maybe this was meant to be

by Bagel89

Notes:

• For elskierr.

Based on this amazing prompt by elskiee on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/elskiee/751005863871905792/a-prompt-for-my-boys?source=share

I have never tried omegaverse, but the prompt was too good to pass up. I'm adapting their personalities to fit the story. Nobody is a gang leader and honestly they're both dangerously close to being cinnamon rolls.

Tags will be added as the story progresses, so keep checking them if you need to. Enjoy.

Chapter 1: in which alfie gets a visitor (or two)

That godawful sound.

It was like a rusty door creaking over and over, or a broken siren, or a cat in heat.

Alfie thought it was an animal at first, and only after several minutes did he realize it was human. Some poor bastard drugged out of their mind, no doubt, and taking refuge from the rain under the dubious shelter of the front doorway while they bewailed the sorrows of the world.

He couldn't find fault with that. A bloody sorry world it was, sometimes. But he needed to sleep.

He tossed and turned until his scalp prickled and wouldn't stop prickling: a signal that always meant time to do something about it. He got up, shuffled to the window, and shoved it open with an ear-rending scrape. "Oy! Pipe down out there!"

The thick, static sound of rain answered him, and cold spray puffed in his face. For a few seconds he thought he'd been successful. Then it began again: a low wail, like a note of unnerving music, wandering upwards, growing keener. And then a shriek of sharp pain, high and frightening. It was followed by a weak, repeated thudding on what he could only assume was the door of the building.

He stuck his head further out the window. "Hey! You alright down there, mate? Got someplace to go?" 

More moaning and no words to speak of, but a neighbor across the way shouted a Shut the hell up!

The chill and wet had him wide awake now. His eyes stung, begging for sleep, but his better nature suggested mildly that he might go down and see if someone needed a hot cup of tea or a lift to the shelter.

With a sigh, he gave in. He pulled on his trousers but left the suspenders dangling in petty protest. "You and your damn better nature," he complained to himself on the way down the front stairs. He shuddered at the half-frozen tile under his bare feet, then unlatched the bolt, turned the handle, and changed his life forever.

The poor thing must have been crouched down shivering against the door, because as it swung open he fell in, dripping rainwater everywhere. The soaked white shirt clung to a slight build, sinewy arms and a heavily swollen middle. It took Alfie a moment to take in what he was seeing.

The body on the floor was mewling, curled in on itself, and blood was running with the rain down the hands and legs.

"Bloody hell," murmured Alfie, squatting on his heels. "You get run over, mate?"

The man looked ready to pass out. His slight frame sagged and his fists fell weakly open. His bluish lips trembled and Alfie couldn't tell if he was trying to speak or trying not to make a noise.

"Take a breath," said Alfie. "In, in, there you go. Out." The out-breath turned into a sobbing cry and a hand clutched at Alfie's trouser leg.

Fuck, he couldn't even get a word out, this chap. He'd run into some bad luck, judging by those bruises. But this pain he was in—it was something worse than a battering.

Alfie eyed the protruding stomach with suspicion. He took the liberty of pulling the man's leg forward, upward a little, bent at the knee, and the response was a full-throated scream and the hand on Alfie's shin clutching bone-tight.

The blood was coming from—

"Oh, for the love of fuck. It's a baby coming, innit?"

Nodding. Tears and nodding, and then his nose started to drip blood too.

Alfie pulled a hankie from his back pocket and offered it. A split-second of embarrassment registered when his brain caught up with the reflex. This poor fucker had far more urgent problems than a bloody nose.

But the eyes went still, lashes dark and damp, and the man reached out with deep concentration and took the handkerchief through his pain like a drunk trying to set the mouth of a bottle to the rim of a glass. He wiped his nose very carefully, then ran the cloth briefly over his whole face, then let his arm fall back to the floor and crumpled forward over it with the faintest gasp. The eyes under his black lashes were blue.

Something rose up in Alfie—a bubbly tingle like gin over ice.

When the man strained and roared, wrenched forward on the floor by the next onslaught of pain, Alfie lost the tingle in a hot wave of wrath at he-didn't-know-who. Someone had left this man on his own, pregnant and injured, the most vulnerable state possible for a male omega. He was disoriented, at high risk of assault, and far more prone to birth complications than a female. And here he was having his fucking birth complications on the floor of Alfie's front entry.

He held onto the man's shoulder helplessly, feeling the muscles contract with pain. "Easy, there. Easy, you're alright. I'm going get you to a couch, right, and then I'm gonna phone emergency and have them send someone over."

"No," came a whimper, the first sign he'd had that his visitor knew how to speak. "No, don't phone."

"Mate, I'm not a bloody doctor," said Alfie. "Look at you."

"Please." A frozen hand gripped his wrist. "He works for the city."

It was enough for Alfie to get the gist. Whoever "he" was, Alfie was already forming a powerful antipathy toward the fellow.

His guest was curling in on himself again, going white with agony.

"Well, you can't have it right here on the floor," said Alfie firmly. "I'd better carry you up to my place."

It was a good thing he didn't expect an answer, because he didn't get one. He slid his arms underneath the man's knees and shoulders, rolled him onto his back, and lifted. He was braced for another scream, but the only sound that came out was a bitten-off yelp, and the smaller man immediately buried his face in Alfie's shoulder, neck strained to hold back his sounds of pain.

It brought every protective instinct Alfie had raging to the surface. He bent his head down and let his lips brush the cold, wet hair. "I've got you," he rumbled.

His heart pounded as he took the stairs, from emotion as much as from effort. He went slow and careful, every step creaking under him. The man in his arms was light, though. Frail. For a full-grown man with a full-term pregnancy, a featherweight. Alfie reckoned he could bench press more than this without breaking a sweat.

He passed by the couch and laid his guest down on the bed. Poor chap deserved to be as comfortable as possible, given what was coming. The face chased the comfort of his shoulder, nose nudging, hands clinging, soft wordless whines begging Alfie not to leave.

"There now, you just make yourself comfortable. I have a friend I can call up to—"

No. A gut-churning yell, not protest but pain. The body contracted like a hand clenching around a ball. His head arched back against the pillow, revealing a jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and the pale skin of his face and neck flushed red.

When it passed, the man was shaking, a hand fluttering at the fastening of his trousers, frantic for help.

Alfie swore inwardly. Him and his damned better nature. He ripped the pants open, ripped them off, ripped off everything underneath. Well, there was definitely a dick, so he hadn't mistaken the mechanics of the thing, and it was definitely an omega dick: a soft, limp, pink thing drawn in close like it was trying to hide. And there was definitely blood seeping out from someplace further down, leaving spots on Alfie's sheets.

The man was writhing. "I can't," he sobbed. "Please. I can't." He sounded feverish.

Alfie helped him draw his knees up and was greeted by a gush of water that soaked his bedsheets and the mattress beneath. His heart jolted when he saw something already there at the entrance, waiting to come out. 

He felt seized, paralyzed, faraway for a moment. But the man's face brought him back. The poor devil was scared out of his wits. 

"Ever done this before?" Alfie asked, setting a hand gently on the omega's inner leg. Fuck, even there the skin was cold. 

Bitten lips, plump and soft. Head shaking no. Eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown with pain.

"Yeah, well. It's gonna be alright," said Alfie, with no idea whether that was true. He reached up and brushed damp hair off the man's forehead, let his fingers ghost over the cold cheek. "I've done this before, so I'll see you through it, right?"

It wasn't exactly a lie: he'd helped a horse and three or four dogs in his time. Never a human. But there was no doctor and no ambulance and no time to call Lizzie over, so he didn't have much choice.

He hoped the man was too distracted with the pain to notice how his hands shook as he reached down to scrape away the burst remnants of amniotic sac from the part of the baby he could see. An inch or two of bald head was visible, and around it things were beginning to stretch, bulging out unnaturally.

It looked bloody fucking painful, worse than a dog or a horse. His stomach pinched with sour fear. The fuck have you got yourself into, Alfie? He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, glanced down at the man's ass again and—nope. He nearly blacked out this time.

Fuck. Bodies weren't meant to fucking do that, were they?

A push, another bulge, everything awful and exposed, and the omega cried out sharply. Alfie put his hand over it because the one thing he knew was that it had to happen slowly, or the man would rip himself wide open.

"Easy, treacle. Easy does it," he said, just like he'd said to the mare.

It was hot under his palm, a feeling of inflammation in the skin, a stark contrast to the chill everywhere else. He didn't know how hard to press, how much was too much. He remembered from biology studies, years ago, that males had a harder time than females, narrower hips, tighter openings, needed longer to adjust, but he had no idea what was normal, even for a female. Fear curled round and round in his stomach. What if he did something wrong? He didn't want to hurt him. 

The pushing stopped and the baby slipped back in most of the way. The man up there whimpered and Alfie rubbed his leg awkwardly. "Well done, treacle."

He had one of those faces that could be almost any age, but he looked so fucking young right now, the way he was lying back against the pillows all pale with spit-damp lips and scared eyes. Those bright eyes went into Alfie like a long needle, injecting him with that powerful drive to protect, to soothe, to make everything alright.

"I can't do it," came a broken whisper.

Alfie took his hand. "Yes, you can. What's your name?"

Tears gathered and the blue eyes shut against them. He bit his lip again. "Fuck," he murmured.

"It's okay, you're okay. You're safe. Tell me your name, love."

"Tommy."

Alfie's heart went warm. "Okay, then, Tommy." He gripped the trembling hand tighter. "You and I are going to get this baby out, and we're gonna do it slow and easy, right? No sudden movements, no surprises, and I'll be here the whole time."

"I'm—I can't breathe," said Tommy faintly.

His eyes were rolling back in his head. Pain or panic, something was too much.

Alfie grabbed the glass of water he had on the nightstand and poured some on Tommy's lips and down his neck, which was stupid because he was already drenched from the rainstorm. Tommy curled towards him and vomited suddenly, coughing and retching as the stuff smacked wetly onto the floor.

And now he was contracting again, grabbing Alfie's hand as he pushed, and Alfie was trying not to step in the vomit while he watched and panicked and told Tommy everything was okay.

When Tommy went limp, Alfie brushed the hair back from his forehead again, wiping sweat off, grabbing the corner of a blanket to wipe his mouth. He was still gasping for breath, poor love, so Alfie unbuttoned his shirt, trying to give him some air.

Jesus fucking Christ. He'd been beaten. Those marks on his face and arms weren't from taking a tumble in the street. They were the counterparts to a whole landscape of black-and-blue on his chest.

Pure rage took over Alfie's body for a moment, made him blind and deaf and sick to his stomach. No wonder Tommy was scared. He'd probably gone into fucking labor because he'd been beaten, and he wasn't ready, his body wasn't prepared. And it was his first time, he'd never done this before. 

He wanted to add his vomit to the pile on the floor. He sniffled, shoved the back of his hand across his eyes, trying to clear away the emotion. Nobody fucking deserved to be treated this way.

Tommy was pushing again. With his heart breaking, Alfie gripped a flailing hand and pulled the dark head, the panicked sounds, into his chest. "There, you're alright. Breathe, breathe."

He was going to find that son of a bitch, whoever he was. He'd never lay a hand on his omega again.

"It hurts," whimpered Tommy.

"I know. I know." Alfie glanced back between the legs again. He let go of Tommy's hand to reach down and cup him there gently as he pushed, hoping it was the right thing. "Just go slow and you'll be fine."

They did it two or three more times, and then Tommy gave a strangled yell. Alfie felt the mass move forward and it didn't retract this time—it stayed there, holding him wide open.

Alfie felt sick again. "Fuck. Breathe, treacle, breathe."

Tommy was crying, begging him to pull it out. Alfie didn't blame him, but he also didn't dare.

He moved back between Tommy's legs and there was the fucking complication, plain as day. The bare thing he'd seen wasn't a head. This baby was coming out backwards, ass-first.

The room swam around him as he panicked, recalculated, racked his brain for any scrap of information that might help, and came up empty.

Every second he waited, Tommy was suffering.

He couldn't very well push it back in and ring for a doctor, so he sat down and rubbed Tommy's thigh as comfortingly as he could. "Hush. You're alright, love. You're alright," he said. He placed his hands around the opening, willing it to do its job. "You have to push for me, Tommy. Nice and easy."

Tommy pushed and wailed and pushed again, grunting and straining. Alfie had never seen courage like that. Fluid seeped out, pink with blood, but nothing budged. Oh, fucking hell. It hadn't been this way with the dogs or the bloody horse. Hadn't looked so much like torture.

"I can't." Tommy went limp on the pillow, sweat pouring down his face, legs shaking. "Pull it out. Please. Please, I can't."

"You can," said Alfie fiercely. But Tommy was stretched taut, and the largest parts were still inside. Frankly, he had no idea how it would fit.

He wondered in a panic if Tommy was just too small, if he should never have tried to give birth at all, if he should have had a surgeon instead, if it was too late now and he would die and the baby would die and it was Alfie's fault for not calling an ambulance. He didn't know, had no idea what was normal. Fuck, fuck him, fuck the rain and the fucker who'd beaten this poor boy up. Fuck all of it.

Not knowing what else to do, he massaged the abused opening while Tommy cried, hoping the gentle pressure would coax him further open. It felt wrong, embarrassingly intimate with someone he'd just met, but then this whole bloody situation was fucking embarrassing, wasn't it?

"What's the name, then?" he blurted out after a minute, unable to stand the tiny whimpers anymore. They were like shards of glass, needling him around the heart.

"What?" Tommy gazed at him, bleary and dripping with sweat.

"The name, yeah? You have a name for the baby?"

Tommy's head lolled back. His hips moved, trying vainly to escape the thing hurting him.

"Shh, shh. I'm sorry," said Alfie, apologizing for the pain but never stopping the gentle up, down, and around, even slipping the tip of a finger in next to the baby's body.

"Ruby if it's a girl," Tommy gasped at last. "Charlie if it's a boy. Ah, fuck."

Charlie, then. Alfie could already see it was a boy.

"Named after anyone?" He couldn't let the fear get into his voice.

"None of your fucking business," said Tommy, the first sign of fighting back. Alfie shouldn't have found it attractive, but he did.

A whine, and Tommy's mouth fell open a little. "Ah, please—" 

It was pain, not passion, but Alfie's biology didn't know the difference. The sound of that sweet voice breaking sent him feral. "It's okay," he said, in a blur. "I'll get you through it."

At last, the baby's hip turned under Alfie's finger. Tommy yelped, and inches slid out at once, sending lightning fear through Alfie's chest. But it was okay. They were okay. It wasn't too much blood. 

It stuck again with the lower legs still inside. Alfie cupped the baby in one hand, trying to keep it from dangling too heavily, willing the feet to come out, to alleviate Tommy's misery. Tommy was almost howling, wasn't looking, hadn't noticed the baby was upside-down. Alfie wouldn't tell him if he didn't have to. 

"You're doing perfect," he said. "Gonna meet your baby in a few minutes, Tommy. Give us another push." 

"I can't fucking push," Tommy slurred, snarled, wept. "I'm trying. Please." 

He wasn't lying. Alfie could see he was pushing, or trying to, but he was running out of steam. The beating, the cold, the dreadful lack of meat on his bones, it was too much. He wondered how long Tommy had been laboring before he ended up on the doorstep.

Alfie pulled tentatively at the baby, afraid of hurting one or both of them. 

Tommy screamed. 

"Fuck." He had to do something. Tommy wasn't going to make it the rest of the way without help. "Hang on, Tommy. Don't move." 

The man on the bed rolled his eyes, either desperation or sarcasm. He probably couldn't have moved if he wanted to. 

Alfie ran to the next room, keenly aware that every moment he was away was a moment something bad could happen. He pulled a bottle of rum from his stash—strong rum, the good stuff—and ran back. 

The feet were out. The feet were out, and Tommy was bleeding a little more, panting and clawing exhaustedly at the sheets. 

"It's coming out," he said, his head falling sideways to greet Alfie. He sounded scared, disoriented.

Alfie checked for damage down below first. A little tear in the rim where the blood was dripping down, barely visible because everything was stretched so damn far. The baby was out to chest and mid-back, caught at the shoulders. Alfie knew enough about birthing to be aware that the head and shoulders were the toughest part.

He didn't want another instant of this torture for Tommy. Why the hell did it have to be upside-fucking-down? 

He sat beside Tommy and held him for a minute, stroking his shoulder and the side of his face. Tommy breathed in shaky, aborted gasps, his bruised chest rising and falling too fast, his eyes glazed over and blue as an ocean sky. "You're doing so well, Tommy. So fucking well. Look at you. You're having a baby." 

"It hurts," said Tommy, faraway. 

Damn it all. Alfie's heart couldn't take much more of this. 

He uncorked the rum. "Here. You'll need this for the last stage." He helped Tommy lean forward slightly, tip his head back. 

He gulped and spluttered, splashing rum on his own chest and Alfie's. "M'sorry," he managed through the shakes. 

"No matter. Long as you got some in you." Alfie set the bottle on the nightstand. His chest pounded, preparing for what was coming next. "We're gonna get you up now, Tommy. On your knees. You can hold onto the headboard or me if it helps." Gravity, he thought, might help where tugging and pushing wouldn't. He'd seen some animals drop their young from a standing position, and with no other ideas or advice to be had, he was willing to take a gamble on it. 

"You," breathed Tommy. 

And fuck, if that didn't warm Alfie right to the core. 

"Right, then. You keep breathing and I'll help you turn over, and then you hold onto my neck, Tommy, alright?" 

"And then it comes out," Tommy begged. 

"Yes. Then it comes out," said Alfie, melting inside, wondering how on earth he was going to keep from kissing the hell out of those lips. 

He tried not to think of what it was doing to Tommy as they rolled him forward and dragged him to an upright position, but the bitten-off cries and scrabbling hands on his back gave him some idea. When the omega was finally vertical, knees spread and shaking, arms locked tight around Alfie's neck, he was sobbing without a sound. 

Alfie stroked his back, his neck, his hair, trying to be careful of bruises and broken skin. "You're okay. Just breathe. Let it settle." 

Tommy turned his face into Alfie's neck and breathed.

Heat rushed up and down Alfie's spine. Guilt flooded him for feeling like this now, while Tommy was in unthinkable pain, but he couldn't help it. His alpha instincts had him hot and raging, ready to tear the world apart for this beautiful boy.

Heavy breathing turned into a whimper. Alfie reached down and felt where the baby was hanging, shoulders pulling against Tommy from the inside. Tommy slid his head off Alfie's shoulder. "I'm—" 

That was all the warning he had before the vomit fell from Tommy's gagging mouth, most of it hitting the bed and the floor but a little ending up on Alfie's sleeve. The stench, mixed with the heady tang of rum, was not pleasant. 

Tommy clung to him, miserable, trying to speak but only making incoherent noises. Alfie tutted and shushed and stroked his hair. "It's okay, sweet thing. Not your fault, now, is it? We'll clean you all up when this is over." Amid the broken whimpers, he discerned the plea More, which Alfie took to mean the rum, and though he had some concern that Tommy would just chuck it up again, he couldn't very well deny pain relief to a man with a whole baby dangling between his legs. 

As fast as he could, Alfie reached back for the rum and helped Tommy get it down his throat. Tommy took it impressively well, downing more than Alfie thought possible in one go. 

"Okay, okay," gasped Tommy at last, turning his lips away from the bottle. "Enough." 

Alfie set the bottle back on the nightstand. He turned back and held Tommy close, their faces near and warm like lovers in heat (but with the smell of rum and bile and the sweat of terror, and salty tears running down onto Tommy's lips). Tommy's face tightened, he clenched Alfie's shirt, and his whole body strained, trying to expel the baby. 

"That's it, Tommy. That's it." He felt so fragile like this, glass bones in Alfie's arms, shuddering with effort. 

Once more Alfie made a mental vow to fucking kill the man who'd done this to him. 

Tommy let up for a moment, sobbing and gasping, trying to tell Alfie how much it hurt. "I know, treacle, I know" (even though he didn't know, had no idea what it felt like, and trying to imagine it made him shudder). "You're almost there. Doing so good. You're bloody amazing." 

Alfie held onto the baby as Tommy pushed again. With a rush of blood and water, the shoulders burst free. Alfie gasped and then his stomach dropped as Tommy screamed out with the pressure of the head, finally the head. 

Tommy's sounds were guttural and inhuman, his fingers cold and damp and desperate on Alfie's neck. Alfie's heart thumped and blood rushed in his ears. He held him up, keeping him from collapsing, his hands on Tommy's ass. The lovely, plush tenderness filling his palms was terribly at odds with the brutality of the situation.

He didn't know if he should lay Tommy down or keep him like this. He didn't know. The baby might tear him open like this, coming too hard and fast. But if Alfie laid him down, he might be too weak to push it out. 

The question answered itself. He felt on his fingertips the moment the hot flesh gave way and the skull slid out, and he jumped to put his hand under the baby's head and give it a soft landing. Tommy was sliding down too, bloody and gasping, catching himself on one elbow before collapsing completely in the middle of the bed. 

The baby cried. Fists balled up shivering, covered in mess. It looked a bit purple, but it was breathing deep and wailing lustily, and it lay there in Alfie's hands, a human being, taking his breath away. 

"Tommy," he stammered. "Look at 'im."

It's a baby, he wanted to shout, although he'd been perfectly aware that a baby was the desired outcome of the endeavor. 

He looked over and saw Tommy crying too, in relief or in shock from the last violent moments. He went to him, laid the baby on him (tucked into the crook of his arm, supported by a pillow, since his chest was all-over bruises) and stroked his head. The sight of the exhausted omega and the little one nuzzling against him unleashed something powerful in Alfie, like waves thundering against a sea-wall: an urge to protect, to comfort, to fight for them. 

"Look at him," said Alfie again, his throat thick. "He's here. Your little Charlie." Before he knew what he was doing, he had kissed Tommy's head. 

Tommy looked up, blue eyes glazed and wandering. "It hurt," he said pitifully.

Oh, not like this. Don't let it be like this. He was drunk from the rum, maybe, or floating from the pain. Blood loss, possibly, though the amount of blood on the bed wasn't bad compared to what Alfie had feared. But maybe he was such a little thing that he didn't have much blood to spare. 

Alfie went to fetch him some water and rang Lizzie while he was at it, asking her to call a cab and come over, even though it was the middle of the night. Then he grabbed some towels from the bathroom, carried the water back to Tommy, and made him drink it all. The baby had found the nearest nipple and was sucking. Tommy still looked like he hadn't even noticed. 

A spasm of discomfort passed across Tommy's face, and he moved his legs, then whimpered. 

"You lie quiet," said Alfie. "I'll take care of you." 

He knew how to do this part: cord-cutting and delivering the afterbirth. That was the same as dogs and horses. 

Tommy would need some patching up, Alfie thought as he clamped the cord tightly between finger and thumb, sawed it with his pocketknife, and tied it off. The way he was gaping down there didn't look good, although Alfie told himself for the umpteenth time that night that he had no idea what was normal. He helped Tommy raise his knees and he rubbed him gently, soothing and coaxing as he delivered the placenta.

Alfie wiped everything up with a towel as best he could and set a clean leftover corner to stem the bleeding. It wasn't fast bleeding, but Alfie felt sick over it anyway. He was sick with the sights and the smell and the worry, most of all—for a man he hadn't known existed an hour ago.

He tossed a towel over the vomit on the floor. He'd clean it up later. More than likely he'd vomit himself if he tried right now.

He laid down in the bed next to Tommy, too tired to wonder if it was appropriate. He wrapped his arms around them both and drew Tommy's head onto his shoulder and listened to the baby suck. Rain still pattered on the window, and thunder rumbled low and far-off.

"Hi," whispered Tommy after a minute. He was looking down at the baby, then his eyes searched for Alfie's, awestruck.

"That's your baby, Tommy. It's a boy. A little Charlie."

"Charlie." Tommy's lips pressed the soft, silky hair on the top of the baby's head. A tear ran down his nose.

Alfie didn't know what he was feeling—probably a lot of things, good and bad.

Tommy blew out an unsteady breath, kissed the baby again, adjusted his weight, and winced. 

"Easy, treacle. You're awfully banged up." He helped move Charlie to an easier position. "Your alpha do that to you, mate?"

Tommy didn't answer.

"Right, you don't have to talk about it. You're safe here, though, yeah?"

Tommy shook his head. Fresh tears ran down and he turned his face away, frustrated—embarrassed, maybe.

"Hey, hey there. You're alright." Alfie was surprised he had any tears left. "We'll worry about everything in the morning, ay? You rest now. You fucking earned it."

He pulled Tommy in closer and held him, wishing he could take away the heartache. He wiped Tommy's cheeks dry with his thumb, then felt suddenly shy. "Is this okay?" he asked in a low voice.

Tommy swallowed and relaxed into him. "Yes. It's good."

Alfie went warm with happiness. It might be the rum talking, but he didn't mind.

Several seconds passed before Tommy looked back up at him. "I don't even know your name." 

"Alfred Solomons," he said. He couldn't help the smile. "Call me Alfie."

"Alfie." The softest sigh came from Tommy's nose, and his eyelids sank. Long lashes brushed his cheek. Alfie's heart gave a little throb.

He closed his eyes and cradled them both and waited for Lizzie to arrive.

Chapter 2: in which lizzie stark gives advice

He didn't realize he'd drifted off until the doorbell rang and woke him. It couldn't have been more than ten or twenty minutes, but he was so damn tired it felt like he'd been gone an hour.

Charlie was asleep right there between them, a red wrinkled-up forehead and a thatch of fluffy dark hair, his little chin quivering with every soft breath in and out. As Alfie watched, the baby mouth puckered and sucked the lower lip in and out, as if he were feeding again in his sleep. 

Tommy was awake, quiet and aware and breathing too carefully, his shirt still hanging open and his legs bare. He met Alfie's gaze mutely. 

"Any pain, treacle?" asked Alfie, stupidly. Of course there was. Protectiveness surged in him as Tommy shrugged, trying to make the best of a bad business. 

The doorbell rang again. 

"That'll be my friend," said Alfie. At the flash of panic in Tommy's eyes, he added, "Don't worry, she's discreet. And good at this sort of thing. She'll see to the baby here and get you patched up in no time." 

Tommy's thin chest sank in relief. "Okay." 

Alfie leaned heavily on the banister as he went down the front stairs, the night's events hitting him in a wave of exhaustion and unreality. A decent sleep was the only goal he'd had for tonight, and now that and everything else had been upended by this stranger with the sea-blue eyes. 

He opened the door to Lizzie, who stood tall and longsuffering under an umbrella with a basket in the crook of her arm. "Lizzie!" He beckoned her in. "God-fucking-awful weather, innit? Tea?" 

Lizzie looked annoyed as he ushered her in out of the rain and greeted her with their customary peck on the cheek. "It's one in the morning, Alfie. I'm not here for a picnic. Take me up to this stray of yours and I'll see what I can do for him." 

Alfie shut the door. "Right. Up this way. I'll put the kettle on though, once you're settled." 

He led her to the room where Tommy lay with the baby. Tommy was awfully pale about the eyes and lips, but when he saw Lizzie, he flushed and drew his legs together. 

"Oh Lord." Lizzie paused in the doorway. "It's Tommy Shelby." 

Bloody hell. They knew each other. 

"Hello, Lizzie." Tommy shifted, trying to sit up straighter and pull the baby onto his chest. As Alfie expected, he grimaced and had to stop. 

"The fuck have you done to yourself?" Lizzie went to the bed and set her basket down by his feet. "There's barely anything left of you."

He shut his eyes. "Don't." She reached for his arm and he flinched. "I don't want you here." 

"Well, that's too bad," she said. "I'm here, and you're going to let me take a look." 

"I'll jump out the fucking window first." 

"You will not." She set a long, slim hand on his knee, and there was something in the gesture that made Alfie suddenly wonder how well they knew each other. Embarrassment washed over his face to match Tommy's, though he didn't know why. 

Lizzie's hand moved over to the baby's face, brushed over the soft new skin. "He's beautiful, Tommy." 

Tommy didn't respond, didn't even move beyond breathing. 

"Who did this to you?" She nodded toward his chest and arms. "What happened?" 

No answer. 

"God sakes. If you're in a bad spot you need help, not more fucking secrets, Tommy." 

His stubborn face quivered for a moment with something so vulnerable it made Alfie quiver too. 

"Keep your secrets, then," Lizzie sighed. "But I'm not leaving here until I've fixed you up." 

She spread his legs apart and gently withdrew the bloodstained towel. He didn't fight her, but he looked deathly mortified. 

"Oh, Tommy." 

Alfie's heart gave a twist at her tone. He felt guilty, as if it was his fault for not knowing what to do. 

Tommy was flushed with shame, and when Lizzie started examining with her fingers, he grabbed the sheets in a white-knuckled fist. Alfie didn't know where to look. He picked up the baby and held him, pretending to be useful and occupied. 

"You'll pass out holding your breath like that," said Lizzie. She removed her fingers, bloody, and he gave a shaky exhale. "Can't do anything the easy way, can you? Always has to be like this."

"It was upside down," said Alfie, feeling defensive. "He couldn't help that." 

Lizzie lifted an eyebrow. "Did you know you were carrying breech, Tommy?" 

He shook his head. 

"Did you see one single bloody doctor the whole time you were pregnant?" She was upset now; it spilled out of her voice like a slosh of bitter wine. 

Tommy was silent. 

"Jesus, Tommy!" She threw the towel to the floor onto the pile of linens and vomit. 

Charlie started to cry, wailing small and warm on Alfie's chest. Tommy's head rolled round and he looked for the baby with pleading eyes. Alfie set him back down on the bed, tucked him into the crook of Tommy's arm again, helped him find a latch on Tommy's chest amongst the sweat and contusions. 

Lizzie watched in silence. 

Tommy's head drooped, his entire world shrunk to the place where the baby was curled against him. His eyes looked veiled, shut off. 

A loud sigh from Lizzie broke Alfie's thoughts. "You've had something for the pain, I take it. I can smell the alcohol." 

Tommy didn't answer. 

"Men," sighed Lizzie, and began to unpack her basket. She pulled out clean rags, two mysterious bottles (one clear, one dark), a jar of herbs, and a roll of fabric that unrolled into a sewing kit. 

Fuck, Alfie was not staying for that. He'd go make tea and wait till it was over. 

"I'll need you to hold his legs," said Lizzie, and Alfie's heartbeat dropped like a leaden ball into his stomach.

