Chapter Text
The late afternoon sun is turning red in the sky, casting warm shadows across the desk in Tommy's grand study in his even fucking grander house, yet he feels anything but warm. He feels…what does he feel? Numb. No, numb would be good. Detached perhaps. Empty. It’s strange really. He should feel relieved. Pleased that he’s accomplished his mission, got his family out of jail. But it's a pretty hollow victory given they all hate his guts. Even Polly. Especially Polly. But he can’t blame them and he can't change the situation so he knocks back another whisky rather than think about it any more.
There’s been no time for emotion these past few weeks – not that he ever has time for emotion – all his energy has been focused on getting his family out, running between London and Birmingham, planning, scheming and hustling his way through the mess. The combination of adrenaline, sleepless nights and a bone-deep fear that something else might happen to Charlie has been toxic. Somehow he’s kept himself upright, kept himself going, because he had no fucking choice, but now that everyone’s safe the facade of control is slipping. It's like he's crept out into the middle of a frozen lake only to realise that the ice is too fragile to hold him. Small cracks are appearing and all he can do is stand still and wait.
Some nights he feels like he’s physically falling, slipping down some unknown incline – heels kicking out in search of a non-existent foothold – because there is nothing and no one to stop this fall. Only lately it’s not just at night. Incessant jitters puncture his daylight hours. His legs tremble whenever he sits, he smokes one cigarette after the other to keep his hands busy whilst his mind flits erratically between thoughts, unable to maintain focus. Occassionally he zones out altogether, loses track of where he is and doesn't care enough to hide it.
There are other symptoms too, unnerving and unpredictable. Right now he is too aware of his own pulse fluttering frantically in his neck, like a startled moth flapping to get out, to find the light. The exhaustion is all consuming and yet his body is wound so tight that sleep is inconceivable, comes in short snatches at best, fuelled only by increasing amounts of whiskey. He knows the staff can see it, the way they tiptoe around him with concerned eyes. He doesn’t need their pity. Doesn’t need anyone.
Well, maybe there is one person. Strange really, how important the man has become. In the black, hollow months after Grace’s death he never thought he’d feel close to someone again...let alone someone like Alfie. He never imagined that beneath the volatility hid such tenderness. But perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised – Alfie Solomons thrives on unpredictability – and Tommy, it seems, thrives on Alfie. He is warm and tactile and self-assured, with a weight and presence that makes Tommy feel safe, grounded. Their shared moments, though infrequent, have become something to hold onto; an island of warmth in a sea of anger and animosity.
And Alfie is coming tonight, will be here in just a few hours – so Tommy can focus on that. Christ knows he needs something to focus on right now; his hands are shaking. He closes his eyes and thinks about how Alfie will arrive in a cascade of words, distract him with sparkling eyes and warm hands – drown out Tommy’s thoughts with his absurd rambling – then take him to bed and fuck him to sleep. And when Tommy inevitably wakes too soon, Alfie will hold him until the sun comes up. And god how he needs to be held. He can’t actually remember the last time he felt any human contact beyond a handshake. Just another couple of hours to get through.
When the phone rings it startles him out of his thoughts. His first instinct is relief at hearing Alfie’s gruff voice down the line, strangely soothing despite the distinctly fucked-off tone. But then he starts ranting about some issue at the bakery, how fucking inept his staff are, how he might as well be dealing with school kids and how he won’t make it up to Warwickshire till tomorrow night, earliest. But Tommy isn’t listening any more. His ears have started ringing – there’s a hollow feeling in the middle of his chest and he’s suddenly wondering how on earth he’s going to get through another night on his own.
“Tommy, you still there, mate?” Alfie asks.
“Yeah.”
“So tomorrow night then, late. Or possibly Sunday morning if it all goes tits up. Alright?”
“S’fine,” Tommy sighs deeply.
“You alright there, love?”
“Eh? I said it’s fine,” he repeats, but his voice is cracking. He hangs up abruptly, fuck he hopes Alfie didn’t hear that. He rests his head in his hands and takes a deep shaky breath, feels his eyes burn. He presses the heels of his hands into the sockets and physically holds in the tears. It’s just another 24 hours.
–––
He has no idea how long he's been sitting there when he hears Frances knocking on the door, forcing him to compose himself. He takes a deep breath, blinks widely and tells her to come in.
“Dinner is ready, sir,” she says nervously.
“Not hungry,” he snaps without looking up, he needs more time for his eyes to clear. He stares at the paperwork on his desk, as though he is actually concentrating on something meaningful and not just trying to hold his head together. But instead of leaving, Frances hovers nervously in front of him, fiddling with her fingers. After a few seconds, he looks up, intensely irritated, both eyebrows raised in a silent question.
“It’s just that you haven’t eaten dinner in three days, Sir. And Charlie’s asking for you, he’d really like to have dinner with his daddy.”
After a very long pause he asks, “is that all, Frances?”
She knows she’s not going to get anywhere with him when he’s in this mood, so backs out of the study, closing the heavy door behind her.
Tommy sighs, pushes aside the image of Charlie eating alone with the maids. He pours a large whisky and knocks it back, trying to swallow his guilt down with the amber liquid. It doesn’t work, but he pores another anyway, larger this time. He wraps his arms around his sides, squeezes his hands under his armpits and tries to stop the trembling that is now worrying his limbs. It doesn't work. He clenches his teeth together, hard, trying to clamp down on the tremors that are threatening to overwhelm him, on the fluttering in his chest and in his throat. He feels his breath quicken, his shoulders rise and he picks up the empty whisky glass and hurls it at the window behind him with a fury he didn’t know he was holding in.
