stood by the doorway with his wife, both of them shuffling slightly on the feet as they waited for the doctor to finish his assessment, their patience wearing thinner with every passing second.
The doctor sighed when he turned to face the parents, a frown on his old and battered face, his beard moving as he scrunched his mouth.
"I see no improvements," he had spoke, and Alfie had to grasp his wife by her waist when he body began to collapse, another sob racking her body.
"What does that mean?" Alfie asked, his hands still secure around his crying wife.
"It means that you should prepare for the worst."
"No, no, no, no," she whispered, her legs giving way for the second time.
"If he recovers it will be a miracle, I've seen stronger boys succumb to this illness."
Maybe it was the doctor's tone of indifference when he spoke, maybe it was the feeling of his wife's body shaking uncontrollably in his arms, maybe he was just looking for somebody to take his frustration out on, whatever possessed Alfie in that moment to let go of his wife and grab the doctor by the collar, slamming his body into the wall, was as fierce and raw as the fear gripping his heart.
"Now you listen here," Alfie growled, his face inches away from the doctor's. "My son will not die. You know how I know that?" the doctor shook his head, his face reddening in fear. "I know that because you are going to fix him. If you don't, it'll be your body they wheel out of here."
The doctor's eyes widened, and Alfie was sure he was about to start crying. "Mr Solomons, there's nothing I can do, I would if I could-"
"You will," Alfie roared, pulling the doctor back slightly only to slam him back into the wall harder. "You will find a way."
Just as Alfie pulled his arm back, his hand curled into a fist, his wife's voice called out to him.
"This won't help Benjamin, Alfie. Just stop it."
Alfie released the doctor, who gasped for breath, his face pale. He turned to his wife, his face softening. "He can't die."
She walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "He won't die," she muttered into his chest, "you won't let him."
It was nearing nine o'clock at night when Benjamin started to stir in the bed. His mother had yet again, fallen asleep at his side, and Alfie was sat in the uncomfortable chair by the bed.
"Dad?" He whispered, his voice weak.
"I'm here, mate," Alfie said, his voice catching in his throat. "I'm here."
"I don't feel well."
"You're not well, mate," Alfie leaned forward, placing his palm on Benjamin's forehead, which was already beginning to cool.
"I told you I wasn't just trying to get out of school," Benjamin choked out, and Alfie let out a hearty laugh, startling his wife awake.
"Oh, thank God," she breathed, sitting up and cupping Benjamin's face in her hands. "Thank God."
"You might catch it, mum," Benjamin groaned when his mother bent down to pepper kisses on his face.
"Still sharp as ever, I see," Alfie muttered, the tension in his body seemingly disappearing.
"We need to ring the doctor," his wife said, and Alfie shot her an unimpressed look in response. "A different doctor," she conceded. "Though him being awake means the worst is over."
"What did I tell ya?" Alfie grinned. "Tough as nails, this one."
@loulouwrites As always, I adore the way you write Alfie bc you capture his speech and mannerisms perfectly. However, it's the portrayal of him as a father that truly captures my heart and imagination. Picturing him at the bedside, keeping watch over his child and showing concern for his wife made my teary eyed. Beneath the gruff exterior, he's so gentle and loving. Ngl, you had me worried for little Benjamin. I was holding my breath during the grim conclusion of the doctor's visit. Then I exhaled a huge sigh of relief at the end!
summary: alfie's eldest son is sick - he won't leave his bedside.
warnings: illness, swearing, thoughts surrounding the death of a child, melancholy, unedited, angst, violence, discussions regarding the death of a child
word count: 1.5k
a/n: a lil drabble form the home series! i'm honoured by the love people have for this family. i know i'm not the most active on here but i just wanna say if anybody wants to talk to me (about anything) don't hesitate to hit me up! (i am still putting my taglist together but I completely forgot about it when I wrote this - forgive me pls)
It had been going around for a while now.
Some illness spreading around London that had children dropping left, right and centre.
Some children barely got a sore throat, and those that did were usually better after a few days, but he had heard the stories of the unlucky few, the children that had been bed bound for weeks before silently passing in their sleep.
He hadn't thought much of it at first - he found stories about other people's children mind alnumbingly boring - even the saddest accounts he had heard had barely registered in his mind.
When Benjamin had started coughing one morning, he had rolled his eyes, insisting he wouldn't get out of school that easily. His wife - who was gentler and kinder than he could ever be - had laid her hands on her son's cheeks, instructing him to go back to bed with a kiss on his forehead.
It had caused quite a tiff between the couple.
"You're too fuckin' soft," Alfie had told her, pointing an accusatory finger in her face.
"And you're too fucking hard on him," she had spat back, smacking his hand away.
She had been right, of course.
When Alfie returned home that night, the house was eerily quiet. No children greeted him at the door, even Bubbe the dog had barely looked up from her bed by the fireplace.
He had found them in the master bedroom, his wife had pulled up a chair next to the bed, and was dabbing a damp cloth on his son's forehead.
He would never forget the way Benjamin looked lying on the bed, his face pale and his hair sticking to his forehead, the wheezing breaths he took being the only sound in the room.
"I sent the children to my mum's," his wife had said, sitting with her back to him, her eyes completely focused on her little boy lying in the bed. "The doctor said it's highly contagious so they shouldn't be around him - or us."
He could tell she had been crying, her voice quiet and shaky.
Alfie didn't say anything in response, because what could he say? He stepped further in the room, moving to sit at the foot of the bed, his eyes trained on Benjamin's limp body.
"He's fucking boiling, Alfie," she choked out a sob, "he's so hot but he won't stop fucking shivering, I don't know what to do."
Alfie watched as his wife's body shook with sobs, putting her head in her hands as he sat on the bed, silent, confused, and so very scared.