"I, ah, have to fetch a mop," he said, gesturing to the vomitous pile of towels. 

She looked at him like he was talking nonsense. "He's bled enough. You can clean up afterwards. We'll have more rags for the wash when I'm done, in any case." 

No, no, no. He was not going to do this (he protested in his head, as he went to stand beside Tommy). He was not going to be a part of it (he swore, as he grabbed each of Tommy's legs in a muscular arm).

"I need the light," said Lizzie. "Hold him up."

Of all the bad-luck nights in his life, this one was rapidly taking the lead.

He wouldn't look, at least. He lifted as Lizzie asked, then turned his head back toward Tommy, toward that tired, marble-carved face with the fucking sky-blue eyes and the full lips bent sweetly over the baby's head. He looked so peaceful like that—like the Virgin Mary at prayer, worshiping the child in her arms—so peaceful, just for a moment, until the pain started.

Alfie held him tight as he struggled. As far as he could see, the rum didn't do an ounce of good. Tommy arched into the pillow and sounded like he could feel everything. "Hold still," said Lizzie. Alfie was worn out with anger, too much for one night. It wasn't fair that the birth going wrong meant Tommy had to be punished with this, too.

He wanted to block Tommy's sounds out of his ears, and Charlie now, too, wailing over his father's groans. When Lizzie stopped to cut and re-knot the thread, Tommy grabbed at Alfie's back and said, with sweat running down his face and chest, "Take him. Please." 

Alfie looked to Lizzie, who shook her head. "No, Tommy—" 

"I'll hold still." He was blinking hard under his dripping brow, but the muscle in his jaw flexed and his drained blue eyes didn't waver.

Lizzie looked back at Alfie in reluctant consent. He took the baby from Tommy's arms and bounced him gently on his chest, shushing and patting. Charlie kept screaming while Tommy grabbed hold of his own legs and held them back and Lizzie went back to work. 

Alfie didn't look. He just bounced the baby and kissed the top of his head and blinked back the fucking tears. 

He knew it was done when he heard Lizzie's voice, low and weary, say, "There, Tommy, it's over." He turned around to see Tommy letting go of his knees, hands stiff and shaking, slowly unclenching his jaw from where he'd turned his head and bitten down on Alfie's pillow. 

Lizzie gathered up the bloody rags and leaned forward over Tommy's sweat-drenched stomach. She gave him a little swat on the face, like a cat batting at a bird. "Next time, you call the fucking doctor. Hear me?"

"Fuck off," murmured Tommy, his eyes barely opening.

"Where will you go? I could call a car to pick you up tomorrow. Take you to stay with Arthur and Linda."

"No, Lizzie, not fucking Arthur and Linda. Damn you." His hand twitched, but he was too tired to move his arm. "You're not telling anyone." 

"Did they know you were pregnant? Did anybody?" 

He shook his head, eyes closed, so overwrought that he looked ready to laugh. Alfie had seen that before.

He stepped in before Lizzie could ask any more questions. "He'll stay here, won't you, treacle? I'll keep him until he's ready to be off on his own."

"That's a long time for a house guest," said Lizzie. She looked over Tommy's bare, battered body, stretched out and sunk limply into the bed. "You know it's a long recovery for you males, especially the first time. And he's—" She shook her head and didn't finish. "It could be a couple of months."

"I'll be up by Wednesday," murmured Tommy. 

Lizzie smacked him again, on the shin this time. "If I hear you're up before the next bloody bank holiday, I'll have your ass, Tommy Shelby."

She packed up her basket and carried it down to the kitchen. Alfie set Charlie gently on the bed, pulled the corner of a blanket halfway over him, and followed. 

At the kitchen table, Lizzie handed him the jar of herbs. "Make him tea out of this, twice a day until it's gone. Steep it until it's dark. And this." The clear bottle. "Witch hazel. Soak a rag, keep it on the wounds. And feed him soup, for heaven's sake, or you'll have the ninth level of hell to deal with down there." 

Alfie nodded numbly, holding the jar and the bottle and staring at them.

"And Alfie." She held out the dark bottle with a dry look. "Instead of the fucking rum, please?" 

Alfie blushed and took the medicine. He hesitated, then blurted out, "He'll be alright, yeah? Both of 'em?" 

Lizzie's face softened. "They might've been done for if you hadn't brought them in. But they'll be alright. Baby looks healthy. You did fine, Alfie. " 

The relief was like snow melting and sliding all at once off the rooftop. He felt the slide, he felt the fall, and he felt it hit the ground. He sniffed and grunted low in his throat. Nodded, frowning.

She kissed him on the cheek. "I'll check in after a couple days. Call me if you need help." 

Lizzie turned back on the doorstep, umbrella up, basket back on her arm, and a cab fare from Alfie in her gloved hand. "Watch how the baby's feeding. He'll need a wet nurse, more likely than not. Tommy's so bloody emaciated. I can find you someone." 

Alfie scratched his head and sighed. "Yeah, right. I'll watch 'im." 

"Alfie..." There was something in Lizzie's face he'd only seen there once or twice—the sadness she was so good at cloaking with a sly smile and a sharp tongue. "I know he's the prettiest thing you've ever seen." 

Alfie went furnace-hot, face and neck and arms steaming, hair on fire. 

"But he's bad news. I know him." She glanced down at the rain from the gutter running past her feet. Then into his eyes. "He'll break your heart." 

He grunted again, looked away, and cleared his throat with a growl. "Right. Best be off, Lizzie. Can't have you catching cold." 

She stepped down into the street. "Don't say I didn't warn you," she said, before ducking into the cab. 

He brewed a pot of Lizzie's tea and made his way back upstairs, slower this time. He half hoped to find Tommy asleep, but he was awake, eyes dull and distant, stroking Charlie's back up and down to the rhythm of tiny snores. 

Alfie sat down on the bed and held out the tea. Tommy tried to take it, but his hand was shaking too badly. Alfie grabbed a pillow and set it on Tommy's middle so he could balance it there. 

"Thanks," Tommy whispered. He sounded hoarse. 

Alfie probably would've been, too. 

He moved in next to Tommy, put his feet up, leaned back, and folded his hands across his stomach. "That's a fine strapping boy you made," he smiled, looking over at the slumbering morsel. 

"He's wet on the bed. Twice," said Tommy. "I don't have anything to diaper him with." 

Alfie snorted. "I knew there was something we forgot." He let his eyes fall shut. "I'll clean everything up tomorrow." 

The room was blessedly quiet for a few minutes. Alfie wrapped an arm around Tommy from behind and pulled him in to lean against his chest. "This alright?" 

Tommy nodded and melted into Alfie. The fear and horror of the last hours hung around him like a fog, so thick Alfie could feel it. 

"You're alright," he whispered, and put a hand on Tommy's forehead. "It's all over." Tommy turned toward him, burying his face in Alfie's shirt like he'd done when Alfie first carried him in. 

God-fucking-damn it. Alfie wanted to keep him. 

"So, Tommy. Who is he?" 

He felt the way the question made Tommy's breath tighten, his body cringe a little. 

"I told you. He works for the city." 

"Yeah? Your husband, is he?" 

Tommy took a long time to answer. Reached out and rubbed Charlie's head as if for comfort. "Yes." 

"And he did—that to you. All that?" Alfie gestured up and down Tommy's body. 

Tommy didn't reply. 

"He keep you from seeing a doctor?" 

There was a falter in Tommy's breath. He nodded, small and quick. Alfie pulled him in closer, kissed the back of his head, and tried to calm his own towering rage.

"You don't have to go back, Tommy. You never have to see him again, if that's what you want. I'll go to court and get you the fucking papers and file them myself." 

"What about the baby?" 

Alfie didn't know. Courts didn't often side with an omega over an alpha partner, but he wasn't about to say that out loud. "We'll find a way. We will find a fucking way, you hear me, mate?" 

Tommy sagged, his breath uneven. Alfie wondered how much pain he was in. "He's the one who wanted the baby. I was scared. I told him no for a long time." 

Alfie kept his mouth shut with an effort. 

"After he got me pregnant, it was like he—changed his mind. Everything got worse the last nine months. Yesterday he kicked me out." 

"Before or after you started to..." Alfie moved a hand in Charlie's direction. 

"After. I think. I don't know if he knew. It started when he was—during the discipline." He spoke low and halting, like he was ashamed. 

Alfie pointed his finger, very gently, into Tommy's chest. "That, Tommy, is not discipline. That is fucking barbarism." 

"We had a fight. Partly my fault." 

"Fuck off, mate. He could've killed you. And the baby, so don't give me any of that two sides bloody fucking bullshit." 

For a long minute, he thought Tommy was angry at him because the body in his arms was so still and so silent. Then Tommy said, hoarse and hollow in the dark, "I don't want to go back." 

Alfie's heart expanded three sizes from grief and he didn't know what else. 

"He'll come looking. For me and Charlie." 

"Well, he won't find you, mate," said Alfie. "I'll take you to America if I have to. Hop on a boat to China. I'll fly you to the bloody moon. Tommy—" Alfie grabbed his chin and looked him in those liquid, moon-blue eyes. "That man will never touch you again. Or the baby." He'd always been one to run his mouth and make rash promises, but he meant this one. 

Tommy gazed back, and Alfie could see that he didn't believe him—couldn't believe him, but wanted to. 

"Don't think about tomorrow," said Alfie. "Tonight's enough, innit? More than fucking enough." He pulled the blanket up over Tommy and laid him down, shushed and soothed him when he whimpered with the discomfort of moving. "You're safe, baby's safe. You get to stay here and heal up, as long as it takes." 

Tommy reached for Charlie and drew him close, and they both sighed contentedly at the same moment. 

Charlie had Tommy's nose. 

Alfie remembered Lizzie's warning and decided he didn't give a damn. 

Chapter 3: in which tommy is fucking crucified

Tommy had never been so tired in his life. 

He didn't know how to move, even how to think. 

He was a thing, heavy and hurting. And there it was: there was his baby, his Charlie, lying on him with his head hard against the ache of Tommy's skin. 

Charlie hurt him. 

It hurt where he was lying, a booming ache that radiated down into his organs and drilled into his spine. It hurt his skin, even though Charlie was so soft, so fucking precious and good and curled up like a puppy on his chest and stomach. 

How had Charlie ever fit in there? 

Even in the low light, four in the morning (or at least not five yet...he hadn't heard the clock chime), he couldn't make his eyes stop watering and burning. Every time he looked at that baby, everything in him ached. 

Was it love? Was love supposed to hurt this much, like something hollowing out his insides with a rusty shovel? 

He wanted to protect this baby. He wanted to tear the world to shreds and build a cocoon out of it to keep this baby in, to fend off all the violence, all the curses, all the evil on its way to meet this new little life and mar it. 

He wouldn't let it. He'd die first. 

But he would, of course. He'd die and then who, who would have Charlie. 

Not him. Hell no. 

Better go to King Solomon and have the baby cut in half than that. 

Solomon. 

He turned a little in the warmth of the bed, felt the awful black pain wash up from below, grab his throat and stop his heart, and by the time it got to his eyes it was white-hot, not black, and it made him blink and gasp and go blind for a second. 

Oh, Tommy. Oh fuck. He was panting and grabbing at the sheets, so pathetic. 

He breathed scared and hard until it stopped, until it stopped killing him and let his eyes open to the swirling, spinning dark where his baby lived and where he could feel the mattress, firm and real beneath him. 

He wanted, strangely, to say I'm sorry, though he didn't know to whom or what for. It was a remnant from childhood, probably: from his father beating him with the strap, over and over, wanting to hear those words. 

He didn't mean sorry, he just meant Please. Stop hurting me. 

I don't want to be hurt anymore. 

Please. I'm sorry. 

I will be good. 

All words, all fucking meaningless and futile. 

He'd said something like them yesterday—or was it the day before?—when he was being beaten and he felt his body start to fight, to reject the baby.

It was instinct, of course.

This house is no longer safe. This place I've hidden for nine months is crumbling around me. Time to get OUT. 

And he'd barely managed to get his clothes back on, he was shaking and cramping so much, and he couldn't show it. And the shouting wouldn't stop. 

He'd fallen, once he made it to the street. Then he couldn't get up. 

Don't think about that, Tommy. Fuck. 

It's not the baby's fault. God, fuck no. None of it. Never the baby's fault. 

Even the way it had hurt him coming out, scared him like nothing else. Oh, he was swimming again, that black ink swallowing him, tossing him toward the ceiling and catching him, sinking him down to drown under waves. He felt for the baby, put a hand on the warm bundle, felt the up and down of Charlie's breathing and he breathed too, trying to stay alive. 

It had hurt like nothing had ever hurt him before. Forced him open, but it hadn't been a rape. But it felt like one. God, did it feel like one. 

But it was here, it was in his arms, just so. This baby, his baby, and he loved it and he would have died to give this baby life, even though it did that to him. Even though he was open and bleeding now and stitched up like a torn leather purse and Lizzie, fucking Lizzie, had seen it. 

Even half asleep in the dark, the humiliation was pure torment. If hell was half as bad, he'd turn his life around and be a praying man tomorrow. 

Lizzie, whom he'd rejected three years ago, back when everything went wrong. She'd probably enjoyed the chance to get back at him a bit, hadn't she? Probably liked seeing him like this, a pathetic crawling writhing mess of a man, getting his blood under her pitiless fingernails. 

He clenched at the thought of Lizzie's hands there, and the clench sent flame through the wounds, again the feeling of being raped. 

It shouldn't feel like that. It shouldn't be up inside his body, so very vulnerable and shameful and intimate. Shouldn't be down in the places someone would touch to pleasure him, the places someone who loved him would fondle and kiss. 

Or maybe that was the point. 

He wasn't that kind of creature anymore. He wasn't loved. Didn't deserve to be looked at with soft, adoring eyes or touched with petal-light fingers. He didn't deserve to be kissed and warmed and sucked to tears or gently coaxed and loved to life. 

He was everything he shouldn't be. Hardened in the wrong places, broken in the rest. He couldn't feel the things he used to feel. It was a dull, meaningless flow of angers now. Losses and blows and regrets. He barely fucking felt it anymore. He'd lost his humanity. 

All he could feel anymore was the pain in his body. Sadness was a pain in the throat, anger a pain in the chest, guilt a pain in the stomach. He didn't care, didn't really grieve. He just endured them, the same way he endured being hit or shoved or fucked without care. 

It was sadistic of God, if this was God's doing (if there was such a person as God), to leave him all the sensations of his body when the rest was gone. 

It meant he went through hell every time as if it were the first. It meant that tonight, when this baby had forced its way out of his body, he'd felt every clenched muscle, every drop of sweat, every stretching tearing torturing instant of the pain. 

His heart beat fast and hard, and bile rose into his mouth. He swallowed it down, grunted his absurd protest against the God he didn't believe in. 

If that was what he deserved, he must be worth less than shit. 

Even shit was allowed to lie quiet in the street and drown its sorrows with the rain. Not Tommy Shelby. 

No, he had to be humiliated, ripped open, fucking crucified for all to be well.

He wanted to whimper that it wasn't fair, but he wasn't sure he believed that. He knew himself. He knew what he was and what he'd done. He knew carrying this baby was a penance and an act of justice, and he deserved every last ounce of suffering that innocent executioner could inflict. 

Charlie moved. Stretched his tiny limbs, a fist touching Tommy's sore chest. A little growling squeak came out and then the baby shuddered, sighed, and started to suck his tiny hand. 

Tommy's heart broke. 

Fuck, he was in love. He loved this tiny thing with its downy hair and soft, contented noises. He wasn't going to leave him. Couldn't do it. He had to keep him safe, for the rest of his life. 

The breathing up and down under his frightened, reverent hands made him want to weep. He must be losing his mind. 

A bigger, heavier sigh sounded beside him in the dark and the heated wall beside him rocked closer, making the bed creak. 

Solomons. 

It had to be a sign, didn't it? The king who knew the difference between truth and lies. Who saved the prostitute's baby and gave him back to her alive. 

You're wild, Tommy. You're running wild, nothing to bring you back. Your mind's gone wrong. 

It was the birth, the fucking birth that did it, and those hours and hours in the cold and the fucking rain. That's what was sending him mad. He wasn't ready, wasn't strong enough for that. He'd been a coward. 

Oh God, I've been a coward. Please. 

I wasn't ready for this. I didn't know it would hurt like that. I didn't mean to do anything wrong. Fuck, I didn't mean to. 

He was holding onto Charlie, and Charlie was hurting him like a pile of coals heaped on tender skin. He wanted to howl with it, and to cry from the throbbing in his head and the knife stabbing up inside him from below, where he felt so ashamed, so fucking vulnerable. He sucked in a single sobbing breath. 

I didn't mean to. Please stop. Don't hurt me anymore. 

"Tommy?" 

The mountain beside him awoke and took notice. The creaking bed made music at his ear. 

A cool hand, large and kind and safe, came down on his forehead. 

"Fuck. You're burning up, mate." 

Tommy tried to say something but he was too stupid, too pathetic to come up with a word. It was just a sound, a small one, that any lost animal could have made. 

Blessed relief when that weight came off his chest; then cool air hit him instead and he shivered, and once he started he couldn't stop. Couldn't, though he tried. 

No, no. Where was his baby? I want my baby. 

"He's here, treacle. Right beside you. Feel?" 

He felt a head, a downy silk under his fingers, Alfie's hand moving his to find it. 

That's okay, then. Charlie's safe. 

"I'm drawing you a bath now. Stay put." 

Okay. I'll stay put. 

Solomons.

Alfie. "Alfie?" 

"What is it, mate?" 

"I'm sorry." 

"No, no. None of that, treacle. We'll set you to rights soon. Nothing to be sorry for, Tommy." 

But there was. 

---

Alfie hung over the bathtub bloody exhausted, testing the temperature, waiting for it to fill. Every bone of him craved sleep. And however tired he was, Tommy must be more. He'd have to watch him so he didn't fall asleep in the bath and drown to death. 

He didn't know why Tommy was burning up. Too soon for infection, wasn't it? Or milk fever?

But he'd been out in the cold for fuck knows how long before Alfie found him. Alfie ached thinking about it. 

He went back to the bedroom and picked him up, one arm under the neck and shoulders, one under the knees. Tommy was too limp, too docile. His head fell forward onto Alfie's shoulder and he breathed against him, warm and panting. "You're alright, love," said Alfie. 

He was about to lay him down in the water and realized Tommy was still wearing that crumpled white shirt he'd shown up in, though it was unbuttoned and hanging down both sides. He set Tommy on his feet instead, holding him steady with one arm and peeling the shirt off him. It looked several inches too large in every direction, and the thought that it was probably his husband's made Alfie irrationally angry. 

Tommy's face was something new like this. Funny how a face could go naked along with its body. Alfie gazed for a few seconds at the expression: a kind of wistful shame, muzzy, almost drunk, cheeks pinker than before, eyes veiled under those lovely dark lashes and his lower lip caught between his teeth. He looked so lost and so wanting, need written in every line of his body—for what, Alfie didn't know. He wished he could fill up every empty place in him, satisfy him so he wouldn't want for anything ever again. 

When he took Tommy's shivering hand to help him into the bath, he saw him from the back for the first time, and holy hell. More bruises, laid in sharp purplish lines, and welts: ugly raised weals from the shoulders down to the tender crease where buttock met thigh. He should have seen the lowest ones last night, at least, but the light had been low and he'd been so focused on what was happening in between the legs that he hadn't had time to notice. Some of the welts looked inflamed, a few were bloody. 

Tommy gasped softly as water hit his sore skin and he began to shiver uncontrollably. Alfie held onto him by the arms and lowered him down, gently, to a sitting position, stroking his head when he buried it, breathing hard, in an elbow on the side of the tub.

"Shh, Tommy. Shh. I'm here." 

He lowered his eyes and fought the hot lump in his throat. 

Tommy looked up, feverish, and saw Alfie's face. "You're crying." 

"No, mate, no." Alfie cleared his throat with a growl. 

"It's okay," murmured Tommy, reaching a shaky hand out to find Alfie's arm. 

Comforting him. 

"No, it ain't, Tommy." He pressed his mouth against the dark hair, held the heated neck, but he couldn't move, couldn't kiss him or soothe him. "It's not fuckin' okay." 

"I'm used to it," Tommy said quietly. 

That made it worse. Didn't he see that made it worse? 

They didn't move for what felt like a long time, Tommy shivering against the side of the tub, Alfie clinging to his head and neck, the water swirling gently. 

He let Tommy go finally, let him slide deeper into the bath, lean his head back against the rim. Tommy's eyes fell shut and his chest rose and fell, breathing with an effort. He was flushed all over but looked too pale around the mouth. His lips pressed tight and a frown touched the place between his brows. 

Alfie fetched him a washcloth, but Tommy was too tired to use it, so Alfie let it be. After a minute, he wet the cloth, wrung it out, and folded it in thirds. He laid it on Tommy's forehead, brushing back his hair. 

"M'cold," said Tommy through tight lips. 

"It's fever, Tommy. That bastard did a fucking number on you." 

Moments later, Tommy looked up at him with those heart-rending blown-glass-blue eyes and said, "I'm sorry." 

"What the fuck for?" said Alfie. "You haven't done a thing." 

Tommy didn't seem to know the answer. 

"Tommy." Alfie stopped, squeezing out the cloth, and looked into his face. "I don't know you, mate. I don't know where you're fucking from or what you fucking do or what kind of fucking shit you believe about marriage and guilt and fucking responsibility. But I know, right: any alpha who puts his mate in the condition you are in right now—his pregnant mate, no less—is the devil. The fucking devil, Tommy." He took the washcloth and started to bathe the man's chest and shoulders, very gently. 

Tommy was so silent and still that Alfie didn't notice the fire building up inside him. 

He shoved at Alfie suddenly, water everywhere, and clambered up, elbow on the edge of the tub again, face back in his elbow. He grimaced, eyes wedged shut, and gave a roar of anguish. 

"Tommy, Tommy. Hey, Tommy. It's fucking over, mate. You're alright. It's all fucking over." 

He folded slowly forward into Alfie's chest, hiding. Shivering. His skin was a furnace. 

"Tell me what's wrong, treacle." 

Half a head shake. 

"Cold," he said again. "And it hurts." 

"What hurts, mate?" 

"Fuckin' everything," came the thick whisper. "Fuck—" His face twisted again but the sob never came. He hung there heavy in Alfie's arms, holding it all in, stiff as a corpse. 

Alfie splashed the cool water over him, up his back, over his neck and the back of his head. Wiped the damp washcloth over his forehead, his ears, the angry weals on his shoulders. Tommy trembled like a dog after gunfire. "You could've told me about this, you know, treacle," said Alfie, gingerly dabbing at a bloody place. "I would've been gentler." 

He might as well have been talking to a wall. Tommy was in another world. 

He seemed to go through waves of pain, getting worse and then easing. Lizzie had said the cramps might go on for a day or two—keep him comfortable, she'd instructed, and don't let him thrash around too much. Alfie kept his hands on him, holding him up, and kept telling him where he was. Tommy's eyes were so far away, he might not remember it was over, mightn't he? He might think he was still with that bastard, or he might get confused with the pain and think he was still fighting to push Charlie out. 

Tommy whimpered, water splashing as he fumbled for a handhold, digging at Alfie's chest. The bewildered blue eyes disappeared in a tightening of face, fists, everything. The next groan made Alfie hurt for him. 

"Tommy, Tommy. Just breathe, love." 

He sounded like he couldn't. He was panicking, his lungs hitching out high sobs. Alfie held onto him by his arms, the head drooping between hunched shoulders. He set his hand on the side of Tommy's face. "In and out, treacle. Breathe." 

Tommy tried valiantly. He looked like a small boy with his reddened lip and his tear-struggling face and his hair cropped close on the sides. He was fucking lost, that's what.

Alfie noticed a red stain swirling in the water. "Fuck," he said. Lizzie had said the bleeding might go on awhile too. He hoped to God this was normal bleeding and not something wrong. 

A wail arose from the bedroom and Tommy went slippery, squirming round to face the door.

"Hang on, mate!" said Alfie. "Gonna bloody hurt yourself." 

"Give me my baby," said Tommy. Whenever he spoke louder, his voice was cracked and hoarse. "He's my fucking baby." 

"I know he's your baby, mate. But you've got a fucking fever and you can't run off without some help." 

"He's crying. Let me go to him," said Tommy fiercely. "Don't you fucking tell me what I can do." 

Alfie took a moment to thank whatever benevolent angel had blessed his birth and made him a big strapping boy. He could restrain Tommy if he had to, if things got out of hand. 

"Look, love. I will get your baby, right, and I will bring him in here. And all you have to do is sit still and don't fucking move, Tommy. Alright? Don't move, and I will bring your baby." 

"Alright," said Tommy, strung out with pain and the sound of Charlie's screams, resting his forehead miserably on the side of the bathtub. "Get him. Please. Go, fucking get him." 

Alfie got him, cleaned him up, fumbled around until he found a stack of diapering rags Lizzie had left on the chest of drawers (bless that woman and all her descendants for a thousand fucking generations), and wrapped him up in one of them. A clumsy job, and he wasn't at all sure it was watertight, but it would do for now. 

He stripped the sheets while he was at it, threw a large, clean blanket over everything, and tucked the subdued, wide-eyed Charlie in one arm. "Let's go find your papa now, ey? See what mischief he's gotten up to." 

Charlie's papa hadn't moved since Alfie saw him last. He looked frozen in place, his head down and his body tense. The only sound in the room was the occasional drip of the faucet into the tub. The water had gone a light shade of pink from Tommy's blood. 

"Here, treacle." Alfie bent down far enough to touch his shoulder. "Baby's here. Let's get you up." 

Tommy raised his head, dazed. "Charlie?" 

"Yes, it's Charlie. Your baby. But you can't have him in the tub, now, can you?" 

Tommy got to his feet too fast, then bent over in what looked like awful pain, half in and half out of the tub. "Ah, fuck!" he shouted. 

The noise made Charlie jump and cry, nearly squirming out of Alfie's grasp. 

"Fuck," Tommy sobbed, holding onto the side. "I can't fucking move. Alfie." 

"Ah, fuckin' hell." Alfie grabbed him with the arm that wasn't holding a shrieking infant, tried to steady him as he took another step. Tommy hung onto him like a drunken sailor holding to a mast in a storm. 

"Help me," he said. 

"I'm bloody trying, love. Can you get your arm round my neck, Tommy?" 

Tommy did it, cried out low and violent as he took a step. 

Charlie screeched in Alfie's arms. 

Fuck. 

He lifted Charlie off his chest with one arm and bundled him against Tommy's. "Hold him, Tommy." 

Tommy clutched the baby, tears of pure pain in his eyes, and said, "Shh, shhhh...Charlie, I'm here. It's me, Charlie." 

Alfie picked them both up and carried them to the bedroom. 

When he laid them down on the bed, Tommy curled sideways, still clutching the baby, and breathed hard, mouth open, waiting for the pain to pass. 

Alfie noticed a smear of blood on his own arm and immediately said, "Tommy, I've got to check your stitches." 

"Can you wait?" huffed Tommy, overwhelmed. 

"You're fucking bleeding, mate." 

Tommy flushed a deeper color than he was already from the fever. A wince, a long grimace, a slow stiff writhe. More kissing and clutching of Charlie like he was the only thing tying Tommy to the world of the living. 

"Tommy, I've got t—" 

Thickly: "Do it fast, yeah? Just get it fucking over with. Please." 

Alfie understood. "Better yet, treacle, I'll be gentle." 

He let Tommy stay on his side and approached him from behind, lifting one leg up. It wasn't the stitches, thank fuck. They were holding, and the skin around them was holding. Lizzie knew her business. It was coming from further up inside—probably the routine bleeding Lizzie had told him about. He'd watch that it didn't get worse, but for now, he could give a sigh of relief. 

He fetched a rag and the witch hazel and soaked the rag, poured the stuff liberally over the area, pressed against the wounds inside and out. Better waste it than risk another infection for Tommy on top of the one he was fighting. 

Tommy hissed. 

"Alright, love?" 

Rough and gravelly: "Don't fucking ask." 

"Burns a bit, yeah? Better than the fucking rum, though." 

"Well then, thank you, Mr. Solomons, for being a good doctor and not pouring rum in my fucking ass." 

He must be feeling better if he was joking, thought Alfie. 

But the next minute, as Alfie patted his thigh and pulled a fresh sheet over his lower half, Tommy looked like he was so tired he couldn't move or even open his eyes again, as if the one joke had taken all the strength he had. 

Charlie was nursing vigorously, lying lengthwise next to Tommy on the bed; Tommy looked dead. His hand hung down limply to one side, no longer holding onto the baby. Alfie pressed the back of his hand to Tommy's forehead. 

Still warm. Too warm. Not burning up, though. 

He took some more of the witch hazel and wiped it over the wounds on Tommy's shoulders and waist and buttocks. Even the ones without blood looked bloody painful. Tommy barely moved. 

"I'll have to get more of this stuff," said Alfie to no one. "One bottle won't do."

He dragged an armchair over beside the bed and took up vigil. 

Without warning, Tommy stirred, pulled Charlie's now-sleeping body close against him, and dragged himself to a half-sitting position, leaning back on Alfie's pillows. He bit his lip and went limp again, panting. 

"How's the pain, mate?" asked Alfie, probably pointlessly. 

Tommy didn't answer, which Alfie took to mean it was bad. Dawn had crept into the room while Alfie was thinking about other things; he noticed the light all of a sudden when he looked at Tommy's face. His skin was pale and his eyes distant, that aching veil fallen down over the blueness again. 

His jaw looked so clear and breakable, his chest so thin despite the slight curve and softness that came with carrying milk. Alfie had never seen a man breastfeed before; there was something terribly vulnerable about a hard chest gone tender, the nubs of the nipples pinkly swollen. The bruises made a picture that should have been pure beauty a little sickening, put a lump in the bottom of Alfie's stomach. By the light of day, Alfie noticed he was battered worse on the left side—a right-handed attack. He imagined the violence it would take to do that, the meaty thwack of fist on flesh, over and over, with the baby just inside. And those cruel, livid marks all over his back and backside, laid on just hours before he was going to give birth. 

"You can't take the baby back to him," said Alfie. It sounded sudden in the silence. 

Tommy only hesitated a second. "No. No, I can't." He gazed at the little body curled around his waist and sighed. 