He’s vaguely satisfied when it smashes to smithereens, taking a window pane with it, letting in an icy blast of evening air that seems to match his mood. He turns his attention to the desk next, swiping everything off the surface with his forearms – books, papers, ornaments, ashtray, lamps – it's not enough to sate the unbridled mania taking him over. He hears himself roar as he lifts the entire wooden desk, flinging it over in one violent move, rage giving him a strength he hasn’t felt in days. He kicks the papers and ornaments that now cover the floor, rips the telephone from the wall and finally picks up his leather chair, hurling it at the bookcase so hard that he wrenches his shoulder. And then he's sated, for now. He staggers across the room to grab another bottle of whisky from the shelf, finds a glass too, and slumps down to the floor beside the bookcase, chest heaving from the exertion. When his breathing has steadied he opens the bottle and pours whisky hungrily down his throat, chasing the numbness it brings.
He can hear the maids outside, quick footsteps and anxious whispers, wondering what to do.
"Stay away, Frances," he bellows, before any of them have a chance to knock and thankfully, no one dares enter.
He sits there for a long time, listening to the sound of his own ragged breathing as the sun drops lower in the sky, finally dropping beneath the horizon, leaving the room in gloomy shadow. He hears Charlie go off to bed, protesting loudly and calling for daddy, but it sounds far away, almost as if his head is underwater and everything outside this room is happening in a distant world, one he is no part of. He can’t deal with himself right now, let alone his son. Soon other sounds take over, maids going in and out of rooms, clearing and fetching and carrying, laying the table for a breakfast he won’t eat, readying the house for another wretched day. The house gradually falls silent around him and at last he is truly alone. He should go to bed, should at least lie down even if he can’t sleep. But instead he drains the rest of the bottle, then retrieves another from the shelf and continues drinking. Perhaps it will make him unconscious, blot out the hours, blot out the guilt, blot out how much he wants to feel whole again...wants to feel Alfie.
–––
It’s the early hours when he awakes, stiff and uncomfortable on the floor of his study. Christ he’s cold, what time is it? He scrabbles to sit up, limbs aching, head pounding.
He is still clutching a glass tumbler in his left hand, which he brings reflexively to his lips, draining the last few drops of whiskey. Then he just stares at the glass, at the chink of moonlight refracted in its surface from the window, and wonders how he's come to this, how he's lost everything and everyone...including his own fucking mind. It’s almost as if he's not here at all, as if he’s watching someone else’s hand, someone else’s fingers as they tense and squeeze around the glass until it cracks, the sides splintering into large, jagged shards. Even then he doesn’t stop, the fingers continue to curl, to clench a fist, flesh against broken crystal, until something hard – bone he supposes – forces him to stop.
He glares impassively at the blood dripping down his arm, fascinated at how the flow quickens until his shirt sleeve is bright red and a thin stream is running from his elbow into the carpet. He grips his forearm and closes his eyes, he wants to feel the pain… it’s real and it’s sharp and it reminds him that he is still alive and…fuck…this is not Ok. He can’t think straight. He leans back against the book case, just needs to rest for a minute…breathe in...breathe out...make his head work. He’s aware of a warm wetness seeping into the floor, into his trousers and he knows that he’s going to have to act.
When he opens his eyes again he looks curiously at his own bloodied hand and tries to unfurl the fist, letting the remains of the tumbler fall to the ground. He pulls tentatively at the fragments, embedded in his palm, hissing at the pain. There's a lot of blood. He needs to clean it up, to find something to stem the flow. He looks around his office but sees nothing of use…his waistcoat will have to do. He undoes the buttons and shrugs it off, wrapping the woollen fabric around his hand. What he really needs is something more absorbent, a towel, which is going to mean making it to the bathroom. He crawls to his feet and stumbles towards the door, head spinning.
–––
The staircase to the first floor has always been imposing, with its ornate carvings and gallery of paintings. In his current, inebriated state it looks like a bloody mountain before him. His hand is throbbing and he feels decidedly light-headed, whether from the booze or blood-loss he isn’t sure. He can’t risk walking, he’s too unsteady on his feet and when he closes his eyes there are spots swimming before him. So he sinks down onto his hands and knees and starts to crawl, like a fucking dog, grateful at least that no one is awake to see him. He’s aware that blood is seeping into the carpet on every step, but there’s nothing he can do about that now, he just needs to stay focused, get to the bathroom, get the towel, get into bed. If he can just lie down, warm up, wrap his hand, then everything will be alright. Or at least better. He wants to pull the blankets over his head and just hide from everyone and everything. Wait for the bleeding to stop. Or not.
Crawling works out fine. There is a brief moment of relief when he makes it to the top stair, he lies there for a minute, two minutes maybe, still on all fours, forehead resting on the floor. Christ he feels dizzy. And why is it so cold? Are the windows open? He reaches for the newel post and hauls himself up with his good hand, keeping a firm grip on the wood to steady himself as he makes it to his feet. Grace’s eyes look down on him from the wall and he feels overwhelmingly tired and ashamed. He can’t look at her, casts his own eyes down and then has to rest his forehead on his outstretched arm, because his head is too heavy to hold. Too late he realises he has misjudged, his balance is off, his weight is tipping and his reactions are delayed — too slow to prevent the inevitable. The fall seems to happen in slow motion. He feels his head striking wood, a disorientating tumbling of arms and legs and neck and the wind being knocked completely out of him.
–––
The next thing he’s aware of is the agonising pain in his left shoulder and the hands that are shaking him. He wants them to stop. He hears a howling sound and wonders absent-mindedly if it’s foxes in the grounds, before realising that it’s coming from him. He blacks out.