"He'll be alright," his voice held no conviction, almost as shaky as her's was. "He's a tough lad-"
"No, he isn't," she cried, lifting her head from her hands to look at her husband. "He isn't. He's sweet and gentle, he isn't tough."
"Love," Alfie shook his head, leaning forward slightly, but she cut him off.
"It doesn't matter anyways, it doesn't matter how tough he is - or isn't - kids have died, Alfie, they've died from this."
She stood from her seat, pacing the room as he looked on helplessly. He had seen her scared before, he had seen her sad and everything in between, but nothing compared to how she looked now. Her hair was a mess, her makeup had smudged, and there was already dark circles beginning to form underneath her damp eyes.
"Listen," Alfie rose from the bed, placing his hands on her shoulders to keep her in place. "He's going to be fine."
"You don't know that," she whispered, hanging her head.
"And you don't know he won't be," he bowed his head to meet her eyes, "but we're going to do everything we can do to help him, yeah?"
"Yeah," she sighed.
That had been hours ago.
It was almost three in the morning as Alfie sat on the chair beside the bed, a dimp lamp casting a soft glow on his son's pale face. His wife had fallen asleep on the bed next to Benjamin, and the room was silent apart from the occasional raspy breath from his son.
This was all he could do.
All he could do to help his son was to sit by his bedside and watch him breathe, watch for any sign that Benjamin was struggling, and to press the damp cloth to his face whenever a shiver broke out of his body.
He had never felt more useless in his life.
If it were any other situation, they would know what to do. If Benjamin had cut his knee when he was playing, his mother would be able to patch him up and make him feel better, if he had gotten into trouble at school, Alfie could pay the teacher's a visit to make sure it never happened again.
But this was completely in the hands of God.
Alfie wasn't a particularly religious man - not in the common sense of the word, at least. He was proud of his identity, he enjoyed the community and sense of belonging it gave him, but he fell short when it came to the believing part of his religion.
He had always thought God was something people used as a comfort in their darkest times, or as an excuse for things not working out the way they had wanted it to, it was never particularly real to him. Yet, as he sat at his son's bedside, with nothing to offer him but a damp cloth, he found himself bowing his head, and silently praying to God that Benjamin would be okay.
He hoped this would be the first time God listened to him.
The doctor had arrived early the next morning, prodding and poking the sick child and humming to himself.
Alfie stood by the doorway with his wife, both of them shuffling slightly on the feet as they waited for the doctor to finish his assessment, their patience wearing thinner with every passing second.
The doctor sighed when he turned to face the parents, a frown on his old and battered face, his beard moving as he scrunched his mouth.
"I see no improvements," he had spoke, and Alfie had to grasp his wife by her waist when he body began to collapse, another sob racking her body.
"What does that mean?" Alfie asked, his hands still secure around his crying wife.
"It means that you should prepare for the worst."
"No, no, no, no," she whispered, her legs giving way for the second time.
"If he recovers it will be a miracle, I've seen stronger boys succumb to this illness."
Maybe it was the doctor's tone of indifference when he spoke, maybe it was the feeling of his wife's body shaking uncontrollably in his arms, maybe he was just looking for somebody to take his frustration out on, whatever possessed Alfie in that moment to let go of his wife and grab the doctor by the collar, slamming his body into the wall, was as fierce and raw as the fear gripping his heart.
"Now you listen here," Alfie growled, his face inches away from the doctor's. "My son will not die. You know how I know that?" the doctor shook his head, his face reddening in fear. "I know that because you are going to fix him. If you don't, it'll be your body they wheel out of here."
The doctor's eyes widened, and Alfie was sure he was about to start crying. "Mr Solomons, there's nothing I can do, I would if I could-"
"You will," Alfie roared, pulling the doctor back slightly only to slam him back into the wall harder. "You will find a way."
Just as Alfie pulled his arm back, his hand curled into a fist, his wife's voice called out to him.
"This won't help Benjamin, Alfie. Just stop it."
Alfie released the doctor, who gasped for breath, his face pale. He turned to his wife, his face softening. "He can't die."
She walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "He won't die," she muttered into his chest, "you won't let him."
It was nearing nine o'clock at night when Benjamin started to stir in the bed. His mother had yet again, fallen asleep at his side, and Alfie was sat in the uncomfortable chair by the bed.
"Dad?" He whispered, his voice weak.
"I'm here, mate," Alfie said, his voice catching in his throat. "I'm here."
"I don't feel well."
"You're not well, mate," Alfie leaned forward, placing his palm on Benjamin's forehead, which was already beginning to cool.
"I told you I wasn't just trying to get out of school," Benjamin choked out, and Alfie let out a hearty laugh, startling his wife awake.
"Oh, thank God," she breathed, sitting up and cupping Benjamin's face in her hands. "Thank God."
"You might catch it, mum," Benjamin groaned when his mother bent down to pepper kisses on his face.
"Still sharp as ever, I see," Alfie muttered, the tension in his body seemingly disappearing.
"We need to ring the doctor," his wife said, and Alfie shot her an unimpressed look in response. "A different doctor," she conceded. "Though him being awake means the worst is over."
"What did I tell ya?" Alfie grinned. "Tough as nails, this one."
🙃 I'm not going to lie.... I was stressssssed. Poor little Benjamin with Alfie and Y/N basically helpless in being able able to do anything for him 🥲. Just having to wait and watch.
He hoped this would be the first time God listened to him.
That line got me... painting Alfie and his desperation in such few words. But I love the quiet resolve that both parents had throughout, leaning on the other. Thank all things for Ben waking up at the end 😭🫶🏽
Thank you for sharing another addition of this family with us! I was sooo stresssssed I loved it 🖤🖤
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