"We'll do whatever it takes, Tommy." 

Charlie sighed softly in his sleep, and Tommy bent down to press a kiss to his head. It was a simple, gentle movement, but it took Alfie's breath away. There was an agony in it he hadn't seen before, something beyond bodily pain.

"Alfie..." 

He waited. "What is it, treacle?" 

"I have to give him up."

Alfie rubbed his eyes with a tired hand. "Excuse my honesty, mate, but what in bloody hell are you talking about?" 

"I can't keep him and keep him safe. He will never be safe while he's with me." 

"Don't talk like that, Tommy." 

"His father will never stop looking for us if I'm with him." Tommy swallowed, frowned, his jaw and neck revealing the emotions he wouldn't let out in words. "If I go back and tell him the baby's dead, that he didn't survive the birth, Charlie will be safe. He can go on, grow up, live his life without us and our curses and our problems." 

"And you, mate?" Alfie couldn't believe his fucking ears. 

Tommy raised his brows a little, pressed his lips, staring down at Charlie. Resigned. 

"No. Tommy, no. I won't let you. You are not thinking like a sane man right now." 

"I was insane thinking I could keep him and everything would be alright," said Tommy. "I am sane now. I'm rational. I just needed a few hours of—" He broke down, controlled it, pressed his lips, breathed deeply. "I needed to pretend he was mine. Just for a little while. But I know better, Alfie. He'll be happier without me." 

"You still in that fever, mate?" Alfie got up to feel his head and Tommy swatted his hand away. 

"Don't make this fucking harder for me," said Tommy viciously. 

"Tommy, listen to me. Just fucking listen, alright?" Alfie sat down on the bed and leaned in, not above using his size and presence to force someone's attention. "You, right? You love this baby. Look at him. Fucking look at him, Tommy. That child needs his father. He needs you." He jabbed a finger at Tommy's chest. "He does not need your guilt or your martyrdom or your noble fucking sacrifice. He needs someone to tuck him in at night and look at him the way you fucking look at him. The way you already fucking look at him, mate." 

Tommy was very still. 

"And you. Take a look at your body, right now. Look what he fucking did to you. You want to live with that?" 

"Alfie, it's not about what I want." 

"What you deserve, then, is it?" Alfie gazed shrewdly, trying to read the unreadable blank of Tommy's eyes. "Oh, fuck, Tommy." He wanted to grab him and kiss the breath out of him, but he restrained himself. Instead he moved to sit by Tommy's side, reached around him (so carefully this time, arm behind his neck instead of his back, drawing his head in close, letting Tommy rest in the space between Alfie's chin and shoulder).

He was breathing harder than Tommy was.

He wanted to make him see, but he was at a strange loss for words. "Don't do this to yourself," he said at last. "Don't fucking do it." 

"You don't know what I've done," said Tommy. "You don't know me." 

"There's no fucking way you deserved these last few days, mate." 

Tommy was quiet for a long time. Alfie turned and buried his nose and mouth in Tommy's hair. He cradled his head, his feverish neck, felt the heart beating fast in the side of his tender throat. 

A hand slid out from under Charlie's body and came feeling, groping for Alfie's. Alfie grabbed it and held on. 

Notes:

Having a days-long PTSD thing this week and not feeling very sane, so I hope this chapter is ok and not wildly unbalanced in any way. I think I cut as much as I wrote, which was painful ..

To anyone who's waiting for an update on the other story, it's still coming :)

Chapter 4: in which alfie is all too human

Alfie called his boys at the brewery that morning and told them he'd be leaving management to them for a couple weeks. He scrubbed the floor and tossed the laundry in the big washtub, then he went down to the kitchen and put a chicken in the stew pot to simmer. The chicken had been meant for Shabbat dinner, but his mother would surely have understood him feeding Tommy and Charlie with it instead. It was the kind of thing she would've done: bring someone in out of the cold, no questions asked. He wished she was here to make everything right. 

He mixed up a batch of bread too, and a mess of eggs with herbs and onion. Whatever Lizzie had said, he couldn't justify feeding Tommy nothing but broth when he was trying to make milk for a baby and had so little meat on him to begin with. He heard Charlie wail from upstairs just as he put the bread in the oven, so he plated up the eggs quickly and grabbed the coffee pot from the sideboard. 

How long had it been? Ten, twelve hours since his peaceful life was upended? He hadn't had more than a few winks of sleep last night, but he supposed he'd better get used to it if he was going to have a newborn in the house for the next several weeks. 

Charlie lay half on top of Tommy, half in the crook of his arm, crying with gusto. Tommy was limp and barely awake, still fighting the fever, apparently too tired or lost in his own head to guide Charlie back to the source of milk. 

Alfie did the honors, lifting Charlie a little and sliding a pillow beneath Tommy's arm, then tipping the baby's head forward onto the heated skin. Charlie began to feed vigorously, and still Tommy didn't move. 

"Think you can eat something, mate?" asked Alfie quietly. 

Tommy's head moved slowly. "Feed a cold, starve a fever," he said thickly. 

"Look, Tommy, I have great respect for old wives and their tales, but you can't feed a baby on nothing, and you're fucking wasting away, mate. If you don't keep shoveling it in, there won't be enough of you to go around." 

Tommy saw the sense in that and tried, exhaustedly, to sit up. He was in pain, Alfie knew, and still stark naked under the sheets. He'd fetch him a clean shirt from the closet after breakfast—it would be big on him, but so was the one he'd been wearing before. 

He helped him sit up, one hand at the back of his neck, the other at his waist. The contact with sore skin made Tommy shiver, but he seemed to appreciate the help and murmured his thanks. His head tipped back against the board immediately, as if holding it up was too much. 

"Coffee first, or eggs?" asked Alfie. 

Tommy ran his tongue over his lips and breathed in through his nose. He opened his mouth with an effort. "Coffee." 

Alfie poured a few inches from the pot into the cup Tommy had used for tea earlier. "Want some help with it, mate? You know, seeing as your arms are otherwise occupied." 

They both knew Tommy couldn't have held the cup steady even if he didn't have a baby lying across his arms, but a faint softening around the mouth told Alfie that Tommy appreciated the extra effort to preserve his dignity. "Yes," he said. 

Alfie held it to his lips and let him sip. 

Tommy had fascinating lips. The lower was full and naturally pouting (terribly kissable, his mind supplied unhelpfully), the upper the same rosy shade and protruding a little over its counterpart, creating the impression that it was swollen (unless, of course, it actually was swollen from being hit by that festering fuckup of a husband). Together, the effect was vulnerability, in a face with otherwise strong lines and in the shadow of those shocking, haunted eyes.

The dusting of freckles across his whole face that Alfie noticed now, up close in the daylight, made the urge to kiss him almost unbearable. 

Tommy choked slightly on the coffee and Alfie realized he'd been trying to signal him to stop. He pulled it away, feeling guilty. 

"Sorry, treacle." He grabbed a towel and mopped up the drips from Tommy's chest. Tommy didn't move, barely reacted. 

Alfie grabbed the nearer plate of eggs and sat down on the edge of the bed to feed him, and Tommy let him. He opened his mouth for each bite like a chick being fed by its mother, chewing slowly and swallowing with difficulty. 

Halfway through the plate, Tommy shut his lips and turned his face away. "I can't anymore. I'm sorry." 

"What's a matter, mate? Onion don't sit right with you?" 

"No, it's fine. I'm fine." 

Alfie was about to urge him to finish the rest, but he saw a tremble in that soft, odd upper lip and realized it must be the pain getting bad again. He set the plate on the nightstand. "You did good, Tommy." 

Tommy looked like it hurt to hear that, a brief frown-spasm between his brows. "Alfie—" 

Alfie waited. When Tommy didn't go on, he said, "What is it, treacle?" 

The tiniest indrawn breath. "Can you sit with me again?" 

Alfie's heart gave a throb. He made a vague muttering, growling sound and nodded because he didn't have any words ready at hand for this. 

He climbed into the bed, legs under the sheets, and a shiver went through him at the feel of Tommy's bare leg up against his trousered one. He put an arm behind Tommy's neck and pulled his head close like before, stroking the rumpled hair. 

Of course, there was nothing sensual in this for Tommy. He was in too much pain to care. Probably half delirious, Alfie told himself. He'd want it from anyone with an arm to spare and a shoulder to lean on. 

Still. It was nice, wasn't it? 

"You'll be alright, sweet thing," he said quietly. The gentle talk had seemed to calm Tommy last night. "We'll get you through it. You've got your baby now. No more fights. No more fucking beatings." 

Tommy shuddered in his arms. 

Charlie had fallen off the nipple and was lying back, little pink mouth open, snoring faintly. Alfie reached down and took him off Tommy's lap. 

"Was it selfish to have him?" asked Tommy softly, a world of pain in half a dozen words. 

"No," said Alfie. "No bloody way, mate. Look at 'im. He's happy. You're the one taking all the hits." 

Tommy nodded, exhausted. His head weighed heavy on Alfie's shoulder. "I don't want anything to happen to him." 

"It won't, mate. It won't." 

"I'm worried about him getting enough to eat. He's only drunk from the right side." Tommy moved and groaned. "He won't take the left. I tried three or four times." 

"He's only been here a few hours, mate. He'll figure it out." 

"But what if I can't feed him?" 

"He looks alright to me." Alfie nodded down at Charlie's milk-drunk, sprawling body. 

Tommy lifted an unsteady hand and cupped Charlie's head. He caressed the cheek with his thumb, then bent down and kissed the little feet, eyes closed, the way Alfie had seen some people kiss a rosary. His head dropped into Alfie's lap, worn out.

He was quiet for so long that Alfie thought he must have fallen asleep. Then, out of the blue, he buried his face in Alfie's shirt and whimpered.  

"Hey, mate. I'm here. Fuck, Tommy. I'm here." He ran his fingers through Tommy's hair and felt the body contract against him. 

"He hurt me." Tommy sounded faraway, like his mind was wandering. Alfie didn't know if he was talking about his husband or the baby.

"You're okay now," he said. "It's all over." 

Tommy's hairline was damp with sweat. Glazed blue eyes wandered upward and his voice was ashamed, sick, tremulous. "Don't leave me." 

"I won't leave, treacle. And I won't let anyone hurt you anymore. That's fucking done with." 

Damn those freckles, sprinkled over him like fucking fairy-dust. 

"Can you sleep some more, Tommy? Charlie's asleep. You should rest while you can." 

"Mmh."

He didn't know what the sound meant. Tommy's hand was the only part of him that stirred, a faint dimpling around the knuckles. 

Alfie sat still and let them both nap and didn't mind when his leg fell numb. Sunshine was coming in the window, and after awhile he smelled the chicken broth simmering downstairs. He wiped sweat from Tommy's perfect face and wished he wasn't someone else's. 

Everything about this felt right. 

---

When Tommy was a child, there hadn't been enough to eat.

He knew it tormented his mother not to be able to put food on her children's plates. It tormented his father significantly less, as the whiskey kept him warm of nights when his little ones were cold with their empty bellies.

For Tommy, not being able to feed a child—his child—was his worst nightmare. So when he spent most of the evening trying to get Charlie to nurse on the left side and Charlie only screamed and kicked and choked and wailed, Tommy was beside himself. 

"Give it a rest. He's not starving, mate," said Alfie too cheerily, taking the screeching baby away and bouncing him in burly arms. 

"He will be if I can't fucking nurse him," said Tommy. He sank back against the pillows, sore all over. He was cold and hot and nauseated, tired beyond tired, scared and shut down at the same time. He had an image in his head: an observation balloon shot out of the sky, the air leaking out, all limp and damp and powerless, falling to the ground with no one to catch it. 

"He drank awhile on the one side, yeah?" 

"It's not enough," said Tommy. "He gets hungry again and there's nothing left. But he won't fucking take it from the other side." 

"You think I ought to give Lizzie a call?" 

The thought of Lizzie coming in to scold him and touch his baby and handle his sore breast made him sicker still. He didn't want Lizzie here. 

"I..." 

He was floating, swimming in the lamplight and couldn't find his way back. Charlie was crying underwater. 

"Tommy?" 

His fingers, touching his head, felt cold. 

He was hungry, that was it. He needed food. He couldn't nurse without food. The milk wouldn't come in, and Charlie would starve. He needed food, something besides broth. He was going to pass out. But food meant...fuck. 

The afternoon came back to him. The toilet, a vague memory of scorching pain, biting down on his own hand, Alfie cleaning him afterwards and putting more of that fucking burning stuff in the place where he had torn out a stitch—and Alfie's face afterwards, fucking traumatized, disgusted by Tommy's body the way Tommy was disgusted by himself. He'd rather someone shoot him in the head and be done with it. But here he was, stuck in this body, and he had to stay for his baby, and he'd have that torture to look forward to every damn time he moved his bowels, for days or maybe weeks. And Alfie to face again, every single day. Alfie who had heard all the screams and seen everything and held him while he gave birth, blood and mess everywhere, with his genitals ripping and his brain falling out.... 

"Tommy, you alright, mate?" 

"I don't know," he heard himself saying. He felt dizzy. "My—" 

He glanced down at his chest, blotchy with bruises and too tender to touch without pain. It looked ugly and unfamiliar. He pulled the big shirt, Alfie's shirt, around himself and crossed his arms in front, gingerly, protectively. 

"I'm sore," he said at last, through the wall of sound from Charlie. 

"Well, you gave fucking birth, what was it—twenty-one hours ago? I'd say you're well within your rights to be sore, treacle." 

Tommy pushed the pillows away and curled up on his side. When he moved his hips, it felt like someone was disemboweling him with a red-hot pike from the outside in. He gasped, shuddery, closed his eyes, bit down hard on his lip until it throbbed away into pain that was merely awful, not transfixing and breath-stealing. 

Charlie was still crying. 

He reached out an arm. "Give him...here, give him to me." 

He felt the warmth as Alfie tucked the baby against him. In the tiny, desperate space between them, his heart filled up with apology and his mouth with motherliness. "There, Charlie, there. You're okay. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, love. I know you're hungry, you want to sleep. Shh. Don't cry." 

It ached. His heart ached, and his breast ached, and his eyes ached. He kissed the soft place in Charlie's skull and hummed a tune his mother used to sing while currying the horses. 

It took almost an hour for Charlie to finally wear himself out crying and fall asleep. Tommy was in so much pain he couldn't roll over, his body frozen in place, and even Alfie looked a bit shell-shocked, sitting in his armchair and staring into the flame of the lamp. They stayed, suspended in that deadening, burdened moment, for longer than Tommy could bear. 

"Right," Alfie said at last, creaking slowly to his feet. "You want to be in here again, mate, or shall I build a fire in the guest room?" 

Tommy gazed numbly at Charlie's mouth, where a tiny fiber from the blanket was caught and waving with every unseen puff of breath. He didn't know what to say. It would be more work for Alfie to build the fire and turn down the covers in a second room, but maybe the man wanted some peace and quiet tonight and his own bed back after the gory mess Tommy had made in it last night. 

"I don't want to make you any trouble," he said at last. 

Alfie guffawed—under his breath, of course, with Charlie sleeping right there. "A bit late for that, innit?" 

Shame washed up from Tommy's core, a maddening texture, like lemon juice between gritting teeth. Yes, Alfie had done nothing but take trouble for them since the moment Tommy fell across his threshold. And Tommy had no way to repay him, not anymore. He had nothing—was nothing but a mess of a man, made up of bruises, bleeding and puking on Alfie's things, with a baby who puked and peed on Alfie's things, and he couldn't walk on his own or even properly feed his own child. Alfie had fucking carried him again this afternoon, scooped him up in his arms and moved him the way you'd move a sick child. He was ashamed of the way he leaked blood, smearing red on Alfie's arm again. 

"Come on," Alfie was saying in a half whisper. "It's not the fate of the nation, now, is it? You tell me where you want to sleep and I'll set you up. But make it quick, petal, because I am dead fucking tired, and you've got to be worse off than I am." 

Alfie was pure angel, wasn't he? It was the only explanation Tommy could come up with. 

"I'll stay here," he said, too ashamed to look the other man in the eyes, but relieved at the thought of not having to change rooms. Not yet. Not tonight, when every movement made him useless, pathetic with pain. 

"That's easy enough, then," said Alfie. "How's your fever?" He felt Tommy's forehead briefly and grunted. "I'll spend the night in here too, if you don't mind, mate. Help with Charlie and see to it your fever don't fly off too far with you, right?" 

That was a relief too—he was embarrassed by how much. The thought of a long night alone with Charlie, fighting his body to stay sane and conscious, had sounded miserable. 

"Yes," was all he said. "Thank you." 

"Tommy." Alfie stopped halfway into climbing up on the bed. "How's your back?" 

The question made the carpet of fire unroll from Tommy's shoulders to the tops of his thighs, flaring back into his consciousness. "Sore," he murmured. "Like everything else." 

"You want me to rub some liniment in? You know, might as well, while I'm on that side of the bed." 

The weakness flooded in, the weary, blessed relief that kept coming and seemed to have no end with Alfie. His eyes, his chest, everything that ached seemed to let go. He hurt, but he didn't have to fight it. It was okay just to lie here and hurt, because someone was noticing. Someone would take care of it. He didn't have to act as if nothing was wrong, because someone knew it was wrong and they weren't angry at him about it. And they would take care of him.

He wanted it. He wanted all these things that seemed to be natural as breathing to Alfie, things no one had ever done for him before. He wanted to be held close when it hurt. He wanted to be touched on the head gently and told he'd done good. 

Alfie was standing with his head cocked, waiting for a reply. 

Tommy swallowed to wet his dry throat. "Sure." 

A minute later, Alfie settled in behind him and reached around to remove his shirt, which wasn't buttoned. With Tommy lying on his side, it was more of a struggle than it ought to have been, but when he tried to sit up, Alfie held him back with a gentle hand. "No, don't stir yourself, treacle. No need. You just lie quiet." 

When the shirt was finally pulled free, Alfie helped him roll forward onto an elbow—not wholly prone, but tipped more on his front than on his side. Tommy heard the bottle open, felt the cool liquid drip across his shoulders. 

"Now you just take it easy, Tommy," said Alfie, his voice still low because of the baby. "Let me make it better." 

At Alfie's touch, he dropped his mouth onto his hand and breathed, the bite mark from this afternoon still tender, lips and nose bumping against his skin, his own hot breath loud in his ears. The stuff burned, but it was a salvific burn, not a corrosive one. It lifted him out of his body and let him rest awhile, floating in the bright tingling fire, and yet somehow still feeling the weight and warmth of Alfie's hands on him with every movement. 

"There you go, Tommy. You're alright. That fucking bastard." Alfie's voice had a rough undertone, something bitter under the smooth slickness of comfort. 

Alfie was angry. Not at him, but for him. Those muscular hands working their way down his spine wanted to protect him and take away the pain. Tommy buried his face in his arm now, because he wanted this so very badly and he couldn't bear for Alfie to see how much. 

"You alright, mate?" asked Alfie. 

Tommy nodded. 

"Burns like fuck on those welts, I know. But it'll help the bruising. And there's opium in it, so you can go right to sleep, love. Opium, camphor, capsicum, fucking myrrh...a magical blend, that. My friend Shaul is a chemist, see. Lovely man, Shaul. Fucking terrible to drink with. Fucks about with tonics and tinctures and whatnot. He gave this bottle to me after I took a tumble down the stairs last fall, said he'd mixed it up specially for bruises...kicks like a fucking horse, but it's the stuff you want. It won't take the fever out, like Lizzie's, but you'll feel better after, I fucking guarantee. ...Bloody hell, mate, that's a mean one there. Took the skin right off you. What'd he do it with, Tommy?" 

Tommy's head throbbed. Alfie's voice had lulled him into a stupor, a pool of caressing golden flame where he didn't have to know the difference between pain and pleasure. He kept his eyes jammed into his elbow where he could half pretend he was asleep or dead and didn't have to feel anything. "Belt," he said driftily. "Then the fucking cane." 

"Bloody hell. And you'd done what?" 

"I told you, we had a fight." 

He didn't want to be asked more, and Alfie seemed to sense it, because he stopped asking. 

He was very aware of Alfie's hands moving downward, onto his hips and across the hollow of his lower spine. They seemed to be slowing down. Hesitant, maybe. 

"This alright, treacle?" 

"Yes," Tommy breathed. 

"You want I should keep going?" 

He didn't know why this felt so intimate when Alfie had seen and touched everything last night without so much as a by-your-leave, but it did. He pulled in a shaky breath and said, "Yes."

Why did he feel guilty about that? 

The strong hands moved down to his ass and Tommy got trembly in his core, some odd cocktail of fear and anticipation. He didn't want to feel himself below the waist, didn't want to remember he existed down there. He found himself squirming a little beneath the sting of the liquid and the weight of Alfie's hands, but moving hurt, so he laid still again and let his insides tremble and ache without relief. Alfie must have been distracted: he got the stuff in an open wound for the first time and it burned like holy fire. 

Tommy bit down on his arm to keep from waking Charlie. Alfie must have felt the muscles clench or heard the change in his breathing, because he said, "Ahh. Fuck. Sorry, treacle." 

Tommy burned, red-hot, and dug his fingers into the pillow. But it passed after awhile, and it left him feeling cool and naked and too tired to move as Alfie finished rubbing the stuff in, down to the tops of his legs. 

Alfie got up and went across the hall. Tommy heard water running as he washed his hands. 

He was tingling everywhere, a lovely sensation, not painful. The worse pain, inside him, seemed to have taken a cue from the outside and accepted a flag of truce, because he didn't feel that anymore either. He just felt heavy and liquid and boneless—the limp balloon fallen from the sky, but into a field of soft damp crushed grass under a canopy of stars. 

Alfie was back. The bed creaked and dipped, and Tommy felt a hand on the back of his knee. He would normally have flinched at that, but his body was too slack to care. 

"Almost done, Tommy. I've got your witch hazel here." 

Tommy nodded, head still stuffed into his elbow, and let Alfie spread his legs a little. He felt a finger, heard a cluck of sympathy, flinched at the stretching tug, and then he was invaded by something soaked and stinging that clung to him, inside and out. 

Something strayed out of him by accident: a lost, whining breath that he didn't catch in time. 

"The rag's cold," he said stupidly, by way of explanation. 

Alfie's hand reached up and patted him on the arm. Not that. Not fucking sympathy, feeling sorry for him, thinking he was being brave. He wasn't brave, wasn't meant to be pitied. Hadn't meant to whimper like that. 

"We'll leave that there till morning, alright, treacle? You're bleeding just a bit." 

He was too tired, too exhausted to care, and embarrassment hung over him in a vague fog, a cloak against intimacy. He wanted to forget, wanted Alfie to forget the torn skin and the degradation, the swelling and retching and bleeding and whimpering and all the ways Alfie must see him now. He kept feeling Alfie's finger there, on him and inside of him, even when he wasn't being touched. His cheeks flamed and the room was cold. 

He wanted, in a toneless, dull, wretched sort of way, to die. 

He reached for Charlie, to make sure he was still there. To remind himself why he wasn't allowed to want to die yet. 

The lamp was blown out, and a blanket came down over him, and a hand brushed over the back of his head. "Night, treacle." 

He wanted to answer, but his throat was sealed shut and by the time he got it open again, it had been too long. It would only be awkward now. 

---

Charlie woke up twice in the night. Alfie sat by helpless and watched Tommy fight him over nursing, coaxing and growling by turns as Charlie bit down with his gums and then screamed in anger, over what they couldn't figure out. Tommy even held him close to the lamp and opened his mouth with a finger, looking for sores. He kept going on about what could be wrong, wondering if he'd hurt Charlie during the birth and he couldn't lie comfortably on that side, wondering if he was holding him wrong, wondering if the bruising on that side of his chest was blocking the milk somehow, wondering if that nipple was shaped wrong for Charlie's mouth. 

Alfie wanted to be patient, but he was, after all, only human. Human and nearing his fucking limit. 

He got up before sunrise, just after they got Charlie back to sleep, and was back by half past six with a crock of goat milk, for which he'd traded a much more valuable bottle of wine. He warmed it on the stove and brought it upstairs in a bowl with the smallest spoon he had.

He found Tommy and Charlie awake and staring into each other's eyes, Charlie propped up on Tommy's knees, Tommy tracing the shape of his baby's face with a gentle finger. The sight did something to Alfie—got him all churned up inside, warm and melting under the ribs. 

Tommy looked up. 

"Got something for 'im," said Alfie, bringing the milk over. "In case he's hungry for something extra. More where that came from, too. I've got a crock in the ice chest and I can barter for more if he likes it." He held out the bowl and Tommy took it and held it close to his chest. 

"Thank you." Tommy didn't look up for a few seconds, but when he did, Alfie was blinded by the pure blue, grateful and unbearable. He had to look away. 

"Ach." He dragged the armchair up beside the bed. "I'd lay down fucking gold he'll be nursing like a champion in a few days. We'll keep shoveling it into you and the easy milk will come in, right, and he'll get over whatever little fucking thing he's got going on in his head, and he won't need this stuff. But it's here in the meanwhile, to keep away the worry." 

Tommy nodded, lips pursed, the faintest ring of red round his eyes that told Alfie he was breaking down after a long night and a longer nine months of unspoken fears, probably facing it all on his own in his head with no one to listen. 

That glazed-over look and bravely-squared jaw and soft upper lip taunted Alfie. He wanted to fucking kiss him. Tommy leaned forward with damp eyelashes over sea-cove eyes and kissed the baby instead. 

He watched, enthralled, as Tommy spooned the milk into Charlie's mouth a drop at a time, stopping to wipe the tiny chin with a cloth when Charlie's befuddled tongue sent the stuff dribbling back out. After ten minutes or so, Charlie started to fuss and Tommy set the bowl and spoon aside. He tried rocking him, but it seemed to make Charlie more hopeless. 

"Here," said Alfie. "I'll take him. You rest awhile." 

Tommy laid back against the pillows without complaint, and Alfie lifted Charlie against his shoulder, bouncing him a bit. 

Almost immediately, Charlie gave a burp that sent milk dripping down Alfie's back.

"Ah, bloody hell!" He held the baby out at arm's length and it looked back at him with innocent round eyes. "Feel better after that, do you, love?" Charlie cooed lovingly as Alfie laid him belly-down on the bed next to Tommy and began to unbutton his soiled shirt.

Tommy smiled. 

God in fucking heaven, look at him. Alfie had a hard time tearing his eyes away. Prettiest thing he'd ever seen, Lizzie? Fuck that—he was beautiful. Might as well be a bloody angel, with that smile. 

And somebody had dared to lay their fucking fists into that face. 

Tommy must have seen the change in Alfie's eyes; he looked down and the smile faded. He didn't want pity, of course. He didn't want the anger and all Alfie's fucking baggage. 

Stupid, Alfie told himself. He's not your fucking omega. Not yours to take care of. 

But it was hard, wasn't it, when Tommy was here in his house, wearing his shirts, with a smile like that and the scent of mothering hanging off him like warm oven-bread, with his sweet sad mouth and troubled face, with the way he'd sweated and clung to Alfie through the birth pangs, the way he'd curled into him yesterday for a nap, the way his tender omega body was bruised and split open and needed to be handled so gently, like a glass bird with shattered bones. 

Alfie was only human. It wasn't fucking fair to expect him not to feel like this—not to yearn a bit to give comfort, not to want to drive his fucking fist through the face of the other alpha. 

He was sweating, prickling around the ears. He could smell the anxiety on Tommy. 

Of course it would make him bloody anxious. He was probably used to anger meaning he was about to get slammed into a wall or beaten with a bloody belt. Fucking hell. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed and took a deep, slow breath. He put a hand on Charlie (that silky head warm and precious, cupped beneath his palm) and let it calm him. 

"Tommy, I know this is all fucking temporary," he said, looking at the baby, not quite ready to make eye contact. "But no one will ever raise a hand to you while you're in this house. Not me and not any-bloody-one else. Never. You understand me, Tommy?" 

"Yes." The word was low and even and a little breathless. Alfie took one of his hands and held it, a substitute for grabbing him by the waist and holding him and rubbing him and feeling him all over, kissing him till he couldn't breathe, telling him he'd never be hurt again. 

He couldn't fucking do that.

He could only sit here with his heart beating in his hand, warm against Tommy's palm. 

Not yours, Alfie, he told himself. You bloody fucking idiot. 

Notes:

I keep trying to write bigger time jumps, but they don't feel right. So we are gonna mosey our way along and enjoy the journey.

It may make the story longer than 12 chapters, though. I do have a real plot planned beyond "Tommy suffers and Alfie really wants to kiss him"

Chapter 5: in which alfie discovers that even angels have flaws

Alfie looked tired. Lizzie saw it the moment he opened the door to let her in: the heavy eyes, the unkempt beard, the shirt only half tucked-in. 

"Lizzie!" His usual jovial greeting, but even that sounded like an effort. His skin was flaring up too—the rough, scabbing rash around his hair and ears always got worse when he was stressed. 

She stepped in and accepted the kiss on her cheek. "You smell like milk, Alfie." 

He shut the door behind her and ushered her into the kitchen. "You know, I'll never drink the fucking stuff again. Had enough of it coughed all over me the last week now, ain't I? It's bloody awful. They're both asleep up there, fucking terrible night last night. I'll put on the kettle if you want some tea. You want some tea, Lizzie?" 

She nodded and set her carpet bag on the table. "How's Tommy?" 

Alfie turned back from the tea kettle, bright eyes dark with concern. "I have to tell you, Lizzie. He is not well." 

"Why didn't you call me? I know I was busy over the weekend, but I could have made the time." 

He hemmed and hawed awkwardly as only Alfie could. Something about good reasons and bad reasons and not wanting to push the fucking issue with someone in a delicate physical and mental state. 

Of course it was Tommy who didn't want her here. 

"And, you know," Alfie rambled on, "given your particular history together—" 

Oh, hell. "What did he tell you about our history together?" 

Alfie raised his hands and eyebrows at the sharpness of her voice. "No details, love. No fucking details, nor details of fucking neither. Just that you and him were together, and you had plans to take him as your mate, and then it ended badly." 

Steel crept up between Lizzie's teeth. "Did he tell you we were going to have a baby?" 

No. From the looks of Alfie's face, no. 

"You and him? Fuck off," came the astonished answer after some spluttering. 

That's right, Alfie, she thought. Makes the situation a bit more complex for your dick, doesn't it? 

"We were engaged," she said, bracing herself against the memory with a gloved hand on Alfie's kitchen table. "And we were happy." The thought was ridiculous now, and she laughed at it, without a drop of humor.

Tea wasn't going to be enough for this. She dug in her bag for a cigarette and lit it. 

Alfie took a seat across from her, so she sat down too. "He was pregnant," she said. 

"Fuckin' hell," said Alfie, rubbing a hand over his exhausted face and smoothing his beard more times than he needed to. She felt an ache under her breastbone because she wanted happiness for him and she wasn't sure she believed in it anymore. 

"He lost the baby," she said, breathing in, blowing out, watching the smoke dissipate in curls of agony. "Fourteen fucking weeks. He woke up feeling wrong and I told him to see the bloody doctor, and he didn't want to. And by that afternoon it was gone." 

Alfie's eyes were the most soulful thing she'd ever seen. He looked hurt, more hurt than she had the capacity to feel for herself anymore. "You're a good man, Alfie," she said, reaching out to touch the hands he had folded solemnly on the table in front of him. "You deserve better than him." 

He pulled his hand away with a bristle of anger, like a summer squall out of nowhere. "Why, because he lost the baby and couldn't fucking cope?" 

They stared at each other for a moment. 

"No," said Lizzie evenly. "Because he was fucking another woman while we were engaged." 

She saw the moment he crumbled inside. His mouth opened slightly with words that didn't come. 

The kettle whistled. 

He got up and made the tea, left it to steep in the pot in front of her. He tied on his apron and pulled out a well-risen bowl of dough and smacked it down on the countertop with his back to her. 

He kneaded fiercely, punctuated by occasional loud slaps as he threw it down and folded it over again.  

"You're in love with him after six days, Alfie? Really?" she said at last, over the sound of his grunts as he punished the dough for Tommy's sins. 

"Oh, fuck the bloody hell off," he said over his shoulder. "He came banging on my bloody door on the first place, right? I did what any decent human being would do." 

"'Any decent human being' would have called an ambulance and had him taken to the shelter. You carried him up to your bed and you've spent the last week waiting on him and his baby hand and foot. You're too kindhearted for your own good, Alfie." 

He turned around, hands covered in flour, with muffled rage in his eyes. "I am as kindhearted as I fucking choose to be, alright, Lizzie? Not you, not Ishmael, not nobody can tell me when to be kindhearted and when I've fucking had enough. My mother, may her memory be for a blessing, spent her whole tortured, miserable, fucking-godawful shithole of a life showing kindness to people who didn't deserve to kiss her little finger. And I aim to carry on in that tradition despite this miserable fucking world in which we live against our wills, because there is no fucking law against it." He turned back around and gave the dough another smack, his beard practically vibrating with anger. 

Lizzie moved her cigarette to her left hand and poured the tea with a long sigh of resignation. She'd tried. 

"And another thing." Alfie spun around again, finger raised to emphasize his words. "You will not tell me about my feelings and my heart, Lizzie. Understand? It's my fucking heart." He grabbed it, like a performer on the stage, leaving a powdery handprint on his shirt. "My fucking business. I do not need to be schooled and fucking educated on the business of my own heart." 

She took a slow sip of scalding tea. "I understand, Alfie." 

"Thank you." He lowered his head, pacified. His hair was sticking up in back and he reminded her of a shamefaced schoolboy. "You are sure about the—" he waggled his finger back and forth in an extraordinary gesture that was supposed to signify God knows what. "—the fucking of the other woman?" 

"Jesus, Alfie." She set her cup down with a clank and stared at him, indignant. "Yes, I'm sure." 

He pursed his lips and nodded, gazing at the floor. "Right, then. Thank you for clearing that up for me." 

God, he was so awkward sometimes. She loved the hell out of him, but he was. 

He went back to kneading his dough, and she went back to silently sipping her tea and hating Thomas Shelby. A tinkling sounded on the window and she looked up; it was beginning to rain. 

"I know because it's why he lost the baby," she said after a minute, unable to contain it anymore. The admission ached, from her throat down to her fingertips. 

Alfie sighed a big, growly sigh and threw a cloth over the bread. He came laboriously back to the table and sat down. His face was open, his eyes honest, and he folded his hands in front of him again on the table. "Right, tell me what happened." 

"I took him to a doctor for the bleeding. The doctor took me aside and told me he'd lost the baby because he'd been knotted by what they called an 'incompatible alpha.'" She tried to swallow another mouthful of tea and had to try twice, cleared her throat quietly. She kept her gaze on the table, but she could feel Alfie's fiery eyes, big with compassion, boring into her. "His body decided to clean house, I suppose. To make way for the child of the superior mate." 

She could hear the sarcasm in her own voice and there was something pathetic about it, but she couldn't stop it any more than she could stop blood from flowing blue through the veins in her hand. 

"I confronted him about it, and he stopped talking to me. Stopped talking to fucking anyone. His family, even his brothers. He stopped his work at the stables. I got the ring back in an envelope slid under my office door."

Her eyes welled up there, unexpectedly. She didn't cry, didn't lose control over her voice, just gazed stoically at the table and took a drag on her cigarette and another drink of tea, waiting for her eyes to clear. 

"Next thing I know, Linda, his brother's wife, tells me he's been seen with another woman downtown. And staying nights at her flat. Lovely, of course. A society girl." She tapped ash onto the saucer. 

She looked up and saw Alfie in silent dismay, like a man who'd been gutted with his own knife, a reflection of her own pain. 

"And you know what the worst part of it was?" she went on, all the bitterest things spilling out of her now, infection from an old wound. "He told me he couldn't stay with me because he couldn't bear to go through that again. He couldn't be with a fucking alpha because he might get pregnant. All kinds of bullshit about birth control failure. But he went right back to her, as soon as he could safely fuck again." She went back to smoking, then pulled the cigarette out of her mouth and pointed at the ceiling with it. "And he's up there right now with a baby. A fucking baby, Alfie." 

She leaned an elbow over the back of her chair and slid the cigarette between her lips. Her breath was coming a little faster; it had been a long time since Tommy Shelby got a rise out of her like that. 

"Well, fuck me," said Alfie in soft despair. 

She felt a little like she'd smacked a devoted dog in the face; there was an innocence to Alfie, an emotional straightforwardness, despite his worldly wisdom and dominating presence. But it was kinder than letting him fall for Tommy and have his heart broken after months or years he could never retrieve. 

"You know, Lizzie, if I'd have known, I never would have called you the other night. I didn't know you had been involved, right. I didn't even know his fucking last name." 

"I know," she said wearily. "It's alright." 

He looked even more tired than when he'd opened the door for her. His eyes, the hunch of his shoulders. He scratched at his hairline absently. He had an empty cup and there was tea in the pot, but he didn't move to pour any. 

After a minute, he slapped his knees. "Right. I'll, ah—make up these loaves and then we can head up, right, love? Don't want to keep you all day." 

"Right." She tapped her cigarette over the saucer once more and dropped it into the pile of ash. He broke her heart, truly. If more men were like Alfie Solomons, the world would be a better, honester place.

---

Tommy knew there was a hand on his arm before he heard the voice, but he didn't know how he knew. 

"Tommy. Tommy, Lizzie's here to see you." 

The functions of his body came online one by one: consciousness, hearing, sight...pain. He had a fever, but he supposed Lizzie and Alfie already knew that. He'd soaked the bed with his sweat. 

"You're burning up." That was Lizzie's voice, with slender fingers on his wrist and the cool back of a hand against his forehead. It was the same thing Alfie always said. Only she didn't call him treacle afterwards. 

"He was better," insisted Alfie, somewhere near his head. "This all came on fresh last night." 

"Well, no wonder." Lizzie was in his shirt, opening it to the cold air. 

He didn't want her in there, seeing him and touching him. 

"Charlie won't nurse on that side," supplied Alfie helpfully. "We tried everything. Even sugar syrup." 

Tommy tried to sit up. "It's been sore all week." His voice was thick and low and grating in his ears, rough from lack of sleep. 

"I believe that," said Lizzie, with raised eyebrows. "But you've got the fever in it now, and it's spread to the rest of your body. You should have called me." 

She touched him there, and the pain was unbearable. He went dim for a few seconds, gaping at the universe. 

"Shh," came a voice near enough to push through the black webs of pain. He felt a hand on his back, holding him up, strong and steady as a tree. "Take a breath, mate." 

He couldn't. He tried. 

"It needs heat every few hours to draw out the infection," said Lizzie, businesslike. "And you'll have to milk it, Tommy. Empty it all the way." 

He had tried that for four fucking days. Alfie knew. He'd gathered every drop painstakingly into Charlie's little bowl and fed him with the spoon, alongside the goat milk, begging Charlie not to spit it out or spit it up. He felt sick whenever Charlie spit up his milk—hours of torture, wasted in seconds. 

"He can take something for the pain if he needs it, but Alfie, you have to get that fever down," said Lizzie. "How's the bleeding?" 

Alfie answered for him. "He ripped out a stitch the first day, but most of the blood is coming from up inside, right. Trickling, not gushing, and if it gushes, you know...it stops." 

Tommy felt faint. Eyes wavering, room churning, a tickling at the back of his neck. 

"Any clots?" 

"Small ones." Alfie held up finger and thumb to show her the size. 

"That's okay, then." Lizzie reached under the blankets and he felt her hand on him, on his body, feeling where everything was sensitive and private, and she was lifting the blanket, and he couldn't fucking do this. 

He pulled away on his elbows, pushed against her arm with his knee. "No." 

He knew that look of exasperation better than his own face. "Tommy, don't be like this." 

"She'll be quick, Tommy," said Alfie. 

He felt sick. "No," he said again, louder. "Don't, Lizzie." 

"I have to check for infec—" 

"Get out. Please, Lizzie. Just get the fuck out." The fever was pounding, roaring in his ears. "It fucking hurts," he said, but it wasn't what he'd meant to say.

It was like she'd tried to dig her hand into a wound. It was a wound, of course, but it wasn't about the injury. It wasn't that. It was the way he felt, like she was about to spread open and dig around in the horror he felt about his own body, his own inner self, that bleeding ragged thing not fit to be looked at or loved, that blank round-eyed inhuman creature who had squirmed and squealed under torture. He was horrified at himself, at the things he'd been. And he only staved off insanity by pretending none of it had been real. 

He'd been too tired and too much in shock the first time Lizzie came, compliant by default. He kept thinking if he could push through the next few hours of hell, it would be over and he'd return to normal. 

But he hadn't returned. 

And he couldn't explain any of it. But Lizzie mustn't touch him there. Not again. 

She waited, staring coolly at him as she used to do when he was being an idiot and she was waiting for him to come to his senses. When he finally met her eyes again, afraid, she lifted the blanket. "I'm going to check those stitches, Tommy. If you don't heal right, you won't be able to take a knot anymore." 

The tightness of her lips and the unspoken accusation in her words were enough. He gave up, left his mind, and let her subject him to whatever she cared to do. 

I know, Lizzie, he thought angrily. You hate me. I'm a fucking waste of breath, waste of space, waste of food. But you don't think I know that, and I do. I'd have offed myself fucking yesterday if it weren't for the baby. Rest easy, Lizzie. You don't hate me more than I hate myself.

He stared at Alfie's ceiling like it was the Sistine Chapel, trying to forget where and who he was while Lizzie inspected his wounds, but the sensations made it difficult. 

She'd always had cold hands, Lizzie had. He used to warm them up between his own, blow on them on chilly mornings as they drove to the stables together. He'd bought her gloves without fingertips one Christmas, so she could wear them while she typed. 

He gasped at a ripping jab of pain that faded quickly, and she murmured, "Sorry, Tommy." 

He didn't care. He was already back in the cruel, comforting arms of the fever. 

She examined Charlie after that, held him, opened his mouth, stretched out his limbs to check for damage from the birth in case that was the problem with the nursing (it wasn't), gave Alfie a long string of instructions and answered all his meandering questions, recommended stronger opiates, packed up her things, and left. 

They were alone again, him, Charlie, and Alfie. Relief flooded in, closely followed by hurt and shame and more exhaustion than Tommy knew how to bear. Alfie puttered around the room for awhile and fussed about with Charlie, then went back downstairs without talking to Tommy or checking on him. Which was fine by Tommy. He couldn't move, couldn't get his hand from below the covers to on top, could hardly blink without an effort. And he was burning up. He didn't want to talk to Alfie. 

It felt like a long time (but by the clock on the wall it was about thirty minutes) before Alfie came creaking back up the stairs and appeared at Tommy's bedside, carrying a hot damp towel. "Here," he said, holding it out. When Tommy didn't move, Alfie bent down and packed the towel around the left side of his chest. Tommy closed his eyes against the pain. 

"Fuck," murmured Alfie. "Looks worse than last night." 

Last night it had been visibly swollen; this morning the blotchy red had reached around his side and up toward his neck. Tommy didn't care to look again. He felt it, and that was more than enough. 

"I'll run you a cold bath," said Alfie. "I know you hate them, but we've got to bring that fever down, mate. Can you walk?" 

He wanted nothing on earth more than to say yes. He loathed himself for his weakness. It hurt that he had fought against being touched while Alfie watched and did nothing. It felt like judgment, like abandonment. Worst of all, Alfie's hearty, willing demeanor was missing, gone as sudden as a dream, replaced by sagging shoulders and a sound of burden in his voice, like Lizzie. Like Tommy's mother, near the end. 

"Yes," he said, knowing it was a lie but too frayed emotionally to say otherwise. 

Alfie disappeared. Tommy heard the taps squeak from a distance, followed by running water. 

There was water running on the window too, the lush, light rain of early summer. Charlie was snoring on the bed. His heart burst, hot and bleeding, at the sight of the little face and its crazy fluff of brown hair. 

He had nothing to live for but this baby. He would fucking live for him. Nothing mattered but Charlie, not people, not pain, not his own miserable fucking body. He would feed Charlie if it broke him, and if anyone tried to take him away, they would find themselves in a fight with the devil. 

With the strength of that thought, he pushed himself to his feet, dragging his body with him. His heart began to pound frantically as he went upright, and he grabbed the headboard behind him for balance. A hot rush of blood down below, and stinging, and then he felt it running down his leg. Lizzie hadn't packed the rags back in. 

He looked around for a cloth to use—something already stained, but not drenched. They had no shortage. ("I have done fucking nothing but wash bloody rags all bloody day," Alfie had said the other evening, and Tommy had smiled despite the twinge of guilt.) He wiped himself up as best he could and began to limp awkwardly toward the hall. 

His head ached. He was so hot, sweating like an engine-tender in furnace heat, and he couldn't feel the floor, just a fogginess and a heavy weight beneath him with every step.

He grabbed the doorframe and breathed for a few seconds. Fuck you, Tommy Shelby, he said to himself, by way of motivation. He took another step into the foggy nothing, and then he was waking up on the floor. 

---

Alfie ran when he heard the thud, and he left the taps running. 

Thank fuck Tommy had fallen backwards, caught himself on an arm, instead of pitching forward onto his face. 

"Fuckin' hell, mate, I could have carried you out. It's why I bloody asked you. Yell for me next time if you feel yourself about to go down, right? Fuck." 

Tommy was spilling blood, making a mess. Sitting in it and smearing it as he tried to get up. His hand slipped and he nearly went down again. Alfie grabbed him, pulled him up with one hand on his side and the other under an arm. Tommy grimaced and went white-lipped but didn't make a sound. 

He wasn't steady on his feet. He staggered against Alfie and mumbled an apology. So Alfie grabbed him up and carried him the rest of the way.

Tommy's face fell into Alfie's neck, soft lips parted against his skin, breathing too hard, a whimper stifled beneath every exhale. Alfie felt the blood dripping and gripped him harder. He felt torn in two, between the sweet thing suffering in his arms and the double-dealing bastard Lizzie had described to him. The thought that they could be the same was too much. 

He set him in the bath, ignoring the way he jumped at the shock of the chilly water, ignoring the pitiful moan of protest. The omega shook, teeth clenched, and hung over the side of the basin like a seasick sailor, and Alfie didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say. 

He let his hand stretch out, of its own volition, and stroke the dark hair. A knot grew in his throat. He had to know. "Tommy—" 

The blue eyes wandered, wavered, and found him. Tommy was shivering. 

Alfie shook his head. "Never mind." 

Tommy's shoulders tightened suddenly and he spasmed, mouth clamped shut—vomited onto the floor, coughing it out. "Fuck," he said roughly, wiping his mouth on his hand. "I'm sorry." 

"Lie back," said Alfie gruffly, tucking his beard into his chest. "Got to get you cooled down, mate. Get out some of that milk, if you can, while I clean this up. Might come out easier in the bath, you know...?" 

He sopped up bile and half-digested food with a towel, angry at the world, and listened to a man swallowing back sounds of horrible pain. He cringed and tried not to breathe in the stench. 

He wasn't a housekeep or a nursemaid or a fucking doctor, was he? He didn't know what the hell he was doing. He should have called emergency that first night, evil fucking cunt of a husband be damned. Thomas was an adult. There were resources available for people like him. He could stay at the omega shelter downtown. 

"Alfie..." 

He looked up to see Tommy fainting again, lolling back in the water, about to go under.

"Bloody hell." He dropped everything. Grabbed him. Held him. 

Tommy was coming back now, fluttering-eyed, stiff-limbed. Still burning up.

He was crying into Alfie's shirt, and Alfie was getting wet, and he didn't fucking care. 

"You're okay, treacle. Shh. You're okay." He couldn't tell what Tommy was saying, what he was pouring out amid gut-wrenching sobs. "I know, Tommy. I know. It'll be alright. We'll look after Charlie and everything will be all fucking right." 

The water was red and Tommy's haunted eyes were so, so blue. 

Notes:

Heads up, sex does NOT cause miscarriage. Only in fucked up omegaverse land.

Also, please don't treat mastitis with heat or take cold baths for fever. I can promise Tommy will survive early 1900s medicine but I can't promise you will.

Chapter 6: in which alfie succumbs to temptation

Tommy had a nightmare that night. 

Alfie almost didn't know, because he was so still and silent. He didn't thrash about or cry out or fight. But Alfie saw his breathing go shallow, his body go rigid, saw him flinch when Charlie's tiny hand rubbed up against his side. He touched him, woke him; and the fear in Tommy's eyes gleamed like white fire in the dark. 

Charlie whimpered, and Alfie wrapped him up in a blanket and put him on Tommy's chest. He helped Tommy to the armchair to nurse. Tommy was still breathing shallow, too high and tight, and his jaw was clenched hard and square in defiance of whatever thing he'd been facing in his sleep. He wore no shirt, but he had on a pair of Alfie's short trousers—undergarments, really—cinched around his slender waist with a piece of string through a couple of holes Alfie had cut with his mother's sewing scissors. He tipped his head back against the chair and drew a harsh breath as Charlie latched on the right side; that side was sore from overuse, the other from neglect. 

Alfie lit the lamp and sat down across from them on an embroidered stool that creaked under his weight. Tommy met his gaze with tired, absent eyes, just a glimmer under the heavy lashes; he looked gaunt, hollowed-out, and Alfie saw his throat move as he swallowed. His dark hair fell over his forehead unevenly, like someone had brushed it aside to kiss his forehead in his sleep. He winced—Alfie assumed Charlie had clamped down a little too vigorously—and tried to soothe his son by rubbing gentle circles into his back. 

Alfie wondered if he ever thought of the baby he'd lost, Lizzie's baby, while he held Charlie. 

The flickering light of the lamp was warm on Tommy's cheek and bare shoulder, caressing him with a velvety orange-gold glow all the way down one side of his body. His lips looked soft, with just a touch of pain in the way they met, the way the lower one pulled in under his teeth, briefly, and slipped out again. Alfie felt something tender, something silky-soft, creeping up from his stomach into his heart. He shook his head, set his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward to study the floor and listen to the quiet sounds of Charlie grunting and sighing in satisfaction. The pressure in his throat was too much. 

The question rose up in him all at once, foolhardy: "Did you cheat on Lizzie, mate?" 

Tommy gave a slow blink. The glow of the room took on an emptiness, like they were no longer sharing it, but each sitting alone, their craving hearts appraising each other across the worn carpet. He shifted Charlie in his arms, gave a quiet grunt of discomfort, and looked Alfie in the eye. "Does it matter?" 

"Yeah, mate, it bloody does." 

Tommy glanced down, ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip, and closed his eyes. "I'm not a good man, Alfie." 

Alfie bristled inwardly, fearing what Tommy might say, and at the same time aching for the pain in his voice. He wanted to touch him, lift his chin, straighten his hunched shoulders. "Tell me what happened, mate," he said gruffly. 

"I can't." 

"Why not?" 

Tommy's eyes glimmered, the same look as the fear after the dream. The light shifted on the plane of his cheek as his jaw went hard. He shook his head, looked down at Charlie. "For him. It's not safe." 

"Tommy, that doesn't make any fucking sense." 

"Well, it wouldn't to you, would it?"

Alfie was taken aback by the glint of anger in Tommy's eyes. "It's why I'm bloody asking, mate," he said quietly. "I want to understand. I want to fucking help, if you'll let me." 

Tommy was a portrait of rigid despair, his eyes cast down, his arms tight around Charlie's body. The only soft things about him now were the slope of the swollen breast and the place where his upper lip curved protectively over the lower. "Why do you care?" he asked at last, strangled. 

Alfie got up, a fever raging in his bones. He felt like he was in a dream as he walked toward Tommy, saw the flinch and the instant fear in his eyes, felt his own heart crack a little at the sight. 

He touched Tommy's neck, Tommy's jaw, lifted his chin. Bent down. 

Tommy trembled when their lips met, soft and hot and living wet. Alfie heard the long, shuddering breath and then felt Tommy's body give, the air around them going perfectly still as the bruised slenderness arched up to meet him, to chase him, with a tiny sound of want. 

Alfie didn't take his fingers from Tommy's face right away. It was a slow parting, atom by atom. Tommy looked up at him in wonder and confusion, eyes glassy, swimming with a thousand thoughts. 

"That's why it fucking matters, Tommy," said Alfie. 

Tommy blinked, then shivered. He pulled Charlie up onto his chest with a frown and kissed the sleepy face, letting the little head hide in the crook of his neck. "So it matters if I cheated on Lizzie while we were engaged, but not if you kiss me while I'm fucking married." The sarcasm was strong, an acid defense against the roar of the wildfire they had just kindled together. 

Alfie's first instinct was anger, but he knew Tommy was as vulnerable as he was just now, maybe more. "Lizzie," he said patiently, crossing his arms over his chest, "was not an absolute fucking cunt." 

The humor worked. Tommy gave a dry tilt of the head and pursed his lips as he patted Charlie's back. 

"That bastard you call a husband broke every one of his vows when he turned you out on the street. You could have died, Tommy. You and him." He nodded at the baby. "And besides, you told me you were done with him." 

"The real question is," said Tommy, shutting his eyes, "is he done with me?" 

Alfie growled. "He better be. If he isn't, I will personally see to it he has a swift and permanent change of heart, you mark my words, Tommy." 

The dark head shook faintly, wearily. "You haven't met him, Alfie." 

"Well, that's lucky for him, innit?" 

It brought the ghost of a smile to Tommy's lips, and that was enough for now. 

When Charlie had burped twice and nodded off on Tommy's shoulder, Alfie helped them out of the chair. Tommy laid Charlie down gently and tucked the blanket around him, but when Alfie tried to help him into bed, he shook his head. "No, I have to go milk. I don't want to wake him." 

A pang went through Alfie at that. "You want company, mate?" He would be hard put to fall asleep here knowing Tommy was alone and suffering in the other room. He might as well be of use. 

Tommy shook his head, eyes faded with exhaustion. "I don't want to keep you up." 

"Right, and I don't want you crashing to the bloody floor again, so we appear to be at an impasse, mate." 

"You need your sleep, Alfie." 

"That's decided, then. I'm coming along." 

He heard Tommy laugh under his breath, but he also saw shame in the set of his shoulders and caught the imploring note beneath the next soft words: "The fever's better now. I'll be fine. Please." 

Tommy needed this—needed to prove something to Alfie, or maybe to himself. Needed to be alone with his pain. 

"Be careful then, mate, right? Call me if you don't feel safe to walk. You are more fucking important than my sleep or Charlie's sleep." 

"Nothing is more important than Charlie's sleep," Tommy quipped with a worryingly straight face. 

"Tommy—" Alfie reached for him as he turned to leave and drew him in, held him carefully, and they breathed together.

He dared to press a kiss into Tommy's hair, above his ear, before he let him go. 

Chapter 7: in which tommy takes fate into his own hands, and fate fights back

Tommy woke up in the chair in the guest room, stiff and sore, with the fire dying and a cold mouthful of buttery milk soaking into his lap as the bowl clattered to the floor. It was still dark. 

"Fuck," he whispered, lifting his hand and shaking off the drips. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. 

His head reeled and the room lurched as he leaned forward to pick up the bowl. The sour smell brought sick warmth pooling to his stomach, and he held onto the arm of the chair to steady himself.

"Fuck," he said again, more vehemently this time.

He'd kissed Alfie. Alfie had kissed him. The memory fluttered in his core, caught between exhilaration and nausea. Alfie's fingers on his jaw, Alfie's lips on his mouth. Alfie was everything: warm and strong and good, and he wanted Tommy. 

But after he had kissed Tommy, he'd said That's why it matters.

There were conditions to Alfie's love, and the conditions were that Tommy be a good man. That he explain himself satisfactorily. That he not have wronged Lizzie. That the whole story come out and vindicate Tommy instead of making him look worse. That's where the nausea outstripped the exhilaration, took it and shook it by the throat and converted it to fear, let it slide brokenly, sickly, hopelessly down the inside of Tommy's ribs. 

You're ridiculous, Tommy Shelby. He was ridiculous. Half naked, barefoot, smelling of cold sweat and bitter milk and stale coppery blood—and he could barely stand to look at himself in the mirror in Alfie's bathroom. He looked like a ruined creature who'd be dumped off the back of a cut-rate pleasure wagon for being too bony to please the customers anymore. It must be uncomfortable to hug him, all hard angles and shame. Alfie was the opposite, muscular and meaty at once and brimming over with goodness, the most solid thing Tommy had put his arms around in a long time. He didn't know what he'd done to trick Alfie into seeing a different Tommy, a kissable Tommy, a Tommy to be held and comforted and have his face fondled like something beloved. He didn't know how he'd done it, but there had been a mistake. That much was clear to him. 

It would be unfair to let Alfie love him. It would be manipulation, living under false pretences. Stealing something he had no right to, something that by all rights should belong to a better man (or woman, if Alfie's inclinations lay in that direction too—Tommy didn't know). Alfie had asked him to clear his name, to explain that what had happened with Lizzie was a misunderstanding or somehow not his fault. He couldn't tell him that, so Alfie couldn't love him, so it was hopeless. 

But he wanted it. His body, his whole soul nearly collapsed with want when he thought of being loved by Alfie. He could lie, maybe: tell him something, anything other than the awful ugly truth of what had happened. There would be no one here to refute it. And then he would make up for the lie, change himself from that moment to match the man in the story he'd told, and never lie to him again. He would be so good for Alfie, do anything, be whatever he asked him to be. He would do anything for the way Alfie looked at him, touched him, and that beautiful—(his breath stuttered as he drew it in, remembering)—that beautiful fucking kiss on the side of his head, with the gentlest arms wrapped around him— 

Tommy was ill. Even this was a sign of his pathetic, fucked-up nature, that he was sitting here dreaming of Alfie's embrace and plotting to lie to him to get what he wanted. Are you that desperate for a cock, Thomas? That fucking desperate? You want to take advantage of a man and be rewarded for it instead of punished? You sick fuck, you. 

It would take a monster to wrong a man like Alfie Solomons, Alfie who had been good and nothing but generous, who had put his life on hold to care for Tommy and clean up his messes and sit with him in the blood and milk and sweat and filth and vomit and never once shout or raise a hand to him. 

He was a monster, wasn't he. 

"Fuck," he said a third time, his voice cracking. 

After a while, he realized the room was cold with the fire dead. 

He felt the left side of his chest with an unsteady hand, fingers probing as delicately as he could. He wasn't empty, still felt engorged. It was hard to tell from the outside just by looking; it always looked swollen and ugly and reddened with heat. It wasn't beautiful, like a woman's breast—just a piece of malfunctioning tissue that was supposed to feed his child and couldn't. Even a light touch hurt. Squeezing was torture. 

He set the bowl in the crook of his arm and tried again, and a wave of dark illness came down over him. He hadn't eaten in too long and he was so damn tired, only vaguely connected to this room and his body. He shut his eyes and rested for a second, bit down on his lip, and... 

He was on the floor, shaking like a fucking leaf. It was hot in his head, cold everywhere else. It scared him that he didn't know how he'd gotten from the chair to the floor, didn't remember falling. He was cramping again, down low but deep inside, like someone was fucking him with a dull razorblade. He tucked his hands over his head and didn't move. 

After a long time, he tried to pull himself up, climb back onto the chair, but his hand wouldn't do what he wanted. He couldn't grip on. Things slid out from under him like water sliding past down a river, always there but impossible to hold onto. Fuck. Fuck, he should call Alfie. 

But if he called Alfie, Alfie would touch him and hold him close, might help him with an arm around the waist and a murmuring, heartbreaking voice in his ear. Might pick him up and hold him against his chest and let Tommy's face rest against his neck, breathing in his beard and his skin and the strong handsome smell of him. 

His heart beat harder at the very thought. He couldn't take it one more time. He couldn't be close to Alfie without wanting him. Wasn't fair. Wasn't right. He couldn't want something this much and come so close and watch it slip away like river water, like a candle writhing into nothing when you tried to grab the flame, like so much smoke pinched between his fingers. 

Another pang had him grabbing at the floor, his head back on the carpet, one hand pressed against his lower abdomen and then his inner thigh, wishing he could reach the place where it hurt so fucking bad. He gripped the carpet with his other hand. 

The pain distilled into anger, and the anger cleared his head. Where was Charlie? He needed Charlie. He needed his son, and then he would get dressed, and he could leave before Alfie tried to kiss him again. 

And go where? 

He couldn't go to his family. That was the obvious place to look. He and Charlie would be found, and the threats against his family—

And whatever happened would be his fault. No. 

He couldn't go to the omega shelter. They would register him and his name would be on the list at the clerk's, and he could be looked up and hunted down. He didn't have money for a travel fare. He couldn't leave the country, couldn't even leave the bloody city. 

He could leave Charlie at the foundlings' home. (Pain again, and he was open-mouthed against the floor, not breathing, everything gone red-hot, crumbling under him. He tried to breathe out and sweat rolled down into his eyes and burned him.) He gasped a little and tried to close his mouth. If he left Charlie at the home, Charlie couldn't be traced to him anymore. It wouldn't matter where he went. He could go anywhere, curl up in a dark corner and rest, find a place to die quietly. 

But his husband might be searching among the foundlings. Might ask after children left by an omega male and give Tommy's description. Someone might see him outside. 

No, he couldn't do that. He pulled his elbows up onto the chair and breathed slowly, letting the effort drain down like warm blood and clear his head. 

He could leave Charlie with Alfie. 

Alfie was a good man. Charlie quieted down for him. Charlie ate goat milk from a bowl and slept safely in Alfie's big bed with the pillows. Alfie would be a good father.

He could grab his clothes and leave while they were both asleep. 

The next no didn't come, so he rested his forehead against the chair and felt his heart rip slowly in half. He didn't want to leave Charlie. He didn't want to leave his baby, his little boy. Fuck.

He wondered if his mother had felt this way when she made up her mind. 

The sun was coming up, sending pale light seeping in through the window. He got to his feet, stiff and shaky, ready now, sure of himself. 

He shivered through the hallway, holding onto the wall for support. His feet were cold, his head and chest blazing. His lower body contracted with pain a couple times and he had to pause until it passed. 

He would get into the room, find his clothes, and leave. He wouldn't wake them or touch them. Saying goodbye would be too hard. If he stopped to look at Charlie's face, he might not be able to go. 

When he entered, he saw that they were already awake. Alfie sat in the bed, holding Charlie upright, babbling nonsense, and Charlie was staring back with rapt attention. 

Tommy went still in the doorway and watched. 

When Alfie noticed him, he said, "You alright, treacle? Little man's awake. He'll be wanting his breakfast soon. Won't you, mate?" 

A bright thread wound its way up through Tommy's maimed heart, pure and painful, lancing the sureness with regret. This is what he wanted. This, right here. 

The cramping happened again and he gripped the doorframe tight, trying not to move or let it be seen. But Alfie saw, of course. 

"Hang tight, little man. Got to help your papa for a minute." He laid Charlie down on the bed and then he was close, the smell of him filling Tommy's lungs. 

Alfie was right beside him when the next one happened—a knifing from womb to hole that felt like he'd been torn open, and he was left gasping.

And bleeding. Blood soaking his shorts and down his legs. A lot of it. Oh, fuck. 

Alfie swore and swung him off his feet, and Tommy yelled with the pain. 

As Alfie dumped him on the bed and tore off the bloody things and pressed down hard on the tender area above his groin and packed him with rags, talking up a storm the whole time (some comfort, some profanity, some reciting of Lizzie's emergency instructions like they were the words of an ancient and powerful prayer), Tommy floated up above himself and listened to his own throat make broken animal sounds and thought, with a far-off smile, that fate, for the first time, had intervened for him. 

He had to stay now. He didn't have a choice. 

Charlie was crying on the bed, and Tommy reached out and let the baby fist grab onto his finger. But he couldn't see Charlie. His eyes were closed. But he could see him through his eyelids, with his mind, just like he could see Alfie panicking below him. 

His body was shaking, but he wasn't scared at all. 

Chapter 8: in which alfie wrestles with god and wins

Alfie's hands were covered in blood. It was pumping out, spilling everywhere, and he was out of his head. 

He gave the cry of anguish as he stuffed rags up inside Tommy, trying to make it stop. Tommy was fading already, eyes rolled back, mouth open, and he was quaking all over, his stomach, his hands, his legs. He was losing too much blood. 

The rag under Alfie's fingers was already soaked through. No, no. He couldn't lose him like this. 

Charlie was screaming and screaming. 

He tried again to massage the womb from the outside, like Lizzie had said. It's painful, but it could save his life if he starts a fast bleed, she'd told him. He dug in with his fist, pressing in and down, making Tommy's body convulse without a sound. Stop, Tommy, stop. I'm sorry I'm hurting you. Please, stop bleeding. 

He didn't even know if the bleeding was there or somewhere lower down. He didn't know, and there wasn't time. He didn't know what to do. Fuck, Tommy. Don't die. 

It was still coming out of him. Alfie held the rags hard against the pulsing wound of Tommy's opening and started to recite a mi shebeirach.

He could barely stutter the words. 

Tommy kicked at him and there was another gush. No, Tommy, stop. 

It wasn't, wasn't real. Couldn't be happening. It was a bad fucking dream, and he had to wake up. 

"Tommy. Tommy." He climbed up over him, straddling him, smacked his cheek three or four times, trying to bring him to the surface. He had some wild idea of asking Tommy what to do, what he needed, how to keep the blood in him and make him stay. Stay, Tommy. Please, fucking stay. 

He was getting blood on Tommy's face. 

In a moment of mad clarity, he wiped his thumb across Tommy's wet scared forehead, a painted line of blood so the Angel of Death would see it and leave him behind. A line even the Almighty couldn't cross. 

"Tommy," he breathed, cracking in half at the look on the dark-framed face. "I'm fucking keeping you." He felt blindly with his hand back between Tommy's splayed legs, into the hot, hemorrhaging crevice, and the blood was still coming. It was all he could smell, all he could breathe, and he could taste it, too, making him sick and weak. Please. Please. Stop. L’hachalimo, u-l’rap’oto, l’hachaziko. 

Hot water. 

Hot water could reach up inside him, burn the bleed, start the fucking clotting. 

He launched off the bed and ran for the bathroom, catching himself on the door when he nearly wiped out running through Tommy's blood. He prayed the water from the boiler would be hot enough. Heating it on the stove would take more time than Tommy had. 

He ran the hot tap into a basin until steam rose up and the outside burned his hands. He couldn't run on the way back. Stay, Tommy. You fucking stay. 

He pulled away the scarlet-sodden cloths and cast about frantically for more. He ripped a strip from the sheet instead and dunked it in the scalding water. 

"You awake, Tommy?" he asked on a rising pitch, louder than Charlie's shrieks. He couldn't tell. Fuck, Tommy, stop bleeding. 

He opened him with two fingers and began packing the burning wet fabric in, as deep as he could reach. He ripped off two more strips before Tommy was full. 

Alfie reached up and laid a hand on Tommy's sweat-coated stomach, hung his head exhausted, and willed this to work. His heart hammered. He sagged until his head was resting on Tommy's leg; stripped of all inhibitions by horror and fear, he kissed the trembling skin. 

Please, Tommy. Don't die. 

He didn't want to be left alone with Charlie and a dead body, beautiful and inhuman, with no one in it. No more movement, no more pain, no reaching for his baby and snuggling him close. No sighing in his sleep or leaning into Alfie's shoulder. That smile—he wanted that smile, couldn't fucking lose it, and those unspeakable living eyes. 

He looked up and saw the red mark on Tommy's head. Malakh ha-mavet, leave him here with me. This one is mine. 

He cupped his hand over Tommy the way he had the first night, when it was Charlie coming out instead of Tommy's lifeblood.

Come on, Tommy. You can do this. 

It struck him that Tommy might need water, so he grabbed the perpetual glass from the nightstand and lifted Tommy's head. 

He hadn't passed out, like Alfie had feared, or if he had, he'd come back again. But he looked like he was wandering far-off, the way he did sometimes during fever. Alfie hoped he hadn't hurt him too badly. "Can you take some water, ziskayt?" 

He didn't know why it came to him in Yiddish, but it slipped out and there was something especially tender about it on his tongue. At this moment, he wanted all those words for Tommy: treacle, darling, sweetness, love, dear one. He wanted to cover him, bathe him in those words, wrap him up in them and never let him go. 

Tommy struggled to open his eyes more than a crack, but he opened his mouth and let Alfie pour the water in. Alfie laid the dark head gently back down on the pillow, and Tommy ran his tongue between his chalk-white lips, collecting the last few drops. Alfie could hear him breathing, hear how close he'd come to not breathing anymore. 

Tommy looked up at him, entreating.

Those dizzy, light-drenched, unearthly sky-eyes would be the death of him. 

Alfie checked down below. The rags were filling, but not as quickly this time. They weren't soaked through yet. 

He ripped another three strips from the sheet (it was beyond saving anyway) and dipped them in the basin. Gently pulled the bloody ones from Tommy's body, pushed the fresh ones in, felt a pang at the way Tommy tightened around his fingers. 

"I'm sorry, treacle," he said. "Got to get this bleeding stopped." 

The next rags filled even more slowly, and Alfie breathed a sigh of relief. With the panic subsiding, he felt sluggish and unreal. His hands moved of their own accord. His eyes began to quiver, and he had to close them to steady himself. 

"What the fuck did you do to yourself?" he asked Tommy, once he could see straight again. 

Tommy gave his head the slightest shake. He looked barely conscious, half dead. 

Alfie got off the bed and went to him, knelt down by his pillow. He ran a hand over Tommy, brushed the hair back from the sweat-drenched forehead, cupped his bloodstained face and kissed his lips. Tommy was too tired to respond. 

He was so fucking pale. And so thin. Light as a sack of clean-picked bones when Alfie lifted his head to adjust the pillow. 

Lizzie had said he might hemorrhage after a birth like that. But it hadn't happened in the first few days, and Alfie thought they were safe. He'd been so fucking scared. Hadn't been that scared since he was a child. 

"You scared me, Tommy," he said, and it sounded fucking pitiful. 

"M'sorry," murmured Tommy, and it sounded more tired than sorry. 

"Damn you," said Alfie, meaninglessly. 

"Mmh," Tommy agreed, pleasantly. 

Poor Charlie. He was still screaming his head off on the other side of the bed. It told Alfie how bad off Tommy was that he hadn't even acknowledged it. 

Alfie got up, his knees cracking and complaining, and reached over for the baby. He held him and rocked him and shushed him to no avail. 

"I'm sending for someone to nurse him," he said, over the crying. "You're not doing one more day of that. You're fucking done, Tommy." 

Tommy's face barely twitched. 

"And you're not getting out of that bed till we've had a doctor out," he went on. "A real fucking doctor, right, Tommy? I don't bloody care what you want." 

At this moment, Tommy didn't seem to care what Tommy wanted, either. 

Charlie calmed down after a few minutes and Alfie tucked him close against Tommy and checked the rags again. 

One more change, one more time, and he'd be okay. The water wasn't as hot as before, but the bleeding was down to a trickle. 

He did it mechanically, trying not to see inside Tommy or smell the bleeding or notice the feeling of flesh on his fingers, and Tommy was fucking whimpering at him. Stop. Please fucking stop. Shut the hell up, Tommy. 

It felt like they had gone back to the first night, both exhausted, drenched in fear, sweating like men in heat, covered in slippery stinking blood, Alfie all over his hands and arms, Tommy in his poor torn omega parts with the bed beneath him soaked red....

Alfie bent over, flame running up through his core, bursting out all over him. He couldn't do it again. He was sick, getting faint. 

His throat closed up, clenched, lurched— 

He was the one vomiting now, into the basin of bloody water, loud roaring coughs that scared Charlie back into panicked crying. 

He couldn't let one more thing happen to Tommy. He'd go mad, he'd tear the world to fucking pieces. He couldn't let him bleed anymore, cry anymore, couldn't take one more night of watching him suffer, couldn't touch him one more time in a way that hurt him, even to save his life. 

Fuck. Fuck this, fuck the blood and the fucking complications that never bloody ended. Fuck omega men giving birth. Fuck it. 

Fuck that husband, whoever he was. 

Alfie was going to kill the man. Kill him dead. 

You're mine, came unbidden to his mind as he looked back at bloody Tommy and screaming Charlie. The mark on the forehead. 

He'd fought God himself to keep Tommy Shelby. 

That bastard, whoever he was, would be fucking child's play. 

Chapter 9: in which tommy makes a confession

Alfie scrubbed blood off the floor.

He washed it off sheets and blankets and rags, his clothes and Tommy's clothes. He rocked Charlie to stop him screaming, sponged Tommy clean without moving him off the bed, heated milk on the stove, fed Charlie and rocked him again until he fell asleep, and then he lay down in the bed beside Tommy, exhausted beyond words.

It wasn't even noon. 

He'd missed a fleck of blood by Tommy's ear. He licked his thumb and reached out to rub it off, and Tommy, who he had thought was asleep, fluttered his eyes open and looked at him blankly. 

"You're alright, treacle," said Alfie. He was still trying to convince himself. 

"Where's Charlie?" 

"Charlie is asleep. I put him in the guest room when I was changing sheets." 

"Is he okay?" 

"Yeah, mate, he's okay. Got a clean nappy and a full tummy. He's better off than you. You want something to eat? No—you know, I don't know why I'm fucking asking. You're having something to eat whether you want it or not." 

Tommy raised his eyebrows faintly. "Fuck you," he said, without any vitriol. 

"Right, fuck me. I just saved your fucking life, mate. You were bleeding out." 

"I know." Tommy reached for Alfie's hand. His face contracted slightly, either present pain or the memory of a few hours ago. "Thank you." 

"Which is why," Alfie groaned as he hauled himself upright, "we've got to get some food and some more drink into you." 

"Stay," said Tommy, holding tightly to the hand. "Just rest a minute. You haven't fucking stopped." 

It didn't take much convincing. 

He laid back down and scooched closer until he could cradle Tommy's head with an arm, hand in his hair, lips on his temple. "I've got to call a doctor, treacle," he said. "I know you don't want to see anyone, but I can't do this on my own. I don't know what the hell I'm doing. You almost fucking died just now." 

Tommy didn't say anything, but his eyes went a shade grayer and more distant. 

Alfie couldn't stand that. "No, mate. Don't fuckin' hide, alright? I'm here. I told you, I'll take care of everything. No one's going to find you, no one's going to fucking hurt you. But I only know what I know, right, and doctoring is not my area of expertise. Tommy." He turned the face toward him gently with two fingers on the jaw. "I can't sit here and watch you fuckin' die, alright? Can't fucking do it." He pressed a kiss lightly to Tommy's lips and checked the eyes again to see if there was an answer. 

It was just pain, all pain, and conflict and sadness and a kind of wistful longing that broke Alfie's fucking heart. 

He caressed Tommy's cheek with his thumb. "Did I hurt you?" 

Tommy's eyes flickered without blinking, like light on fearful frost. "You saved my life." 

That wasn't what he'd asked. 

Alfie pulled him close and held him. They breathed into each other, deep and heavy and aching and so damn tired. Tommy's mouth was soft against Alfie's shoulder and his hand came creeping up to rest on Alfie's hip. The room was quiet and full of sunshine. 

Really, Alfie? You're in love with him after six days? 

Fuck, he'd come so close to losing this. It had nearly never happened. If the bleeding hadn't stopped, he'd be calling the coroner instead of a doctor. 

Tommy breathed in, long and unsteady, and Alfie heard the soft sound of his lips opening and closing again. He wanted to keep Tommy safe, keep him close, make him his, squeeze him, crush him until his fucking bones cracked, never let him go. 

Tommy made a muffled sound of discomfort against his shoulder. 

Alfie loosened his grip. He felt fuzzy-headed. "I'll go fetch you something to eat," he said. 

"Where's Charlie?" 

Alfie looked down at him, concerned. "You asked that a moment past, Tommy. I told you, he is in the guest room." 

"Oh." Tommy frowned slightly. "And he's okay, yeah? He's alright?" 

"He is alright. One hundred percent. But you are not, mate, so what I need you to do is rest, right? You lie here quiet for me, and you do not get up, you do not go check on your baby, and you do not do anything fucking stupid while I am downstairs. If you need me, you can shout." 

Tommy looked so wan and lost that Alfie bent down to kiss him one more time. "Just stay put, petal," he said, brushing Tommy's hair back with his thumb, smoothing the lines on his forehead. 

Downstairs, he rang Lizzie as he made tea and heated soup on the stove. Then he called Izak, one of his boys from the brewery. Izak had a wife and a passel of youngsters, and he would know of a doctor for this kind of thing. Moreover, he might know which ones might be willing to work on the side, for good pay, without reporting to the local omega registry. 

There had been some sort of kerfuffle about Izak's wife before they married, some legal trouble—something about her running from a bond-mate who refused a divorce. The chap was long dead now, but just last night Alfie had remembered that back eight or nine years ago, when their first two were born, Izak had had to keep his wife out of the hospitals. 

He was pouring soup into bowls and pulling bread from the bread box when he heard Charlie wail from upstairs. 

"Tommy!" he called warningly. "Stay the hell where you are. I'll be right up." 

He poured out the tea and set it on a tray with the soup and bread. It was the last pot from the jar Lizzie had given him—was it only a week ago? It was supposed to help Tommy heal, help him pass the placenta and clean out safely, help reduce the risk of a bad bleed. Alfie leaned down on a whim and spoke to the little teapot. "Fat lot of good you did him, ay? Reduce bleeding, my fucking ass. Fuck you." 

He felt better. 

He headed back upstairs to see Tommy just putting a leg over the side of the bed. "Ah, ah-ah! What did I tell you, Thomas? Stay fucking put, I believe were the words. You are fucking predictable, you know that, mate?" He set the tray down firmly on the nightstand, with a clatter of china and silver. "Lie back down and I will get him for you. Fuckin' hell." 

He brought Charlie back and changed his diaper on the end of the bed. Then he helped Tommy sit up and situated him with the baby on one side and the tea tray on the other. "You don't want 'em both on the same side, see, so that way you don't get fucking crumbs all over him." He nodded at Charlie, and Tommy gave a hint of a smile. 

"Thank you, Alfie." 

"No, don't bloody thank me. Just eat your food, mate." 

Tommy ate in silence, and Alfie dragged the armchair over, took his own bowl, and began to consume it rapidly. He'd missed breakfast—they both had—and he was famished. 

Halfway through, Tommy looked over at him. "Alfie." 

Alfie spoke around a mouthful of soup-soaked bread. "What is it, sweetie?" 

"Did you kiss my fucking leg?" 

Alfie felt his face and neck go hot. "Yeah, I did, mate. In my fucking defense, I thought you were about to expire and leave this bloody world, now, didn't I?"

Tommy smiled and bent down to kiss the baby-head leaning against him. "You know, you might have bought me a drink first." 

"Are you fooling about with me, Tommy?" Alfie put his bowl back down on the tray. "Now, after I saved your life and I've just had my whole hand up your ass? You think I kiss just any omega on the fucking leg, do you?" 

Tommy raised his eyebrows in a question—a joke, and yet not a joke. "Do you?"

Alfie leaned forward and braced one arm against the headboard. He hovered over Tommy for a long moment, then took his lips gently. "No," he whispered. He kissed him a second time, and again a third time. Tommy's mouth was like a spoonful of sweet custard he couldn't get enough of. "No, I bloody don't." 

He felt something warm and wet against his stomach and jumped. He'd tipped over Tommy's bowl of soup, which was now on the bed and running down the bottom of Alfie's shirt. "Ach! Bloody hell," he said, falling back into his chair. 

Tommy laughed, sudden and spontaneous—(fucking angelic, he was)—and Charlie started crying, startled by one or the other of them. 

"Oh, Charlie, shh. I'm sorry, love. I'm sorry," hummed Tommy, lifting the baby to his shoulder. 

"Don't—" Alfie spluttered, caught between wiping potatoes and carrots off his shirt and reaching out to stop Tommy. "Don't fucking lift him, mate, alright? Let me do that. You were halfway to the next world a few hours ago." 

He got up, moved the tray, the tea, all of it, wiped up the spilled soup with one of Charlie's clean diapers, and took the baby. 

"Lie down, Tommy, lie down. I'll give him back once you lie down, alright? Bloody hell." 

Tommy looked mildly amused again—or annoyed, it was hard to tell which, with him—but he was tired. Alfie could see it. It was in his eyes, in his breathing, the way he sagged under the weight of holding his own head up. 

When Tommy was lying mostly flat again, Alfie set the baby down on the right side of his chest. Charlie curled up, red-faced but content, sucking loudly on his little hand and drooling down Tommy's shoulder. He was worn out too, poor tyke. 

Tommy lifted his arm with an effort and set a hand on Charlie's back. He started to rub, but he was too tired even for that. It seemed to have come over him again all at once. 

"Want me to feed you the rest, mate?" Alfie asked. 

Tommy shook his head. "I'd choke. I can wait." 

"How is your—" Alfie made a gesture toward his own chest, but glanced toward Tommy's. 

Tommy winced as if thinking about it caused him pain. "I'm full." 

"Fuck," said Alfie. "Lizzie said you ought to have some morphine for it. I meant to go and get some today, but I can't very well leave you here alone now, can I?" 

Tommy didn't answer. His eyes were closed. 

"He's already had his fill of milk, but if it's alright with you, mate, I could—you know, help." He scratched his neck where the awkwardness was pricking at his collar.

Tommy opened one eye and snorted. "Fuck off." 

"With my hands, Tommy! Fucking Christ." Alfie threw his head back in equal parts exasperation and embarrassment. "Nothing intimate about it, just purely business. Since you look like you can't hardly lift a bloody finger." 

Several things passed over Tommy's face, but the predominant one was vulnerability, flavored with a kind of hurt. Alfie waited, uncertain what he'd done wrong. 

At last Tommy swallowed, licked his dry lips, and attempted a nod. "That would be nice." 

"You want some rum before we do it?" 

The softest ghost of a smile drifted across Tommy's face. "Can't hurt, can it?" 

"It cannot," Alfie grinned. 

By the time Tommy was bolstered with rum and pillows, Charlie had fallen asleep. Alfie gently lifted him in his hands and set the snuffling, blanketed little lump on the bed next to Tommy. "There you are, love. You sleep until we're done here, hear?" Alfie murmured. 

He had brought a warm, wet cloth from the bathroom, and he grabbed Tommy's empty teacup and wiped out the clinging tea leaves with one corner. "We'll catch it in this and wipe up the rest," he said, clearing his throat. "We don't have to get it all out, Tommy. Just enough to take the pain out, yeah?" 

Tommy nodded. 

"This still okay with you, sweetheart?" 

"Yes." It was soft, just a whisper, and Tommy's lower lip was caught in his teeth again. 

Bloody hell. Purely business, Alfie had said. Nothing intimate about it.

Well, that was about to be a fucking lie, wasn't it?

He took a deep breath to steady his heart and reached for Tommy with the wet cloth. He ran it over the most swollen area, an angry red patch on the left side, and Tommy hissed on an indrawn breath. 

"Sorry, treacle." 

"It's okay," Tommy gasped. 

Alfie massaged gently, through the cloth, not touching Tommy's skin with his own. Tommy moaned with his eyes and mouth clamped shut. 

"I know, love," said Alfie. "You're doing lovely." 

He caught the dribbles he could in the teacup, held beneath the cloth and pressed just barely into the flesh of Tommy's ribs. The rest of the milk he wiped up with the cloth as he kept rubbing and circling gently. 

"Alfie, Alfie—" Tommy's weak hand came fluttering up, trying to grab Alfie's wrist. "Just give me a moment." 

Alfie stopped. His chest hurt too, but for another reason. 

He wanted to kiss Tommy and comfort him, but he was afraid it would make this too much like fondling. Tommy needs your help, he told himself, not your fucking hard-on. Get it together, mate. What the hell. 

But Tommy wasn't okay. He wasn't getting it together. His face was screwed up with something more than physical pain. 

"You alright, treacle? Fuck, what's this?" Alfie set the cup aside and left the cloth spread on Tommy's breast. 

Tommy didn't move, didn't answer. He looked like an image of anguish in marble in a museum. 

Alfie touched his shoulder, his head, and leaned in to kiss him. 

"Fuck," said Tommy, turning his face away. "Stop. Fucking stop." 

Alfie stopped. He wondered again, in dismay, what he'd done wrong. 

Tommy pulled in a long, awful, shaky breath. "It's the rum," he said. "Just the fucking rum." 

He tried to lift his hand to wipe his face. Alfie didn't know whether to wipe it himself, to help him lift his hand, or to leave him be and watch him struggle on his own. 

"Tommy, I—" 

Tommy gave up. His arm was shaking too badly. "Just get it done. Get it over with, alright? Or go rest, go sleep. I can do it." 

"Mate, you can't lift your fucking arm. I'll rest later. What the fuck is going on?" 

He shook his head, screwed up his face again. Fluttered his eyes at the ceiling, trying to clear them. "I'm sorry. I'm ready again." He looked as pale as Alfie's mother's china. 

Cautiously, like a cat sticking its paw in the fire for chestnuts, Alfie set the cup below Tommy's breast and started massaging again. 

He couldn't stand seeing him in pain. 

He got it done quickly, just a couple of minutes on each side. When it was over, he sat down beside Tommy on the bed and pulled the dark head into his chest, against his beating heart. 

It was a long time before Tommy showed any signs of life beyond slow, shallow breathing and a faint tremble in one leg. Finally, like a man waking up from a long, slow sleep, he raised his head out of Alfie's arms and said, "Help me." 

"Anything, treacle. Any-fucking-thing you want." 

"I want to lie down. Hurts sitting up." 

As quickly as he could safely manage, Alfie lowered Tommy back down onto the bed and arranged the pillows behind his head and shoulders. "There," he said. "Better?" 

Tommy's lips were white. 

"Water," said Alfie. "Here." He grabbed it from the nightstand. "Careful." 

As he pulled it away again, Tommy coughed up a little, then winced, then nodded. "Thanks." 

"I'll be right here," said Alfie. "If I'm asleep and you need something, you wake me up, do you hear? If you try stepping off this bed, I will—well, I don't know what I'll do, but I will not be best pleased, Tommy. Understand?" 

Tommy nodded with his eyes closed. "No stepping off the bed." 

"That's right. I am keeping you alive, mate." 

He walked around the bed and laid down on the other side. Charlie was between them, and Tommy gazed at the sleeping baby with gentle, haunted blue eyes. 

"You want him on you?" asked Alfie, although he was afraid Tommy would be too tender for the extra weight. 

"Yes," murmured Tommy. "Please." 

Alfie set Charlie on top of Tommy, trying to thread the needle between Tommy's sore chest and the lower abdomen—an impossible task, he discovered, because there simply wasn't enough of Tommy there. But once the initial grimace was over, Tommy took a deep breath and kissed the little downy head and didn't seem to mind. 

They lay there, the three of them, for a long time. Only Charlie slept; Tommy was in too much pain and Alfie's mind was racing and wouldn't quiet down. 

Out of nowhere, Tommy said, "My mother died when I was nineteen. And it was my fault." 

Alfie looked down at his hands to make sure he hadn't slid into a dream. He hadn't. Everything looked right and real. 

He took a deep, terrible breath and asked, "How?" 

Tommy shook his head. "It doesn't matter." 

Alfie didn't know what to say. He reached out for Tommy's hand. Touched it first, lightly, and when it didn't flinch or shrink away, he took it in his hand and held it tight. 

Tommy let him come close and wrap a gentle arm around both him and Charlie, and Alfie laid his face down on Tommy's shoulder—the first time he'd done that.

That was how they fell asleep. 

Chapter 10: in which tommy invokes the black madonna

Notes:

CONTENT WARNING in the end notes for anyone who needs to check for triggers. It's heavy stuff. Stay safe out there, loves.

"Tommy." Alfie was touching him, shaking his shoulder. "Wake up, mate. We've got the doctor here to see you." 

He opened his eyes and struggled to see straight. His mouth wasn't working right yet. "W-where's Charlie?" 

"Easy, treacle. He's back asleep. I gave him your milk and a bit more, he's full and happy." 

"Where is he?" 

"The other bedroom," said Alfie. "I didn't want to wake him, you know, with our stuff and nonsense with the doctor. He'll be fine." 

The doctor standing at the end of the bed was a tall man, bearded, with large hands and a grave look. 

Tommy was too tired to keep his eyes open. 

"Look, mate, he is gonna give you an injection of morphine, right? And then he has got to make certain we got out all the pieces of the afterbirth, so we will not have a repeat performance of this morning." 

Fear washed through Tommy like ice water, followed by the numbness of surrender. He couldn't quite move, couldn't get a full breath. He tingled numbly all over, and underneath the numbness he was still scared, needle-sharp fear jabbing him down the throat and down into the stomach and up through his groin. 

"Fuck off and let me fucking die," he slurred out, the only defense he had left. 

"Is he usually like this?" came a mild, disapproving voice. 

Alfie's grunt encompassed every possible interpretation, from defensiveness to sarcasm. "It's been a tough week." His voice came close again. "Look. Tommy. Sweetie. Nobody is fucking dying, right? We agreed about that. We will get this done and it will be over, mate. Fucking done with. And after it's done with, you will start to feel better." 

The words landed like rocks in Tommy's middle. He was empty and stifling to death. Alfie didn't understand. He couldn't do this again. There was only a thread of him hanging on. If one more person invaded him, opened him, fucking bled him and didn't care how much it hurt, he might not survive it. 

A wriggling pain curled through his insides and he gasped at the sharpness, gasped through the heavy weight of his body and the wet thickness of his throat. Ah, fuck. 

He felt Alfie's hand now, squeezing his. "Fuck. That's why we've got to get this done, Tommy, see? I'll be right here." 

Cold fingers touched his collarbone, his neck, and he felt the needle go in. 

Please don't. 

He was hardly conscious of the room around him as they waited for the morphine to take effect and Alfie rambled to the doctor, giving him all the humiliating details of the last seven days. 

At some point, Alfie's hand was on his shoulder again. "Any pain now, treacle?" 

Pain? Yes, there was pain. But he was tired, fading out a bit, and it was hard to make words out of it. 

"No," he said, guessing that the pain he felt wasn't whatever kind Alfie meant. 

He was scared again, but it was a faraway fear, something he couldn't quite reach. Hands ran along his legs as if he was a horse, lifted them like a farrier preparing to nail a new shoe. His eyes were closed, closed hard now, but the fear he couldn't reach squeezed his chest, a tightening strap tying him down to the bed. Heat came, then cold, and sweat all over in a chill. 

He smelled Alfie. Alfie was holding his hand. 

The rags were coming out, and everything was cramping around them, a strange terrible feeling of having his entrails unwound and pulled out from below, and a faint croak slipped through the crack of his throat as Alfie said "shh, shhh." 

The cold hands were on him, strong and firm, feeling his stomach, fingers like cold rods inside him, prodding and stretching, and touch on his naked cock, examining everything. He was hot, burning up.... 

"Relax, please," said the doctor's voice. 

Tommy tried, and for his reward he got fingers and then a hand pushing its way into him, relentless and agonizing. His muscles clenched and cramped again, sending shots of fire through him. 

He gripped Alfie's hand and Alfie said, "Shouldn't he be feeling less?" 

The doctor shook his head. "Look at the size of him. If I give him any more he'll be sick." 

"The size of him is what I'm fucking worried about," said Alfie stubbornly. 

"Mr. Solomons, please." 

The hand was in deep, and Tommy groaned and curled forward, sideways, into Alfie's arm. It hurt, it fucking hurt, even with the morphine. 

"Keep him still," said the doctor with labored patience. 

He couldn't. He wasn't—he didn't mean to, but it hurt and he kept on trying to get away. He needed to hide, to run, to grab his body away. He needed Alfie. Why wouldn't Alfie help him? 

"Shh, shh, treacle. I'm sorry. I'm fucking sorry, love. You're okay." 

He was not okay. But he couldn't get his mouth to work. Alfie was holding him in place, gentle but made of stone, and Tommy despaired. 

"I don't see many males in my practice," the doctor was saying as he twisted, arm-deep in Tommy's body, "and this is exactly why. Unless you have access to the best care, they'll end up with all kinds of" (he grunted, and Tommy squirmed, afraid the man's fist would come right through his stomach) "complications. I usually recommend a surrogate, someone built wider through the pelvic area. Whoever advised you was rubbish. I would never have let this one go through with it." 

"You sure you can't you give him a little more?" 

He couldn't see anyway, eyes gone crystal-blurry, couldn't cry with his lips clamped so tight, so stuck together with spit and sweat, couldn't tell them what was wrong when he couldn't talk. He was so tired he couldn't do anything but lie here and feel his body fight back on its own. He tried to tell Alfie it's okay, I'm alright, I don't care anymore, but he couldn't. He just buried his face in the cradling arm and breathed long, damp, sagging breaths, trying to cool his lungs off. 

He didn't know how long it was before the arm came out of him, and he was out of his head by then, but the doctor wouldn't leave him alone. Whatever he did next was excruciating; Tommy could remember metal things up inside him and tearing, gutting pain, and pressure on his abdomen, over and over and starting again every time he thought it was finally over, pressure that made him cry out and retch and bite at Alfie's sleeve. 

He didn't feel human. Even with Alfie there and Alfie's hands on him. It was worse with Alfie there because Alfie wouldn't let go: kept saying sweet things in his ear but held him down for the torture nonetheless. 

He'd told him he wanted to die. He'd said he couldn't take this. It didn't matter. It didn't matter, there wasn't anything left. 

He was just a wretched bleeding thing on the bed and they were hurting him, and he was so goddamn tired. 

He was vaguely aware that the hands on him went away, finally, a long time after he'd been broken like a rich man's horse, the will to fight flogged out of him. He had lain completely limp and subdued under the rest of the cruelty, by turns silent and sobbing into Alfie's arm, the morphine making him completely fucking shameless. He had lifted his face at the end to find he was drooling, and Alfie's sleeve was wet with it. 

"He shouldn't have any more problems with bleeding," came the far-off voice of the stranger he hated now, part of a longer conversation drifting into Tommy's focus. "But you can call me if needed, provided you can pay." 

"Don't you worry about that," said Alfie. "There's plenty where that came from. Thank you, sir." 

Feet creaked down the stairs, accompanied by voices; the door shut far below; and then Alfie came back up, one slow stair at a time. Tommy lay there too weak, too sleepy to move from the damp trench of sweat he'd dug in the mattress while he was fighting. He felt half-dead. 

"There, treacle. It's all over. You're alright. You can start healing up now, he says." Alfie sat down on the edge of the bed, frowning deeply, and set a hand on Tommy's shoulder. 

Tommy shuddered. 

Alfie pulled a blanket over him, up to the base of his throat. "He fixed you up with some fresh stitches. You broke a fucking bone, mate. The bottom of your spine, down in your ass, when Charlie was coming out. Did you know it?" 

He shook his head sluggishly. 

"Bloody hell. See, I knew you shouldn't have been up and about, walking everywhere on your own. Didn't I say that, Tommy?" 

He didn't want to see Alfie. He didn't want to be here and he didn't want anyone to fucking see him now. Not after that. 

"Hey. Sweetheart," said Alfie softly, bending down over him. "You're okay. You're alright." A big hand, too hot and sticky, crawled onto the side of his face, and a strong thumb traced Tommy's hairline just above his ear. 

He pulled away, begging in his head to be left alone. Alfie tried again—stupid alpha, wouldn't stop—and in an instant of visceral strength Tommy slapped his hand away. 

"What the fuck are you on about, mate?" Now Alfie looked hurt. Sounded hurt. 

Alfie had saved his life this morning. 

But he shouldn't have done that. It wasn't fucking worth it. He didn't want this, any of this. He should have slipped away this morning and bled out behind the house, saved everyone the trouble, saved Alfie the fucking money—how much had he paid for a doctor? Tommy couldn't repay him. He couldn't do anything, was no fucking good, couldn't even feed his baby. 

"That morphine get to you? Hm? Do you need something to puke in, Tommy?" 

He nodded. 

When Charlie woke up, Alfie brought him to lay next to Tommy. Tommy's soiled, ragged heart wrapped right around the baby and held on for dear life. His hand on Charlie's back, his little arm, the velvety skin at the back of his neck, the sweet-and-sour milky smell of his hair and cheeks—Tommy lost himself there and stayed, hid, drank it in as a draught against the darkness. 

"It's okay, Charlie," he whispered when they were alone, without Alfie. "You're okay. I'm here. I've got you." 

An hour or so later (around five, by the chime of the clock), Tommy woke from a drugged half-sleep to the sound of the door again and the feel of Charlie squirming warm and heavy against his sore waist and ribs.

Voices sounded on the stairs, and Alfie brought two women up this time: Lizzie and— 

Fuck. Tommy pulled himself up on an elbow with a tremendous, sweating effort and dragged Charlie up with him, against his shoulder. "Alfie. What the hell is she doing here?" 

"You can't nurse on your own, mate. She's here to—" 

"It's Esme. She's my bloody sister-in-law. I told you, no family. I can't see family." It isn't safe. 

"Oh, sod off, Thomas," said Esme, approaching the bed. "It's nice to see you too, after three fucking years." She had a baby of her own strapped sleeping on her back, and she pulled her dark curls free where they'd been caught in her shawl. 

Lizzie came up behind her, looking oddly shy. "Are you alright, Tommy?" she asked in a low voice. 

"I was until you brought my fucking family here," he said, the fermented anger rushing to a bottleneck, waiting there with unbearable pressure just below and behind his jaw. 

"Settle down, treacle." Alfie came hurrying with his outstretched hands and his ridiculous whiskers and those dog-mournful eyes, trying to tell Tommy what to do and how to act and not to worry when he had bloody good reason to worry. 

"I can't be responsible," Tommy choked out, furious. "I will not be fucking responsible for this!" 

Esme's mouth hung open a little and Alfie and Lizzie exchanged looks. 

"Tommy," said Lizzie, "you're not making any sense. Now, you've lost a lot of blood today, and you still have that fever. We're going to take care of Charlie for you awhile. Esme will come stay here on the weekends, and you'll see him then. John knows, but nobody else." 

"What?" He didn't understand. 

Alfie put a hand on Tommy's leg through the blanket. "Charlie's going to stay with Esme for awhile, treacle. You know how he eats. It'll work easiest that way." 

"No." He closed his eyes, shook his head, clutched Charlie in both arms. "Fucking no." 

He was queasy from the morphine, about to heave. Charlie gave a squeak from being squeezed too tightly. 

"You have to go home," he told Esme, his eyes still shut. "I can't see you and you can't have him." 

"It's best for babies to nurse with kin," said Esme stoutly, as truculent as he remembered her. "He's still a Shelby, even if you're not, Tommy." 

"Tommy," said Alfie. "Listen, treacle. If anyone looking for you had the least idea where to find you, he'd have shown up by now, wouldn't he? He's had a week and a bit more. Getting you well and Charlie fed is the important thing now, innit?" 

He didn't answer. He was tired, so fucking tired, and going numb again. He held onto Charlie. 

In the silence, Esme came up beside him and reached into her bodice for something. When she opened her hand to Tommy, he saw two amulets. "For you and him," she said. "Had 'em left over from this one." She bobbed her head toward the little one on her back. "I lit candles for him last night, too. To the Black Madonna and Saint Joseph. Thought someone ought to, and since Polly doesn't know, I did it." 

He stared at the charms in her hand, feeling nothing except a little hot trickle, like blood running down the back of his heart. He reached, his fingers a little unsteady, drunk on the morphine. Picked them up, clutched them in his fist against Charlie's back. "Thank you," he said roughly. 

"I brought swaddling, too, in case you need it." She unwound the top layer of her shawl, reds and golds, and laid it down on the bed. She tilted her head to one side, dark eyes scrutinizing him. "I should've lit a candle for you too, shouldn't I? Fuck. Where you been, Tommy? We thought you up and left the bloody country. You didn't even say goodbye to Finn. He slept in your room for a bloody year after you left." 

He couldn't answer. 

Esme sighed. "Give him here, then. I've done this three times now, and I never had any trouble fattening 'em up." 

He felt Charlie's little heartbeat pattering against his. He didn't want to let go. 

Alfie came up beside Esme and lifted Charlie out of his arms. "It's just a few days, Tommy. We've got to get you rested up." 

He didn't, couldn't move. 

He followed Charlie with his eyes, wanting to say something, to talk to his son and tell him what was happening. Charlie wouldn't understand. He finally found the word "wait," and Esme stopped. 

"Here." He held out the smaller amulet, hand shaking. "Keep it on him." 

Esme raised her eyebrows, pleasantly surprised. She tugged a thread free from the swaddling shawl and threaded it through the amulet, then tied it to Charlie's wrist. "He'll be alright, Tommy." 

He went limp again, worse this time, eyes closing and the room sliding out from under him. He reached for the mattress with both hands to steady himself, and he felt Alfie's hand on his back. 

"He's had one hell of a long day." 

Lizzie pressed a small brown bottle into Alfie's hand. "In case he needs more." Then to Tommy: "We'll bring him back on Saturday. You just take care of yourself." 

The voices were low golden light running over black water in his head, that was all. He couldn't see, didn't care anymore. 

---

He didn't even know they were gone until he moved to push Alfie off him and realized Alfie wasn't there. 

The room was going dark, dusk setting in. He looked down at his hand and unclenched the fingers from the other charm Esme had given him. 

Sara e Kali, the Black Madonna, patron of the Romani people. Mother of wanderers, fierce protector of the outcasts. 

As a boy, wriggling through his perfunctory prayers or staring dreamily across the room at her smoke-wreathed icon during a festival dance, he had always imagined Saint Sara a little like his mother: the same raven-black hair, the tender smile, and the deep, faraway eyes that made you feel you could peer through them into another realm. 

They took my baby. 

With sudden strength, he squared his jaw and reached over to the nightstand where the teacup and saucer sat. He took the saucer and smashed it against the headboard, cracking it, chips of porcelain flying off, one hitting him in the face and making him blink and flinch. 

"Tommy?" Alfie's voice, calling from downstairs. 

Before he had the chance to rethink it, he slashed the long side of the broken saucer across his left wrist. 

It hurt, but he still had the morphine. Still, he gazed at it for several seconds, shocked as if someone else had done it to him. A heavy pain in his head rocked him forward and he gave a quiet gasp. He cradled the wounded arm like it was his baby. 

He hadn't said a prayer since he was eleven years old, but he said one now. Sara e Kali, guard my son. He put the amulet in his left hand and grabbed the bleeding wrist with his right. He felt scared now, like a child.

He was bleeding out for the second time today, and Alfie's feet were on the stairs. 

Notes:

This chapter contains a depiction of a suicide attempt.

If you need to avoid it, it's near the end, below the horizontal line.

Chapter 11: in which alfie atones for his sin

Notes:

CONTENT WARNING: Suicide attempt intervention and direct aftermath. If you want to skip it, find the first horizontal line and continue reading below it.

Alfie fucking lost it. 

He had thought this morning was his worst nightmare, but in one gulping, wrecking, universe-gaping moment he saw Tommy on the bed with hollow, terrified eyes, the bloody pieces of the broken saucer on his lap and red spilling out between his fingers, and he knew there was something worse. 

He ran to the bed. "The fuck are you doing, Tommy? The fuck are you doing?" 

He grabbed Tommy's arm and pinned it up above his head, against the headboard, put almost enough pressure on the wrist to break it. Blood leaked out below his hand and ran down his arm and Tommy's, dripping off their elbows onto the bed. 

Tommy was white and shivering, stretched out long, stuttering every breath out between clenched teeth. 

Alfie kept the pressure on, reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and jerked it out. He twisted it with one hand and his teeth, tied it just below the wound, then grabbed a fork from the tea tray on the nightstand and wedged it between the fabric and Tommy's arm. 

He turned the fork like a lever to tighten the band of fabric, and Tommy cried out. 

Alfie was weeping, angry and unhinged. "Fuck you! Why the fuck would you do that, Tommy? Why? I'm trying my fucking best...."

Tommy tried to pull his arm back, but Alfie pinned it harder.

"No! Above your head. Above your fucking head to stop the bleeding. You don't get to fucking do this, you hear me?" He shook him a little, pressing harder on the wrist. 

Tommy bit his lip and broke Alfie's heart. 

With one hand still holding Tommy's arm up, leaning hard against the wounded wrist, he put his other arm around Tommy and held him up, kept him from putting too much strain on the extended shoulder. "Just lean on me, Tommy. It'll be okay. I shouldn't have left you alone. Shouldn't have left you alone, treacle." He pressed his lips hard against Tommy's dark hair and swore vehemently. "Fuck." 

He felt a fresh, warm pulse. He jammed the heel of his hand against the wound and Tommy groaned loudly. 

"It's okay, Tommy, it's okay. Got to keep pressure on it, that's all. Fuck. Why the fuck did you do that?" He wiped his eyes and nose with difficulty on his shoulder. 

Tommy pressed his forehead against Alfie's sternum, hard, until the bone ached. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking. 

"I know you are, treacle, I know. I'm sorry we took your baby." He kissed the dark head again. "I didn't know. I didn't know it would be like that." 

There was blood dappled on his shirt now, a cut under Tommy's eye he could only assume was from breaking the saucer. Tommy was scared and in pain. Alfie had scared him. 

But Alfie was scared too, shoulders shaking, fingers going white with the effort of keeping pressure on Tommy's wrist, keeping him alive. 

Lizzie had been right. He was in over his head. 

"You trying to break my bloody heart, is that it, Tommy?" he said. 

Tommy moaned miserably. 

Hurt stabbed through Alfie again and again, bloody-fresh every time. All he'd wanted was to help. To make things alright for him. And he'd done it wrong, or Tommy didn't want it. He had tried to help, and Tommy had tried to fucking kill himself. "Fuck me," he cursed under his breath.

Tommy's arm moved and Alfie held it still. It was a good thing he was still hazy from the morphine. That arm would be hell on earth once it wore off. 

"I'm taking you to the hospital," he said. "I'll call a cab, we'll keep pressure on it." 

"No," begged Tommy. "No, no, no please." He spoke low, stuttering and spitting, taking sobbing breaths in between, so fucking scared. Fuck. 

He shouldn't have left him on his own. After a day like that. He should have known. Last night they'd kissed and it had been so fucking beautiful. How the hell had they ended up here? 

"You need a bloody surgeon, mate." 

"I can't." Tommy looked wild. "I can't, I—Alfie, I can't." 

He was scared. So fucking scared. He needed help calming down or he'd let himself bleed out when Alfie left the room to make the call. 

"Okay," said Alfie, panting, sniffing, leaning down to wipe his face awkwardly with his one semi-free hand. He was sweating—they were both sweating. "Okay, Tommy, we need to think this through. I need to get you help, and I need you to be safe. How do we do that, Tommy, eh? Let's think." 

Tommy sagged against Alfie's chest again. He sounded barely awake. "I'm sorry."

"You've got to help me out here, love. I don't know how to make you feel safe. I don't fucking know." The anger was rising again, the hurt, all of it, pulsing in his veins, making him breathe like a draft horse. He shouldn't have kept him here. He should have taken him someplace that first night.

He broke down again. "You shouldn't have fucking done it, Tommy. Why the fuck did you do it? I was trying. Tried my bloody best." 

"You're hurting me," Tommy murmured brokenly.

"Got to keep pressure on it," said Alfie. He pulled him close, hand in his hair, and Tommy groaned again.

Carefully, painstakingly, he let go of Tommy's body and brought the injured arm closer. He put pressure on it with both hands, his thumbs and the balls of his hands clamped around the gash like a vise. "It's okay, I've got you," he kept saying, barely aware of his own words. 

Heart pounding so loudly he could hardly take a breath, he lifted a hand for one second and looked.

It bled; it didn't pour or spurt or gush.

With one hand gripping the tourniquet tight, he looked again, longer this time. He hadn't hit an artery. It wasn't deep enough. Alfie saw tendon, but it hadn't been cut through.

Fuck. Fuck.

He was gonna be okay.

Alfie covered it up again and rested his forehead on his bloodstained hands, relief and rage rushing up like bile. He gripped Tommy's wrist hard.

He never wanted to see blood again. Never wanted to smell it again. He wanted to hug Tommy and hit him at the same time.

He must have been too weak to do it right, too drowsy from the morphine and too unsteady from this morning's blood loss. Alfie would get some ice, keep the pressure on it, and the bleeding would stop. He wouldn't die, the hand wouldn't be crippled. A few stitches would be enough.

"You're fucking killing me, mate," said Alfie. "What do I have to do to fix this, ay? What do I have to do?" He didn't mean the wrist. 

Tommy was slumped forward, too tired or overwhelmed to respond; the blood trickled down his cheek like a tear. Alfie took hold of him and laid him back against the pillows, keeping the hurt arm up, bent at the elbow. Tommy's eyes were like glass in the darkening room, a mirror with nothing behind them. 

Alfie collected all the pieces of the saucer he could and set them on the nightstand. He wouldn't leave the room without them, wouldn't leave anything in Tommy's reach that he could use again. 

He hunched over, one hand on the wrist, still holding the tourniquet in place, the other coming to rest on Tommy's shoulder. They were wrung out, both of them, exhausted with grief. 

---

For Tommy, the next few days passed in a nauseating hell of drugs, always too much but never enough to take away the pain. He was bedbound and Alfie had to help him with everything: eating, milking, changing bandages, taking a piss, taking a shit. Even turning over in the bed hurt. He didn't sleep well, but he couldn't seem to stop sleeping. 

It should have been humiliating, but the truth was, he was so tired he hardly cared. He didn't have feelings anymore, just a body that hurt, whimpered, needed, hungered, thirsted, bled, shivered, and sweated. His soul was gently clicked off, the radio frequency gone dead; all he wanted was to be comfortable, or at least to have relief from discomfort. To feel neutral, to feel nothing—he would take that. 

When they brought his baby back, he held him and lay for hours curled around him, just wanting to be near that tiny body and know they were alive and together. He couldn't lift him or play with him, but he could put his hand over him and breathe with him and feel a kind of drifting love, an adoration that kept them attached through miles of fog and dream, the silver thread that was to bring Tommy back out of the labyrinth—if he could get back up from where he had fallen, so unbearably tired. 

He lay there for hours with that invisible thread caught between his fingers, unable to feel, but unwilling to let go. 

Charlie's eyes watched him back. No love, no hatred, just gentle beholding, the curiosity of one creature for another. It was good. 

He inched forward, his body screeching a cruel protest, and kissed the baby's face. His velvet cheek. His crinkly little forehead. Charlie looked over at him and made a noise, a reaction, a calm tiny conversation. Then Charlie sneezed, and a small voice deep down inside Tommy laughed, though disconnected from his throat, his smile, his chest, his body. 

He touched Charlie's cheek with his finger until the mouth dimpled sideways—not a smile, but it looked like one. Someday it would be a smile. 

He was glad of Charlie. Glad Charlie existed. 

And glad he existed to see him. 

The second goodbye was hard too, but he accepted it. Alfie sat up all night that night, Tommy thought: every time he opened his eyes, he saw him hunched in the armchair, lit by the flickering lamp behind, beard tucked into his chest, arms crossed like some king of stone on an ancient bas-relief. 

Tommy started having nightmares again that night, and he had them night and day for several days. He would wake up pinned to the mattress in fear and damp with sweat (or maybe that was the fever—he was never sure), unable to move or speak. After nightmares, the pain was always worse for awhile, his senses heightened as if preparing to face an unknown terror. He only cried once. 

He wanted, sometimes, to tell Alfie he'd had a bad dream, but Alfie hadn't held him since that evening, the day they took Charlie. He touched him all day long, of course: he cared for him and cleaned him, often while he was naked; but he had stopped the affectionate gestures and the physical comfort, the hugging and caressing, the soothing words and looks of protective warmth. Tommy felt like a duty, a chore. He was kept alive, adequately fed, and had his injuries seen to, inside and out. It was far more than Alfie had to do—Alfie didn't owe him a thing. Alfie was the Good Samaritan who had found him beaten and left for dead. Alfie had given his strong arms and his strong back, his time and money, his own bed, and more than a week of sleepless nights. But it was clear that something had changed between them.

Shame crept up his throat and into his face, sticky and sickly-warm, as he faced the truth. He didn't know what Alfie had seen in him that night—a pathetic failure, perhaps, or a selfish bastard—but either way, the mask had come off. Alfie saw him clearly now, like everybody else. 

He couldn't doubt anymore that his presence was a burden. He wondered why the hell this man went to the considerable trouble of keeping him alive when he was in wretched pain and his existence brought no help or pleasure to anyone, least of all himself. 

But he still wished Alfie would hold him again, even once. 

---

Tonight marked two weeks since Alfie had lain in bed and heard Tommy wailing under his window. They had been, quite possibly, the longest two weeks of his life. 

Tommy was in pain tonight—more than usual, Alfie guessed, though Tommy would never say so. He could tell from the careful way his lips were set together and the way he lay with his hips at an odd angle, trying to ease wherever it hurt. Alfie had changed the dressing on his arm a few minutes ago, and he had felt a difference in Tommy's breathing that had nothing to do with Alfie's ministrations. 

But he was hiding it. Always fucking hiding. 

As for Alfie, he had returned to a place he hadn't been in a long time: his own personal forty years in the wilderness, wandering about in his fucking internal desert and wondering where he'd missed the last road sign for home. It had him fighting the urge to pick up one of his bottles, something he hadn't struggled with in ten years. 

It was bloody absurd, really, how much he cared about Tommy Shelby. But Tommy had made it quite fucking clear that he did not give a damn for Alfie. They had kissed, and the very next night he had tried to kill himself. That was a rejection if Alfie had ever seen one. 

But it hurt, didn't it? It bloody hurt seeing him like this, and damned if he didn't still care, despite himself. Tommy suffered so sweetly, as if that last violent act of defiance had taken all the fight out of him and left him meek and docile. He was in more pain than Alfie wanted to think about, but he never asked for anything, never made a single demand. He lay there with his eyes gone bright and bruised with fever, cheeks flushed, lips pink from the way he chewed at them when it was all too much. Sometimes he couldn't turn over without help—once he'd bloody fainted while Alfie was moving him—and yet his only concern seemed to be not costing Alfie any trouble.

Broke his fucking heart. 

He could understand Tommy not wanting him. Alfie was not such an ass as to think he could never be refused. He wasn't that kind of alpha. It was a rather dampening, crumpling blow to his ego, and he found it stung badly on the way down as he tried to swallow it, from disappointment as much as anything else. But the thing he couldn't get over was the way Tommy had looked at him when he walked into that room and found him trying to die. 

He had been hunched over, thin and bloody, eyes shiny and animal-like in the dim light, and he had looked at him like Alfie was the monster, the one trapping him—the thing to be feared and not the one you'd run to for protection. 

That had put a crack in Alfie's foundation, right down the center. Never in his life had he been looked at like that. The trauma in Tommy's eyes haunted him, came back to him in the dark and in his sleep and in the sky on rainy mornings. 

He had never seen himself like that. He had always cared for things, for people. Alfred Solomons was the one who fixed things, whom everybody was glad to see. His mother, his brave, beloved mother, had always told him what a blessing it was to have a son like him: a big, strong man of whom no one ever needed to be afraid unless they were harming the innocent. 

He didn't understand why Tommy couldn't see him like that. He didn't understand what he'd done wrong, how he'd fucked it up badly enough that Tommy felt there was only one escape left. He didn't know how he'd hurt him that badly. 

The only answer he came up with—and really, it was fucking obvious in hindsight—was that he had been selfish to want Tommy like that. 

He had come on too strong while Tommy was grieving and in the middle of a difficult, vulnerable situation. Tommy had been sleepless and in pain and fighting a fever, trying to feed a baby that had almost killed him coming out, barely able to keep food down, and still bloody married, for pity's sake. And Alfie was his only safe place, the only one looking out for him, and he'd fucked it up by kissing him and then forcing him to see a doctor and handing his baby over to someone else without warning him first. Put that way, he didn't know how Tommy could stand to look at him. 

He was trying to make up for it. With deep, marring, self-castigating shame, he was trying to make up for it. He put the shame on every morning like a cloak, a fucking guilt offering set in a fire that didn't go out. He tortured himself with it of nights, when Tommy was asleep, looking so beautiful, with the lamplight playing on the planes of his cheeks, his very beauty a reproach to Alfie's desire. 

How could he look at a man like that and want him while knowing he was injured and at Alfie's mercy for safety, food, and everything? It wasn't a fair exchange. He could never ask Tommy if he loved him like this. Tommy would feel obligated. Coerced. Cornered, maybe.

Was that what had happened? Did he drive Tommy to the edge by wanting him? The question burned a hole in Alfie's core and left an ugly bare patch where nothing could grow, and he sat in that bare patch day after day, as judgment for his sins. 

It was the last thing he'd wanted to do. The last thing he'd meant to do. But he had bloody well gone and done it, hadn't he? 

Fuck. 

He would never forget that look in Tommy's eyes, not as long as he lived. 

Tommy was moving again. It was one of those especially beautiful nights, with the light falling like gold dust onto his hands and cheekbones and those soft, protruding lips. But it was ruined for Alfie by how clearly he was suffering. The tug between the brows, the unsteady breaths, the slow way he shifted under the sheets, like someone was hurting him and he was trying to escape their grasp without being noticed. 

"Tommy. Do you need anything?" He got up and walked over. He didn't know why he had spoken in such a hushed voice when Charlie wasn't here. 

Tommy shook his head. "No, I'm okay." 

"I can give you a little more of the—you know." Alfie jerked his head toward the medicine on the nightstand. 

"It's okay." 

I don't like seeing you like this, he wanted to say, but he didn't. 

He wanted to go to him, hold his face, wrap his arms around him, kiss those sweet lips and smooth his fever-messed hair and tell him fervently that everything would be alright. 

But he waited, and Tommy didn't say anything else, so he went to the lamp and turned down the flame. 

Chapter 12: in which alfie makes the world a better place (for personal reasons)

Alfie Solomons shoved his hands in the pockets of his greatcoat and pulled his hat down against the rain. It was a growly, thundery Friday, and Tommy had fallen asleep after a sleepless night and a miserable morning and a late breakfast he didn't eat. After an ugly bout of vomiting brought on by taking painkillers on an empty stomach, he had been too tired to stay awake. Alfie guessed he would stay that way for an hour or two, so he had popped down to the brewery to look over the books and see how the boys were getting on before they shut down business for Shabbat. 

The boys were well, and the books were better. Drink was a good business to be in during recessions and depressions—a grim fact, but one that gave Alfie some security. He wished his mum had lived to see him settled and comfortable, running his own business. He would have kept her in luxury. A modest luxury, of course, in the grand scheme, but real luxury compared to most of her scrabbling, harried life. He would have liked to furnish her rooms with fine things, provide soft clothes and bedding for her rheumatic limbs, stock her larder with wines and poultry. 

But he didn't have her here to look after. Instead, he had Tommy: someone else's mistreated omega dropped on his doorstep like a stray cat. Skittish as a cat, too—though there were unguarded moments, especially with the baby, when Alfie saw an easier, softer Tommy underneath. He hadn't always been like this, Alfie guessed, taut and anxious, scanning the whole world for an escape. 

He reached home damp but not drenched, fit his key in the lock and turned, and paused dripping in the front hall to listen for any sound from upstairs. He didn't know why, since Charlie wasn't here; without the baby, Tommy was a model houseguest, quiet as a mouse. Alfie didn't like leaving him alone for long stretches—tried not to, usually, unless Esme was there with the baby. He didn't think Tommy would do anything to himself while Charlie was around. But really, what the bloody hell did he know? 

At this point, he was too tired to keep a watch on Tommy day and night. He couldn't be on edge every minute. He couldn't figure him out, couldn't predict his moods or what would send him into that state where he looked like he was medicated without being medicated, like a man who could and would walk in front of a fucking train and have his unrecognizable remains spread like so much meat across the tracks without giving a damn. 

He was surprised to find Tommy awake when he went upstairs. 

"Hello, Tommy," he said. 

Tommy's eyes found him slowly, like they had been wandering in another world and were struggling to find their way back and come up with the right answer. "Hello, Alfie." 

"You hungry yet?" 

Tommy shook his head and looked back at the gray, wet-streaked window. He was a picture, wasn't he, with those oceanic eyes under dark lashes in that hollowed-out face, with the bluish light of the weather running down his cheeks and chest. Alfie hated himself, sometimes, for the way Tommy affected him. 

Not yours, he repeated to himself daily, sometimes hourly. Like saying his fucking prayers. 

On top of that, Tommy was an enigma. He was brimful of painful thoughts, trapped with them behind a curtain Alfie couldn't penetrate. And he didn't want to share. Wouldn't even tell Alfie when he was hurting and needed seeing to. It was endless frustration, an interminable series of small, flinty rejections that struck sparks from Alfie's wounded heart. And yet still, when he looked at Tommy like this, he felt that warmth, that living need, that fucking love-tender curl in his heart, like paper kindling crumpling into flame. 

He was an idiot. 

He salved the wound by forcefully taking care of Tommy. Making him take his medicine, making him give his wrist over so Alfie could change the bandages, channeling the vigor of frustrated desire into the most frustrating and distasteful jobs he could find. He had cleaned up more of Tommy's shit and vomit than he ever had of his own. He had scrubbed the floors of the bedroom and bathroom more in the last month than he had in the ten years preceding. He could have hired someone to do it, just like he could have hired someone to come to the house and sit with Tommy and get up with him in the night, but he took a perverse kind of pleasure in putting himself through the ordeal. He didn't know why. 

The one thing he couldn't seem to do was force Tommy to eat. Tommy had begun to lose his milk almost as soon as Charlie was nursing with Esme, and while it did worlds of good for his physical state, his mental state seemed to crumble in direct proportion to the loss. Lizzie had said he ought to start putting on weight once he stopped breastfeeding, and—well, he wasn't. 

Alfie saw him withdrawing. Bitter at himself, as if it was some personal failing that prevented him from feeding his child. As if he blamed his own body for its weakness. It didn't make any sense to Alfie, but then, not much about Tommy did. 

"You've got to eat something, mate. I can see your fucking ribs, I can. Just because you no longer have to eat for two people does not mean you no longer have to eat, right?" 

Tommy turned back and looked at him, and the pale blue of his eyes quivered with suppressed fury. 

For a scrambling instant, Alfie was taken aback, but anger came to his rescue. "Or, you know, fucking starve yourself to death, mate. It's your fuckin' choice, innit?  Bloody hell, Tommy. I'm only trying to help." 

Tommy's anger faded as quickly as it had appeared and he looked up and away again. His eyes roamed as if looking for a way out, and finding none, they came back to rest, shamefaced, on Alfie. "I know." 

"Why, Tommy?" Alfie sat down in the armchair and leaned forward. "Why are you so fucking set on making everything harder for yourself?" 

Tommy's eyes flickered at that—discomfort or fear. 

"I'm not angry with you," said Alfie, a little gentler and not entirely truthful. "I am trying to understand, because to be quite candid, I am fucking baffled, mate." 

"I don't know why," Tommy said quietly. A long silence full of muffled rain, and then, hesitantly: "I don't want to be here." 

The words slipped behind Alfie's ribs, found the inner glass that held the last of his hope, and silently shattered it. He felt it pouring out, painfully. 

"No," said Tommy in consternation, watching him closely. "I meant—it's—" He closed his eyes and whispered. "Fuck." 

Alfie caught a little of the spilled hope in his hands and cupped it carefully. 

"I meant it's hard to be alive," said Tommy, low and rough. 

Alfie bent his head and ran his hands over his face. "Look, mate, I want to make it better for you, but I don't know where to fucking start, alright? I need you to work with me. Give me something, Tommy, you understand? Don't fight me every fucking step of the way, because I tell you what, mate, I am starting to think that Lizzie had a point about you." 

The blue of his eyes flickered. "What point?" 

"That you enjoy making your own life as difficult as fucking possible." 

Tommy's eyes shut off, shut him out, all at once. "And yours too, you mean." 

"Well—" Alfie grunted noncommittally. "It would be nice, once in awhile, to be informed about things in a timely fashion, you know, instead of having them always sprung upon me in the form of a full-blown fucking emergency. That's fair, now, innit?" 

He looked faraway. "Yes." 

"That means you have got to talk to me, Tommy. You have got to tell me when you don't feel right." 

"Alright." 

"How do you feel now?" 

Tommy's jaw went tight. It took him a long moment before he drew in an unsteady breath and lifted his chin, defiant. "I don't want any of those medicines anymore when Charlie's here. I want to be with my boy. Don't want to fucking sleep through it." 

Alfie felt his protective insides bristling up at that, but he bit his tongue. It was the first time Tommy had asked him for anything in days. "Alright, mate. But you let me know the minute you change your mind. Tommy, I asked you how you feel now." 

The look on his face was almost a smile, soft and hard at once. "I feel like shit, Alfie." 

"Have you considered eating something?" 

"I can't take any more of your food." He leaned back against the pillows, adjusting his hips with a grimace. "I can't pay you back. I can't feed my son. What's the good of food, then?" 

"What the hell, Tommy." Alfie sat up straight and folded his arms over his chest, looking away, at the window. Back at Tommy. "Is this what you say to yourself in your fucking head all day? Nonsense like that?" 

Tommy had that look again. The unseeing, train-tracks look. "Is it nonsense, or is it the truth?" 

"It is nonsense," said Alfie, emphasizing each word. "Most fucking decidedly. Moreover, I do not recall ever asking you to pay me back." 

"I won't be beholden to you." 

"Nobody is fucking beholden to anyone here, mate." 

"Then why are you doing it?" 

Alfie froze momentarily and scrambled for words. If he was entirely honest, he knew exactly why he was still doing it, but he'd be hacked to death with his pearl-handled letter opener before he told Tommy. "You know, mate, it's...my religion," he said. 

Tommy's dead, defiant eyes took on a shade of bewilderment. "Your religion," he repeated. 

"That's right," said Alfie, getting his feet under him and warming to his subject. "See, my people, Thomas, we have a saying. And this saying, it goes mitzvah, goreret, mitzvah. Right? Mitzvah goreret mitzvah. A good deed begets a good deed. The idea being that this one who does an act of benevolence upon his fellow creatures will beget more acts of benevolence in the world and thus improve the world, see, from the miserable fucking state in which it finds itself."

Tommy looked dazed. "So you—you clean up my shit and my puke and pay for a doctor out of your own pocket, you do all this to make the world a better place." 

"That's right, mate." It was not.

(Alfie hoped the mitzvot of the past month, the aforesaid cleaning up of shit and puke, made up for the barefaced lie.) 

Tommy didn't seem to believe him, but he gave up rather than try to solve the riddle. He sighed and let his eyes fall shut, head dark and boyishly mussed against the white pillow. His bandaged arm moved listlessly on the blanket. 

"Can you eat something, Tommy?" 

He gave Alfie a look like he'd been asked to shoot his own brother in the head. Despair—that was the look. That was the word for it. 

"Charlie comes tomorrow. You need to keep your strength up." 

Tommy closed his eyes, swallowed and nodded. Surrender, like he was trapped, like he didn't have any will left to fight, just the way Alfie didn't want it. "Okay." 

Break my fucking heart, why don't you. 

Alfie went downstairs and chopped onions like a butcher, loud and furious, and swore like a sailor, pretending it was the salt sting in his eyes he hated and not the whole fucking world. 

---

Tommy woke suddenly when Alfie came in with the food, and his chest hurt like he'd been trapped beneath a horse, crushing the breath out of his lungs. He couldn't get any air. 

Alfie knew something was wrong because he was setting the tray down on the nightstand, babbling profanity and concern. 

He couldn't fucking breathe, and there was a stake through his throat and another in the center of him where his ribs met, nailing him to the bed. Please was the only word he had, the only one he could hold in his mouth, and he didn't want to say it. 

Just a dream, a fucking dream. But he tried to take a breath and it was stuck. If he opened his throat, it would all be over. 

Alfie's hands were on him, on his shoulders, so damn gentle. Alfie's eyes were looking for him, looking at him, trying to look into him and Tommy couldn't bear to be seen. He tried to turn, to get away, and pain lanced through him from stem to stern. 

He closed his eyes, and something warm and wet trickled down from the movement, and the shame of it burned into him. He hadn't known there were tears sitting in the corners of his eyes. It had happened in his sleep. I wasn't fucking crying, I wasn't fucking doing that. Don't touch me, please. Don't look at me. 

None of it came out of his mouth, because he was only now getting a breath, and it was high and fraught and wheezing, the breath of a child who's seen a ghost alone on the edge of the moors and come back home sobbing in fright. He was curling his shoulders, trying to get away from Alfie's gentle hands and coarse comforting words. 

"I'm sorry," he said, lungs working at last. "I'm sorry. Don't. I'm alright."  

His ears rang and the room was strangely bright, and Alfie's hands on him were too much. "Please, get off," he whimpered. 

Alfie's hands were gone in an instant. 

But he wanted them. He fucking wanted that. He was all alone and no one was with him, and he was scared. He wanted to be touched, but the shame, he couldn't take it. 

He tried to breathe, awareness of his body burning into him like lye, all blistering raw. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to live. 

"What was the dream, mate?" 

What was the dream? 

It hadn't been anything, it was a nothing dream. A strange, meaningless dream. 

He'd been a child, sitting in this bed, Alfie's bed, and he had reached for the plate of food and had his hand slapped away. He had laughed too loudly, embarrassed by the mistake of taking what wasn't his. 

Then his mother was there, and he was no longer in Alfie's bed but the kitchen of the hovel where he'd grown up. 

"You're on your own for supper," Mother had said, infinitely weary. "I can't feed you. Go find something." 

Then he'd felt the crumbling in him, that awful empty abandoned thing start to cry in his ears. I can't, I don't know where. I don't want to do it again. 

He'd thought about John and Ada, that they would need food too, and no one here would feed them, and he had to find something so they didn't end up like the skeletons in the ground, the starving babies whose parents threw their bodies away once they shrank to nothing, and he was guilty for being older and living here and needing food inside him and wanting food. He shouldn't want it. He should want it for Ada. He couldn't eat till he got something for Ada, but he was hungry and it scared him when his mother did this, and he shouldn't have tried to take the thing from the plate— 

Why had he stopped breathing from that, the fucking horse rolled onto him, a weight like a landslide pressuring his lungs? 

His hand slapped on the bed, his mother speaking in the kitchen. That was the whole dream, everything he remembered, and it wouldn't make sense if he said it out loud. 

He shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "It was nothing." 

Alfie's eyes were open and too warm, too much, the naked compassion making Tommy sick with shame. "Well, let's get something in you. You'll feel better after, ay?" 

He sat up—hurt him to move, to sit—and the room spun slightly every time he looked away from Alfie's hands. Alfie handed him a plate, carrots and onions and stewed beef and a fresh mug of something, and he took one bite and choked. 

It came back up, sickening, back onto the plate, and he was gagging for breath, coughing until his chest seared hollow and his eyes watered. 

"I'm sorry," he gasped. 

"What the fuck is going on?" came Alfie's voice. 

"I don't know," said Tommy, miserable. "I don't know, alright? I can't—can't fucking eat. It makes me ill. It makes everything hurt, Alfie, you understand? I'm fucking trying." 

His ears hummed like a rush of water and his stomach twisted in him like a fish trying to get away. 

He wanted Charlie back. He wanted—he didn't know what he wanted. 

You miserable fuck, he said to himself, too tired not to anymore. 

"You can drink something," said Alfie. "That's better than nothing, innit?" 

He drank. 

He swallowed, and it was cool in his mouth and stomach. 

He wiped sweaty dampness from his face and said thank you. He wished he was a boy again and could run away to the hills and not come back until he was sane again and no longer afraid. 

When he was too hungry, he stopped being afraid, and he couldn't feel sadness. He wanted that. 

He wanted Charlie. 

"You're alright, treacle," said Alfie, the first time he'd called him that in days, in more than a week. 

He let his eyes slide shut and let the pain be. He wanted to nestle his face into the pillow the way Charlie did. 

He gave in, and the pillow was warm, like a person, and he hid himself in the warmth where no one could come. Then he felt Alfie's fingers, very soft, in his hair, and he broke in pieces. 

He reached, grabbed the arm, dragged it to himself, clung to it madly like a child in a fever. He put his face on Alfie's hand, the hard cold rings pressing into his hot wet skin. He didn't know why he was doing this. He was going out of his head. 

He couldn't be alone anymore. He couldn't go alone to find food for John and Ada, and this hand was the only thing kind to him. 

"I'm sorry, Alfie," he said. 

God, he sounded like an idiot. 

"It's alright, Tommy. It's alright," came the baffled, soothing voice. "Whatever you need, I'm here." 

"I don't want to do it again," he said, and he didn't know what he meant. 

"You're safe," said Alfie. "You don't have to do any fucking thing you don't want to." 

He breathed out, a sighing noise of senseless pain, and held onto the hand until the pounding in his head went quiet. 

Chapter 13: in which tommy also makes the world a better place

The next waking was as different as could be. 

He was lying on his stomach, and he felt warm. Sore, aching, but calm. He glimpsed the wood of the headboard and for a strange, lingering moment imagined he was in a church. Before confusion or anything else set in, he felt the arm beneath him and looked down, and there was a hand. It was Alfie's hand, with long, strong fingers and hair curling thickly down the arm. 

The fingers flexed, probably stiff from holding Tommy's face as he slept, and the patient arm moved, freed at long last from Tommy's weight. He followed the arm and found the source of the warmth: Alfie, lying on his back next to Tommy in the bed, a mountain of calm and safety. 

Maybe that was why he hadn't had any bad dreams. No strange scenes from his childhood, no black-cloaked figure climbing up the window to peer in at him with an evil grimace and steal Charlie away, just quiet rest and a warm waking. 

Alfie's other hand was resting comfortably on his stomach, and his eyes slid sideways, looking at Tommy. "Hello there, treacle. Had a good nap?" 

"Yes." His voice was low and cracked with sleep. He cleared his throat. "You didn't have to stay." 

He didn't know what time it was, but the light looked like late afternoon, and he felt guilty for keeping Alfie from his Shabbat preparations. 

Alfie grunted into his beard as he did when he was awkward or didn't know what to say. "Well, I didn't want to overstep, you know, but you had hold of my arm, and I didn't want to wake you seeing how you had no sleep to speak of all night last night, and it was bloody uncomfortable kneeling down next to the bed, right. So I just—" He made a sound that Tommy assumed was meant to signify crawling into the bed. "I hope that's alright, mate. I didn't, you know—there was no touching, no snuggling and snogging, no fucking hugging." 

"It's alright, Alfie." 

"Yeah?" Alfie looked pleased. 

"Yeah." 

Alfie reached in, tentatively, and brushed Tommy's cheek with a thumb. "You've got marks there," he said by way of explanation. "Red ones. Should've slipped my fuckin' rings off before I let you use my hand as a face-warmer." 

Tommy felt the smile coming. "It's okay." 

Alfie took a deep breath and looked away, pulling his hand back. "How are you feeling elsewhere, mate?" 

He let his face fall back into the pillow for a minute. Clutched it with his hands while he tried to move slightly—his legs, his hips—

He grimaced. "Hurts to move." 

"Bad, is it?" 

"It's—yes." His ears and neck went hot. He didn't know why. "I can get up, though. I need the toilet." 

Alfie looked concerned. "I can get you something to do it here, mate. Don't want you making it worse." 

"No, I need to stretch out. Getting up is the hard part. Once I'm up it's okay." 

Alfie's face was troubled as Tommy rolled onto his side and braced himself for pain. 

He reached toward Alfie. "Give me a hand?" he asked, the words catching in his throat a bit. 

Maybe Alfie hadn't been bluffing about his religious beliefs; he looked downright happy to be asked. 

Clutching Alfie's hand, he pulled his body limb by stiff, heavy limb to a standing position and stood there huffing a bit, from the shock more than the effort. The room was spinning. 

"You're alright," said Alfie softly. 

The pain made him feel sick. 

He went to the bathroom to face his own personal hell and told Alfie to go on and do whatever he ought to do downstairs. He didn't need an audience. 

The broken bone made sense of several things for him: the grinding pain that had been there since the birth and radiated up into his back sometimes, the deep ache that never went away, and the way he felt like he was dying every single time he used the damn toilet, and not just from the soft tissue damage. The doctor had told Alfie that massage might help, to keep the muscles from cramping up around the pain of the break, but the thought of having Alfie's hands all over his ass, medically, as a favor—for his fucking religion, Tommy thought with a grimace—he couldn't. Even to get relief from the pain, he couldn't. Didn't want Alfie to see him like that. It would be humiliating. 

He shut the door and stood leaning against the bathroom wall for a minute, his head against his arm. He wouldn't admit it to Alfie, but this was one of the many reasons he didn't want to eat. Everything hurt. Even peeing hurt. 

"Fuck," he whispered. 

His body was repulsive, he thought, as he took the chance to look himself over. He hadn't ever really been handsome, though in his twenties he'd put as much muscle as he could on his slender frame and at one point might even have been described as sturdy. Now he looked bony and unwell, swollen and wrinkled and scarred in the wrong places, nothing quite symmetrical. It didn't look like his body. Some of the bruises on his chest had healed up, others were a faint yellowish stain, and a few bad ones were still there, ugly as ever, angry tantrums splattered on the paleness of his skin. He didn't know about the marks on his back and backside. Alfie probably knew, but Tommy didn't care to ask. 

He was sensitive all over—a change from the heavy numbness he'd lived in for years now. His pain tolerance had been almost inhuman before: he would touch the end of a cigarette and feel nothing. He didn't know if it was the pregnancy that changed it or whether his body was simply giving out. Some days, now, just running a finger over his skin sent a prickle of fire jabbing into him from the touch. It didn't make sense, and he was too ashamed to tell anyone because he knew it didn't make sense. He was going crazy. He must be. 

His father had always said that about his mother. And he'd always said Tommy was all his mother's son.

Maybe he'd been doomed to lose his mind and crumble to pieces like this. Maybe it was inevitable. 

He understood his mother now, finally. He understood why she had wanted to slip into a long sleep and never wake up. Blaming her had been easier; understanding her hurt him, deep and awful, a slow ocean of grief he didn't know how to understand or hold. 

Alfie knocked. "Alright in there, mate?" 

Damn him. Go back downstairs and find your candlesticks and bake your bread. "Fuck off, Alfie," he called, not vindictively. 

"You call me if you're not alright, Tommy, you hear me? Fucking call me." 

He heard the footsteps retreat down the creaking stairs. 

He looked down at his vulnerable body, blew out a long, shaky breath, and pressed the back of a finger against the swell of his upper lip to stop it trembling. 

---

It was dark when Alfie headed back upstairs for the night, belly full and ready for sleep. Tommy was on the bed, eyes gleaming haunted in the hollow beneath his brow. 

"Hello, treacle. You get any of that in you?" He tipped his head toward the food. 

Tommy nodded. "Some of the soup." 

"No fish?" 

He shook his head. 

"Bread?" 

"I tried, Alfie." 

"It's alright, mate. You had some soup. That's something, innit?" 

Tommy sighed, eyes closed, utter weariness in every line of his body. 

Alfie sat down on the bed, hesitant, hoping, but not too close. "Charlie comes tomorrow," he said. "He'll be happy to see you." 

"He gets angry when I hold him and can't nurse him," Tommy murmured. "I've got barely anything left in there now. He bites and starts fucking screaming." He sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if he's happier with Esme." 

"No, you don't." Alfie looked him straight in the face. "Hey. Tommy. Look at me."

Blue eyes drifted open. 

"You don't talk that way, you hear me, mate? You don't fucking talk that way." In a moment of anger, adoration, pain, some kind of fucking madness, he reached out and set his hand on Tommy's soft, scarred stomach. "Someone, Tommy, someone carried him in there for nine fucking months. And that someone wasn't Esme. Someone fed him his first mouthful of food in his whole bloody life from their own breasts, and that wasn't Esme either, now, was it? Somebody birthed him, right, fucking gave birth to that child right here on this bed, and thank fuck it was not Esme." 

That got the smallest flicker of a smile, despite the hopelessness in Tommy's eyes. 

"That baby needs you, Tommy. He can't grow up without you." 

Tommy's chest rose and fell; his lips were held tight, pushed out a little against the emotion he didn't want to reveal. "He wouldn't remember." 

Alfie felt a vague nausea beginning in the bottom of his stomach. 

His voice was soft and lost. "I need—" (a catch, a swallow) "—I need him to be alright." 

It burst beneath Alfie's ribs, all the pent-up hurt and worry, the desire and the rage of the last month rising to the surface at once. He grabbed Tommy's hand hard. "The fuck is this, Tommy? What's the matter with you? Why can't I bloody fix this?"

He was watching Tommy bleed out again, but this time there was no wound to pack, no vein to hold, no way to reach the thing that was killing him. It was Alfie's worst nightmare. 

"I'm tired," said Tommy, and it was the truth. Alfie saw it in his eyes. Felt it in his hand. "I'm so fucking tired." 

"Listen to me, Thomas." Alfie found his gaze, held it, kept it close and careful. "Charlie will know. Alright? Even if he doesn't remember, he will know. And I—" Fuck. A strange sound came out of Alfie, a sound he didn't normally make. A rough-edged noise, like Tommy when he was hurting and trying to hide it. 

He wrestled his throat for dominance and won. Whisper-quiet and very clearly, he said, "I would know too, Tommy. I would fucking know." 

Tommy stared for a moment, then rolled his head back on the pillow, away from Alfie. "Fuck." 

"I bloody care about you!" Alfie said. "Is that a crime, mate? Is it? I am asking fuck-all of you, Tommy, just that you stop trying to die." 

"You think that's fuck-all?" 

The look in Tommy's eyes was like nothing he'd ever seen before. It took his breath away. 

He understood.

He understood that he couldn't understand. He understood that the abstract concept of things-worse-than-death was living, here, in front of him, and it had eyes like rain over a storm-blue sea. 

He hunched forward over his knees, overwhelmed, and tightened his grip on Tommy's hand. He tried to say something, but it didn't quite come out, and then Tommy's hands were on his head, on his shoulders, and Tommy was the one comforting him. 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Alfie." A shushing sound, the way he shushed Charlie when he cried, and then soft lips pressed into his hair. Alfie's body tingled, from the crown of his head down into his fingers and toes. It came out in a huge shudder. 

He wrapped his arms around Tommy and held him close, feeling their hearts beat against each other's bodies. 

He drew in a deep, damp breath and held him tighter. 

Tommy turned his face, let Alfie's rest against it, and then they were kissing, breathing one another in, tight and terrible and so hungry and afraid. 

"Why are you trying to do it alone, Tommy? Hmm? Why?" 

Tommy's face was naked in Alfie's hands, everything exposed. He hid it in Alfie's neck and kissed him there, an innocent, gentle little kiss, and murmured, "I don't know." 

"Let me help, alright? Let me fucking help. Oh, Tommy." 

The image of what he'd seen in Tommy's eyes wouldn't go away. All he could do was hold him. 

Tommy moaned against his neck, and it set Alfie's entire being on fire. He lowered his beard to align his lips with Tommy's mouth again, kissed the corner of it, then drew the whole face up nearer to suck on those lovely lips. His hands were on Tommy's nape, his shoulders, his waist. 

"Don't go," he said, breathing heavily against Tommy's skin. "Please. You've got to stay with us, treacle. Can't fuckin' lose you." 

"I'm trying," murmured Tommy. "I'll try." 

"Tell me what to do." 

Tommy sagged, slid down, hung onto Alfie's shirt. "Stay with me tonight." 

Alfie held onto him and helped him lie down, a painful endeavor. Tommy's fingers tugged at Alfie's shirt, and Alfie understood. He laid down beside him, wrapped his arms around him, around all the panting pain and wordless nightmares. "I've got you, love," he said. 

Tommy held onto him. After a long time, he said, "I thought you were done with me." 

"No! Bloody no. Never." 

"I'm—" 

Whatever Tommy was going to say, he didn't or couldn't. He just clung tighter, his fingers pressing into the flesh of Alfie's back. He was breathing hard, heavy, with the weight of those miserable weeks between them. 

"I want you here." He smoothed Tommy's hair back like he'd been wanting to do for days, traced his faintly freckled cheekbone with a thumb, and softly kissed his lips. "I want you, alright? So no more of this nonsense about Charlie being happier with Esme. It's bloody nonsense, that's all it is." 

Tommy nodded, burying his face in Alfie's neck again. Alfie's core went warm and he felt ready to come apart. He loved this man too fucking much. He was going to keep him, keep him safe, love him, lick him, fuck him someday.... 

The sound of Tommy's breathing caught his attention. He set his mouth closer to Tommy's ear and murmured, "You in pain, treacle?" 

Tommy nodded and breathed out, unsteady. "Always." 

Alfie wanted to squeeze him harder at that, but he didn't. "What do you need?" 

"Just don't leave me. Don't leave me alone with it." The honesty in his voice was breathtaking. Alfie almost couldn't bear it. 

"I'm here. Not going anywhere, mate." He rubbed Tommy's back and felt him tremble. 

"I don't want to lose Charlie," came the quietest voice from his shoulder. 

"You won't. I won't let it happen." 

"I'm afraid of him." 

Alfie guessed who he meant. "Fuck 'im, right? Don't think about that tonight. You're with me." 

"You don't know. Alfie, you have no idea." He sounded anguished.

I have some idea, Alfie thought grimly. He'd seen the damage to Tommy's body. 

"He knows things. He could put my family on the street." 

He didn't know what to say, so he kissed him again. "Rest, treacle. Your job is to rest and get better. And fucking eat." 

"He wouldn't have a reason to do it if I was dead." Tommy said it like a confession, something dark and awful he could barely whisper. "If I'd gone through with—if I'd taken myself out a year ago, they would be safe. But I couldn't find the courage. And then I got pregnant, and I couldn't do it. I wanted Charlie. I don't know what was right." 

Alfie could hardly get the words out. "You did right, Tommy. Fuck." He grabbed the thin body, put his lips on the hardened jaw, and wondered how the hell Tommy had made it, carrying that alone. He ached for him, deep in the pit of his stomach. "You don't have to kill yourself to save them. Bloody hell, mate." 

"They don't deserve to suffer for mistakes that weren't theirs." The blue eyes took on a glint. "Ada and Finn, all John's kids...Christ, it makes me sick, Alfie. It's not their fault." 

"Tommy. Tommy. Look at me." He held his face gently, firmly, didn't let him look away. "You do not have to kill yourself to save anyone. You have a baby now, ey? Who's gonna look after him? You're his dad and his mum. No, don't hide. Come on, Tommy." He massaged Tommy's forehead with his thumb. "Let me see your eyes, treacle. Those beautiful eyes." 

They were beautiful, those eyes. He'd never seen anything like them. 

"You take those eyes out of the world, and the angels will weep, Tommy." 

He felt Tommy's breath catch.

"And I, mate, I will never forgive myself for not finding a way to stop you. You hear me?" 

Tommy nodded, eyelids coming down to shield him from Alfie's words. "Yes." 

Alfie pulled the dark head against him and felt Tommy's hands rubbing his back and shoulders, a motion of comfort and comfort-seeking all at once. 

"Can you take some more food?" Alfie whispered. "I don't want to be a nuisance about it, but bloody hell, mate." 

A murmur of assent, and Alfie rolled Tommy onto his back, propped him up with a pillow or two, and grabbed the bread from the tray on the nightstand. 

They sat in silence, and Alfie moved close and held him as he ate, an arm around him, a kiss on his head whenever he choked. 

"You're alright, treacle. You're perfect. You can do this." 

Tommy scoffed when he said "perfect." Coughed again, with crumbs. "Fuck," Tommy wheezed. 

Alfie brushed the crumbs off onto the floor. He'd sweep it up when Shabbat was over. 

"You are perfect, you know. Bloody amazing. Never seen anything like you." He thought, strangely, of that first night and Tommy, naked and beaten half to death, but pushing, straining, fighting for his baby's life. It was, it was fucking perfection. That courage. 

"Fuck off, Alfie." 

"You think I'm joking, but I'm bloody not."  

"And you think I'm the one talking nonsense." 

"You don't have to believe me, mate. I know I'm right." He felt Tommy grow a little heavier in his arms. "You want some more?" 

Tommy shook his head. "Can't." 

"Alright." Alfie put the plate back. "Good enough for now." 

Tommy stifled a yelp and grabbed at Alfie's shirt as they rearranged to a lying-down position, side by side. Alfie winced as the iron fingers caught skin on his stomach, pinching hard. 

"Sorry," Tommy gasped, letting go, grabbing the bedsheets instead. "Sorry." Sweat had broken out on his forehead. 

Alfie rubbed at the smarting skin with one hand and reached for Tommy's shoulder to steady him with the other. "It's okay. Take a breath." 

Tommy was frozen in place for several seconds, whimpered when he tried to move. Then, gingerly, he shifted his lower half, pulled one leg onto the other, and rolled into Alfie. Grabbed him—gently this time—and held on, breathing hard. 

His arms were surprisingly strong. 

"Fuck 'im," Alfie said. "I've got you." 

"I'm scared." Low, just on the edge of angry. 

"I know. It's okay." 

After a minute: "I hated my father, Alfie." 

His stomach twisted. "That's alright, treacle." 

After minutes—Alfie didn't know how long—Tommy let go at last and sank back onto the pillow, running his tongue over his lips and his hand over the dampness at his hairline. 

"Can you sleep, or you need a dose of something?" 

Tommy shook his head, panting. "I'll b'fine." His voice was slurred. "Just stay." He felt for Alfie's hand and held it. 

"Couldn't drag me away, Tommy. Not if you tied me to a team of four and a bloody steam engine." 

Tommy snorted. A long heartbeat, and then Alfie saw him smiling to himself in the dark. "Your religion, is it?" 

Alfie planted a kiss on his cheek. "Something like that, yeah." 

Chapter 14: in which tommy makes up his mind

Notes:

Hello, lads (gender neutral).

I am out of my head this week with sleep deprivation, pain, and the fuckery of life, and I genuinely have no clue if that makes my writing better or worse.

Too tired to do my usual proofread for tone so apologies for *waves hand in general direction of chapter*

Alfie had been asleep half an hour at most when he woke up to the sound of coughing, at a distance. He felt in the bed beside him, and Tommy was gone.

Oh, bloody hell.

He got up, grabbed the water from the nightstand, and walked to the bathroom—the door was standing open—and found what he expected: Tommy, vomiting into the toilet. There it all went, all the effort, everything in his stomach.

He was gagging and spitting, eyes running from the effort of heaving. There was nothing left in him and he was still retching, choking on air as he tried to catch a breath.

Alfie bent down and put a hand on his shoulder, and Tommy slapped it away. He was quiet a moment, spitting, trying to clear his mouth, wiping his eyes with the back of a hand, and then he gagged again, violent and empty.

"You want some water, mate?"

Tommy nodded, wiped his lips.

Alfie handed it to him and watched him drink, gag and cough it up, then drink again. Tommy set the cup on the floor and hid his eyes in his arm on the edge of the toilet.

"I don't know why. I didn't even take the fucking medicine," Tommy said.

"I know," said Alfie.

Tentatively, he put his hand on Tommy's hair. Tommy swayed into the touch. Alfie ruffled and caressed, then trailed down to support the middle back. He could feel every breath; he could feel his fucking bones. 

Tommy's stomach made a miserable noise and he groaned, leaned back over, but nothing happened.

"Mate, there's nothing left," said Alfie.

Tommy lifted his head with a wince. "And I was having such a good time," he quipped. 

"Why didn't you wake me?" 

"Apparently I did." He braced one hand on the floor and tried to get his knees under him, and he stopped partway with a stuttering sob.

Alfie's heart clenched. "Easy, treacle, careful," he said, supporting him with an arm. "Want me to carry you back?"

"Aren't you—" Tommy gasped, breathing hard. Waved his hand. "Resting?"

"I consider you a justified emergency, mate. Besides," he winked, "with the size of you, it's no work at all. Just don't tell the rabbi, right?"

He reached under Tommy's legs, and Tommy set a resisting hand on his arm. "Slow—go slow."

Alfie kissed his temple. "Slow it is."

They made it back to the bedroom with some difficulty, and Alfie lowered Tommy down onto the bed as gently as he could.

"Fucking hell," Tommy breathed. He grimaced and bent one knee carefully, drawing the leg up to relieve pressure on something, somewhere. "I don't know why he had to put in new stitches. Lizzie's felt better. I can hardly move with these."

"Do they hurt?" Alfie sat down and set a hand on Tommy's raised knee.

Tommy nodded.

"And at what point, mate, were you going to tell me?" 

Tommy raised laconic eyebrows. "I just did."

"How long have they been hurting you?"

"Since they went in, but bad the last two, three days." 

Alfie let his hand slide down and rest beside Tommy's ankle. "Look, mate, I don't know nothing about nothing when it comes to surgery, but I do know it should not be getting worse. You think it's infected?" 

Tommy lay there in the dark and didn't move. "Can we talk about this tomorrow?" he said at last, his voice subdued and faintly rough—a sandpaper sound, Alfie thought. 

"The hell, Tommy," Alfie said softly. "You told me you had it handled. Did you stop using the antiseptic?" 

No answer.

"Was it before or after you stopped eating?" 

No answer.

Alfie's face heated up. "Just getting a horse in the race for every fucking form of suicide to see if one of them takes the cup, is that it, mate?" 

"Don't." Tommy's eyes were closed. 

"Tell me how you intend to heal up if you don't eat, don't sleep, and will not keep literal shit out of your wounds?" 

"Fuck you," whispered Tommy. He pushed back at Alfie with his knee, a powerless attempt at defiance. 

Alfie grabbed the knee and held it still. "You're going to die if you don't stop this." 

"That's why I told you," came the answer, low, through shut teeth. "This is me fucking telling you, Alfie, alright? I'm asking for help." 

The shame in his voice was overpowering. It even took Alfie aback, the thickness and the hatred of it. 

Alfie turned his anger aside forcibly, with conscious effort, and softened his hand on Tommy's knee. Tommy didn't need more anger. 

He reached to touch him and felt the body freeze under his fingers. "It's okay," he said. "I'm not angry, Tommy." Tommy was rigid in every muscle, knee up, pressed like a warning against Alfie's body, ready to fight. 

Alfie backed off. 

He tucked his hands under his armpits. "We can't have the doctor out tomorrow," he said wearily. "He'll only make house calls during shabbat if it's life and death." 

"No, I don't need the doctor." Tommy drew his legs up and his knees together, then grimaced. "Ah. God-fucking-dammit." 

Alfie sat there with his arms folded. "You do hear yourself, don't you, mate?" 

Tommy turned his face away, trying to hide in the pillow. The moonlight fell on his neck, a soft blue stippling from the lace of Alfie's mother's curtains. His chest rose and fell like a shadow. 

Alfie couldn't help himself. He laid down beside him slowly, listening for any change in breathing, any sign of resistance. He touched the dark hair, laid a hand over the rabbit-fast heart, and leaned his head against Tommy's, which was still turned away from him. He set a kiss, light and apologetic, on the place just below Tommy's ear, where the jaw met the neck. 

"I'm angry with myself, Tommy. Not you."

"It's not your fault," came the thick reply. 

"Naw, I knew how it was, treacle. I should've taken better care." 

After all, he ought to have known, oughtn't he, that Tommy's ravaged body would give up once it wasn't needed any longer to keep Charlie alive? It made too much fucking sense. Even pregnant he'd looked half-starved, like everything he had was going to Charlie to keep him safe and alive. And now, when the crisis was over and he tried to eat, his body rejected it. He couldn't let any of it in—not food, not love, not fucking tenderness. Of course it felt hopeless. And if it was hopeless, why the hell would he torture himself for nothing? Why not let everything go to shit? 

He remembered what Tommy had said earlier—I thought you were done with me—and he cursed himself for being an idiot. 

Tommy was taut and barely breathing, feeling unsafe or in pain or both. Alfie couldn't stand it. "What do you need right now, treacle? Water? Food? The stuff that knocks you out?" 

The eyelids fluttered with discomfort. 

"Rum?" Alfie joked. 

"I don't need anything." It wasn't defiant—it sounded almost like submission, and it worried Alfie. 

"Hey, Tommy. Hey." He pulled him closer. "I'm sorry I lost my temper. You're alright. You're allowed to ask for things, treacle." 

Tommy didn't move, but he was trembling, faint and constant, a reaction left over from Alfie's anger. 

Damn his temper and his tongue. His mother always told him his mouth would be the death of him if he didn't learn to moderate what spewed out of it. One moment of careless frustration, and here were the fucking consequences, quivering like a beaten animal in his arms. 

Instead of talking, he found a pillow and set it beside Tommy's hips, then rolled him over onto it to lie on his stomach with the pillow for support. Tommy grabbed hold of Alfie as he changed positions, holding back any sounds of pain but breathing fast and hard, his grip steel-tight. 

"Shh, shh. Easy. This will take the pressure off that bone," said Alfie. "Then the muscles can relax and maybe it'll pull less at those stitches. You can move your legs how you like." 

Tommy bent one knee and brought it up under him slightly, towards his stomach, so carefully, so gingerly. He lay there, one leg bent and one straight, and breathed and trembled, hanging onto Alfie's arm, hooking his chin over it like a man hanging over a cliff by a single branch. 

Alfie ran a hand down his spine. "That's it. That's it, Tommy." 

He was so small. So fucking small. Not much shorter than Alfie, lengthwise—an inch, three at most, when stretched out all the way (although Tommy was usually stooped or curled in some kind of discomfort, so it had surprised Alfie to realize, after days of close proximity, that they were near the same height)—but where Alfie was solid and muscular and powerful, Tommy was a collection of slender bones held together by a few tortured sinews, struggling to breathe, fighting against the unfairness of life to a body like his. 

Unless you were wealthy and pampered, being born a male omega was a cruelty. The awareness of it had always been there, like a faint rotting smell, in the corner of Alfie's consciousness, but he'd never had to look at it up close before. Things he'd heard came back to him now like slow, repeated punches to the gut: the vulnerability of male omegas to their partners, particularly male alphas—to mob violence, sexual violence, medical violence, to death in childbirth. The higher death rate of omega boys due to abandonment and abuse. The shocking number coerced by family members or rented out to strangers for pleasure. The rampant mutilations and murders because they were seen as less than human; as inherently sexual, their very survival at the mercy of their heat cycles; or as freaks of nature, unnatural and only fit for punishment. 

He'd heard these statistics all his life, but they had never wrenched his heart out of place the way they did when he looked down at the man in his arms. This wasn't a fucking statistic. This was a person, real and hurt, with bruised freckled skin, a bleeding body patched back together for his baby, hair like a blackbird's wing and eyes like a fucking fairy-prince. This was a man whose body had taken so many blows and indignities that he had learned to hate it, to abuse it himself, against all instinct and reason, instead of licking the wounds and letting them heal as even animals knew how to do. What would it take, he wondered, to break someone's instincts to such a degree? 

Tommy moved in his arms, sweaty and whimpering. Alfie gave him room, shushing him, brushing his hair, letting him breathe. The pulse in Tommy's neck beat fast, drumlike against Alfie's forearm. 

If Tommy survived this, if he got better and grew bright and healthy and fatter and stronger and wanted to stay, to live with Alfie and raise that boy together, he would have the safest, happiest damn life Alfie could muster. He'd never be hit again. He would be gently fucked and fucking worshiped. Those eyes would never have a reason to look terrified again, not ever. Not with him. 

He was fantasizing now, running into the realm of wishes and perfections that probably didn't exist. But the burn in his core was so fucking powerful. It was the alpha instinct, the crackling bodily drive stoked to its highest heat by Tommy, by smelling and holding him, by touching his milk-swelled chest, by watching him with Charlie—but it wasn't a drive to harm him. Not to hurt him or dominate him or see him cry. It was a drive to love. Just to love, the same way the sun loved the earth or the moon loved the sea. The way a dog loved a man. The way Tommy loved Charlie, every atom of his soul affixed on the good of this one, and not another. 

Alfie wondered, hazily, what exactly it was he'd been living for the last eight years since his mum died, and strangely enough, he couldn't say. Not until the last four weeks, this miserable fucking beautiful month of Tommy. 

He kissed him from behind, lips on his neck, on his shoulders, reverent with grief for everything he knew and everything he didn't know. 

Tommy wriggled a little. 

"You alright, treacle?" 

"Get off," came the murmur. 

Alfie pulled away at once. "Did I hurt you?" 

Tommy was shaking his head, pushing his face into the bed. "No. No, I'm okay." 

"You don't fucking sound okay." 

"I was—" There it was again: the shame, so thick Tommy could barely talk around it. 

Alfie didn't know what tipped him off, but something—some brief passing scent or rhythm in Tommy's breathing, or perhaps the way a trickle of sweat slid down from his ear in the moonlight just then—told him what was going on. 

He'd been fucking stupid not to think of that. Stupid and selfish, not thinking about Tommy's body, Tommy's instincts, only about his own. 

Of course lying prone like this, with his adrenaline high and Alfie practically on top of him, kissing and snuffling into his neck in the dark—and Tommy's body was not ready, his cock shrunken and sensitive from the pregnancy, everything bruised and torn up inside, every clench of the muscles painful. Arousal would hurt. 

Alfie was too embarrassed for words. 

"It's the stitches," said Tommy, saving face for them both. 

"Right. Fuck, I forgot," said Alfie, blowing a dry cough into his beard. "You need me to take a look, mate? Where's that antiseptic got to? Bleedin' hell." 

"I just want to sleep." Tommy reached for him blindly, clumsily. "Please, I'm too tired. Alfie." 

Alfie nestled back in, tucked Tommy's head close. "Alright. In the morning, though, mate. Before Charlie comes." 

Tommy nodded, warm and sluggish. 

Alfie kissed him on the cheek, but Tommy turned and found Alfie's lips, brought a hand up to stroke the side of his beard. 

The kiss was sweet, weary, needy. It didn't last long. Tommy let his neck go limp and his head fall back into the hollow of Alfie's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he slurred.  

Alfie didn't know what he was sorry for, but whatever it was, Tommy was already forgiven. 

---

Tommy didn't want to be touched at all, and he wanted Alfie to hold him like this and never let go. 

He couldn't make sense of the two conflicting desires, so he just sat and listened to the morning sun sing its way silently in through the window and turn Alfie's caramel-brown beard to gold brocade. 

He was in love with Alfie, he thought, the way a child in a slum falls in love with a hero in a bedtime story. The love of an unattainable dream, craving everything he wanted and didn't have. Too good to last, certainly. 

Alfie was asleep still—worn out, poor man, from taking care of Tommy day and night. Tommy gazed reverently at the big arms locked protectively around both their bodies, the white sleeves rising and falling with every long snuffling breath. Alfie's face, just inches away, felt oddly precious to him just now: the strong nose, the brushy beard, the beautiful plump lips, those crinkly laugh-wrinkles around the eyes, the cracks and irritations in the skin by his ear and hairline. Even the imperfections were right, because this was Alfie. 

Alfie. 

Tommy took a long breath and fought it down. It felt right. Warm and irresistible and good. But didn't it always, before things went wrong? 

He closed his eyes with a soft sigh and leaned back into Alfie's shoulder. 

He could have this. No harm in this, one morning of sunshine and warm bodies and the smell of last night's Sabbath wine in Alfie's beard. 

After awhile, Alfie moved. A grunt, a slow snorting breath through his nose, those big warm arms shifting around Tommy, and then a single eye opened to the light. 

"Mornin', treacle." 

"Hello, Alfie." 

"You sleep alright?" There was a smile in that one eye, and Alfie reached up and touched his face like he was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. It made Tommy feel faint. 

"Yes." For once, it was true. 

"Still hurting?" 

The reminder of last night's conversation brought a sick ugly sensation crawling up through Tommy's body into his head. He remembered himself bent over the toilet, Alfie angry at him on the bed in the dark, the gentleness afterwards, and the way he'd felt when Alfie kissed the back of his neck: his whole body had gone hot, a tingling, awakening shudder from his throat down into his core. He wanted—but couldn't, and it was repulsive to him that he wanted Alfie. To bring Alfie and his goodness into those cravings and hatreds and warm pulsing needs, into the dreams and self-abuses and the fucking sickness of it all—it would be wrong. 

He felt sick, gutted, that Alfie had seen his body this way. He'd tried to block out the worst moments of the past month, but he remembered Alfie's hands on him while he was giving birth, begging and grotesque, scared out of his wits because it hurt so fucking bad. He remembered the doctor's whole arm in him and the way he'd drooled and sobbed on Alfie's arm. He remembered all the bleeding, all the shit and smell and torn, aching flesh, and Alfie there, hands and eyes on him and in him, trying to keep him clean and alive. 

The vomitous revulsion filled him like shame, like tar, so he couldn't think or move. He didn't remember the question. 

"You hear me, treacle?" Alfie was sitting up, concerned. 

He shook his head. 

"I asked how you're feeling." 

The stifling, miserable memories rose like a flock of vultures and flew away, leaving him weak. His eyes rolled shut. "Fine," he said, meaning nothing. 

"Tommy. Hey, Tommy. What's going on?" 

Alfie's thumb pulled his eyelid open, and frank earthy eyes searched for him inside. 

Tommy didn't know. He was tired and too warm. 

"Fuck," said Alfie. 

Alfie disappeared and Tommy was left watching the Sabbath sunshine and his own hands, his hands sitting there on the sheet, wooden, like hands of Christ carved into an altar table under the bloody wine of the Eucharist. Except his were trembling. He didn't know why. 

Then came cool water, held up to his mouth in a cool glass, and Alfie's hand on the back of his neck holding him forward. 

Alfie snapped fingers under his nose. "You with me?" 

He was tired, tired, head buzzing and burning. Fuck—he was smiling, or frowning, lips doing something without him, opening and giving a moan he didn't mean. 

I'm just so tired, he wanted to tell Alfie. 

Alfie had him leaned forward, caught in big arms in the sunshine and Tommy's sweat was coming out of his eyes, burning silent, and his mouth wouldn't close. 

"Take a breath," said Alfie. 

He tried, but it got caught halfway in and he couldn't take any more without his ribs cracking and everything falling out. He was shaking like jelly on a warm spoon. 

He didn't want Alfie to check his stitches. That's what it was. He was scared of that. 

He didn't want to be looked at or touched. But he wanted Alfie. He didn't want to tell him no or make him go away. 

He hurt, he did. That was what Alfie had asked. He felt it now: the heat from the room and the sun all bunched up inside him, down at the bottom, under him, everything burning and biting at him. 

"I don't think that, Tommy. The fuck are you on about?" 

Had he said something? He must have said something, because Alfie was looking at him, dismayed. 

"You've been through hell, treacle. No one thinks that about you. Just let me help now, right?" 

Fuck, his hands. It had spread to his legs now too, a trembling he couldn't control. 

Alfie was turning him on his stomach, taking his trousers down, and Tommy wanted to die of mortification. 

Something cool there, too: air, and then water. But not water, because it burned. He grabbed at the sheets, made a horrible sound. 

"No, mate, it's alright. Fuckin' hurts, I know. You don't have to be quiet for me." 

Alfie was so gentle. So fucking kind. The smell of him was good, the hands of him were rubbing Tommy on the shoulder, telling him he'd be alright. No one had ever done that before, not when he was wrecked like this. 

Charlie will be here soon, Alfie's voice promised. You're perfect, treacle. Fucking beautiful. 

Why was he so gentle? 

And why was Tommy so disgusting? 

It burned long after Alfie had wiped his buttocks down with a damp cloth and then a dry one and covered him up again, and Tommy was okay but he couldn't believe it. 

He couldn't get his head clear. His fucking head. 

"Was that alright, love? Was it?" asked Alfie, pulling him up so his top half was draped over Alfie's lap. 

He thought of his father. Big, swaggering man. Hard hands and magic dark eyes, coffee-bitter, same as Polly's. The way his father walked into a room, like he fucking owned the place and everyone in it. When Tommy was five years old, he'd thought he would grow up to be like that. Walking like the world was his. He'd followed his father around the stables, imitating him. 

He wondered if Charlie would ever follow him around like that, or if Charlie would be too ashamed. 

He felt so weak and so absurd. "It was fine," he told Alfie, his voice gravel.

The voice from above him answered, warm and easy as ever, "You're a tough one, Tommy." 

He was coming back to himself. The thing he didn't want was over and done with. It had hurt, but Alfie was still with him in the sunshine, the little caramel-gold threads all over his arms with the sleeves rolled up. And Charlie was coming. 

It wasn't as bad as the other times had been. Uncomfortable, not torture. He was okay. Just tired, and his body wouldn't stop fucking shaking. 

Alfie brought him food after awhile: bread with butter and sesame seeds, and a cold egg he'd boiled yesterday. Tommy ate it, and Alfie promised him it would stop the shaking. He threw up the first half of the meal but kept the second half down, and Alfie was proud of him. 

Then Charlie came. His boy was here, and they put him in his arms and he held him. 

Charlie cried. He nuzzled, looking for milk, and didn't find it; then he screamed and went red, fists clenched as Tommy rocked him on his shoulder. Every heartbeat ached, a physical pain that made it hard to breathe. 

Alfie knew. Alfie saw it. He came to the bed and sat beside them both and held Tommy while he held Charlie. 

He tried laying the baby on his lap and giving him a fingertip to suck; Charlie screeched angrily when he realized there was no milk in it, but after another minute he went back to sucking it and didn't stop, looking up at Tommy with glossy eyes and blotchy skin from the crying. 

He was heavier than a week ago. His eyes were more alert, his wisps of hair a little longer. Tommy knew every difference because he had spent hours just holding him, studying him, adoring his every breath. 

He kissed Charlie on the forehead and it wrinkled up, wide eyes searching upward. He kissed him on the cheek, then with a finger touched the spot where Charlie had a dimple; the baby mouth smirked sideways, a lopsided smile, and Tommy's heart burst. 

"Look," he said to Alfie. 

He touched the cheek lightly and Charlie did it again, and Alfie beamed at them both. 

"Look at him, handsome little devil. That's your smile, Tom, innit?" 

Tommy scoffed. "Nah, he's his own man. Handsomer than me any day of the week, aren't you, Charlie?" 

Charlie looked up at him with wondering eyes and cooed. 

"You're a good boy, Charlie," said Tommy. 

Charlie sneezed and then looked shocked, ready to cry from sudden confusion. 

"Hayyim," said Alfie, at the same instant as Tommy's "Bless you." 

Charlie wailed. 

Tommy laughed softly and lifted him back to his shoulder, soothing and sympathizing. "I'm sorry, little man. What a surprise. It's alright, just a sneeze. You'll get used to those." 

They went on like that for an hour or more, until the sun was the creamy yellow of late morning on the bedspread and Alfie and Charlie had both dropped off to sleep. 

Alfie's face was rashy around the nose and ears—worse than usual, the stress of his life coming out on his skin—and his shirt was untucked, and he snored. And he was perfect. 

Charlie's face was still red in patches from crying, and his hair stuck up funny on one side where he'd been lying in one position on Tommy's chest too long, and his ears stuck out from his head like little wafers, and he shuddered as he sighed in his sleep. And he was perfect. 

Tommy didn't understand how, but it was as clear to him as the sun in the sky. 

He looked down at himself and began to feel sick again, the emptiness and loathing and horror-tinged sadness looming over him like a lonely malefic spirit, waiting to slip into the cracks in his heart. But then he looked at Alfie again. 

He felt the memory of Alfie's hands on his shoulders, voice at his ear, in the middle of the pain, telling him You're perfect, Tommy. You're fucking beautiful. It gathered in a knot between his ribs, a weeping feeling that lingered quietly and didn't turn into tears. 

He remembered the feel of Alfie's lips and tickling beard on the back of his neck, and a shiver ran through him, but it wasn't a bad shiver. He felt that warmth again, a golden stream of desire winding through the rocky silence of his broken, angry body. 

It felt good when Alfie kissed him. 

He imagined his husband's eyes, cold. The husband he was betraying every time he kissed Alfie. 

He looked down at Charlie and felt sick at heart. 

He wanted another morning like this. Another day with Charlie and Alfie snoring on the bed. Weeks of long sleep and sunshine Sabbaths. 

He didn't know if he was allowed to want that. But Alfie wanted it too; Alfie deserved happiness, and Alfie wanted him and Charlie. Alfie thought he was perfect, with all the long nights and dirty sheets and blood and misery and bruises all over him, all his pathetic outbursts of pain and exhaustion. God knows how, he looked at Tommy the way Tommy looked at Charlie, like he was the loveliest thing under heaven. 

He bent over Charlie and stayed like that for a long time with his eyes closed, breathing softly, wishing he could halt time here and never leave. 

He didn't notice the snoring stop, didn't hear or feel Alfie move—maybe he was half asleep himself—but he felt the hand on him, on his arm. It was comfort, affection, a question. 

He opened his eyes. "Hello, Alfie." 

"Hi there, treacle. Little man asleep?" 

"Yes." 

Alfie pulled himself nearer. He crept his arm around Tommy and settled in comfortably. He had sleeping breath—cupped his hand in front of his mouth and said "Bah!" under his breath, grimacing. 

Tommy smiled. 

"Can't kiss you now, can I?" said Alfie. 

Tommy reached for the nightstand, a glass of cold water with tea leaves. Alfie kept a fresh one on hand now for Tommy to rinse his mouth after vomiting. "Here." 

Alfie swished it around his mouth, swallowed, and handed the glass back. 

He kissed Tommy on the top of the head, soft and worshipful, so fucking tender. Tommy was in a dream, half suffocated by the glowing sunshine and the sound of Alfie's lips. 

Alfie kissed him on the forehead next, and then on the lips, a light one, with his hand cupping Tommy's jaw. Tommy let his face fall into Alfie's neck and breathed him in, a slow relief. 

"You're beautiful," said Alfie. 

"Mm," said Tommy—not agreement, but not fighting him either. 

"Won't let you fucking die, mate. Can't do it." 

Tommy nodded. 

"You understand me?" 

"Yes." He took in another breath, and it was shaky from the closeness, the scent of Alfie all around him. 

It was a quiet, glass-fragile moment and Tommy didn't want to let it go. 

"I don't want to die," he said. 

Alfie didn't say anything for a minute. Then he said gruffly, "'Course you don't, treacle." 

"I mean it." 

Alfie's hand burrowed into Tommy's hair the way Tommy used to comfort skittish horses, fingers under their manes. He squeezed so tight it almost hurt. "I know, mate." 

His tone sent something flooding through Tommy, thrill and relief and ease and hope and agony all at once. "Alfie, he's going to fucking fight for me. You don't need that in your life." 

"Did I say I minded, mate? Did I?" Alfie held his face tight, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. "You give me his name and I will have the law all over his miserable ass if he so much as glances in your direction. Me and Lizzie are witnesses. We saw what he fucking did. That's two alphas on your side." 

Tommy shook his head. "I can't ask Lizzie to go to court for me." Not after what he'd put her through. Asking her to fight for him to keep another man's child would be too much. 

"You leave that up to her," said Alfie firmly. "She still gives a fuck, Tommy." 

"She always did." Which was exactly why he couldn't ask any more of her. 

Alfie saw it in his face. "Thomas, mate. If you're going to live, you have to get used to the idea that sometimes people will put themselves out for you. The world is full of decent folk who may just decide to do the decent thing." 

He didn't know why that, of all things, should break him. 

It was so foreign and so unbearably relieving. 

Nothing changed, but suddenly the room was too bright and he had to close his eyes. He felt his body stutter a little and he leaned forward, one hand on Alfie's leg for support. 

"Take a breath, Tommy." Alfie patted his hand affectionately. "That's the first rule of staying alive now, innit?" 

Tommy laughed under his breath. It was happiness, just a little, and he was drunk on it. 

"With eating a very close second," Alfie added. "So why don't I fetch you up a plate?" 

Chapter 15: in which alfie becomes a papa

Notes:

I'm still tired but you all are so kind. Thanks for the comments and hits. Let's see what the guys are up to.

It was the end of the sixth week, a bright, windy day, and Alfie bent all his powers of persuasion toward convincing Tommy to leave the house. In Alfie's mind, at least, Tommy's husband had faded into a specter, a remnant of fear he couldn't be bothered to respect any longer. They didn't mention him anymore, though he knew, aggravatingly, that the bastard was never far from Tommy's thoughts. 

He wanted to get rid of that. Today he wanted Tommy to think only of him and Charlie and the blue-gray sky over the river. 

They packed a basket lunch and wrapped Charlie up in the shawl Esme had left. Tommy still found walking painful, but he could get around the house now, and Alfie hired a motorcar to take them most of the way to his favorite strip of beach to spare Tommy as much walking as possible. 

When they arrived, Alfie hung the basket from one arm and helped Tommy from the car with the other (Charlie was strapped to Tommy's front), and they made their way slowly down to the pebbly riverbank, where Alfie brought out a thick-folded blanket for Tommy to sit on. 

Tommy grunted as he lowered himself to the ground, hanging onto Alfie's arm for support, and then he sighed and looked out over the river at the shining water, the wheeling birds, the trees and buildings across the misty way. 

Alfie sat down beside him, one knee up, and let out a groan of satisfaction. "Now that, treacle—that is a view, innit?" 

Tommy nodded, slow and distant. His eyes were as faraway as the echoes of the boatmen's voices off beyond the bend. A gust of wind kicked up and he glanced down, moving the edge of the shawl to protect Charlie's face. 

"How's he like the fresh air?" asked Alfie, leaning in. 

Charlie was blinking in the brightness, looking solemn and confused. 

"What do you think, beti chavo?" murmured Tommy, bouncing Charlie lightly in his arms. "Hmm? Do you like the outdoors, ey?" 

Charlie made a noise in reply. 

"He approves," said Tommy with an amused smile.

Warmth sprang up in Alfie. "And what about you, treacle?" 

Tommy looked up from the baby's face to the running water again, his eyes clear and grave, lined with the dark of his lashes. "It's beautiful." 

He was beautiful too. Made Alfie wobbly in the stomach to look at him out here, the wind playing with his dark crop of hair. He'd cut it yesterday—a razor to the lower half of his head, the top left long. It gave him a more severe look, accentuated the strong bones of his face; by contrast, his soft lips and unearthly eyes were all the more striking. Alfie could hardly take his eyes off him. 

He was glad Tommy had agreed to come out today. He had been reluctant, but being stuck in one room for weeks on end had to grate on him, however surrendered he was to discomfort. Alfie was out to the market and the neighbors' and the brewery a few times a week now, and he still had days when he wanted to smash through a wall. 

They ate sandwiches and meat pies and drank Alfie's homebrewed ginger beer and lifted their faces to the wind. When Charlie started fussing and bumping his fists against Tommy's chest, Alfie brought out a third bottle from the basket. 

"Tommy. Look here, mate." He held it out. 

Tommy frowned. "What is it?" 

"A false nipple. Newfangled thing, right? I had it shipped in from the continent. You put it on the bottle like so," he mimed the motion, "and fill it up with milk, and then—then, Tommy," he handed the bottle over and tapped his pointer finger on Tommy's shoulder, "what has Esme got that you haven't got?"

Tommy was silent. 

Alfie squeezed his arm, understanding. "If the little man likes it, I'll pick up milk three times a week, right, and we can keep him here at the house for good. It's cheaper to pay the fucking goat than pay Esme, anyway, so that's good fucking business there, it is. Worth the cost of the gadget. What do you think?" 

Tommy lowered his face and nodded, eyes on Charlie. "Yes." 

Alfie ached at the sound of him. 

Tommy tipped the bottle up and set the nipple against Charlie's lower lip. Charlie took it right away, but choked after a few swallows and gave a wail. Tommy apologized, soothed, and sympathized, wiping the quivering chin with a gentle finger. "Here you are, Charlie. Let's give it another go."

It went better the second time. The sound of contented baby grunts rose from the shawl-covered head, and Alfie saw Tommy relax. 

"He's got it," said Tommy. 

"Look at him fuckin' go," murmured Alfie, delighted. 

Tommy turned his face to lean it on Alfie's shoulder and plant a hard kiss into his coat sleeve. "Thank you." 

"No need to thank me, Tommy. Just want to do right by you and him." 

"You've done more than I deserve." It was rough and honest, his voice, and Alfie couldn't have that. 

"No, mate. Fuck that." He lifted Tommy's face and kissed those lips the way he'd wanted to all morning. "You deserve the whole fucking world. I'd buy the bloody thing and give it to your for your birthday, you know, but I am rather doubtful we've got the room for it upstairs." 

"You're absurd," said Tommy, humming against him. 

Alfie was too busy sucking Tommy's lower lip into his mouth to answer. 

---

It was the end of the eighth week, and Tommy was pacing and rocking after a long day alone in the house with Charlie when he heard the front door open downstairs and the sound of Alfie coming in, stamping his wet boots and slapping his wet hat and growling "brrrh!" into his wet beard. 

A tiny thrill leapt up in him, like a freshly lit candle.

"Hear that? He's home," he told Charlie, kissing the whimpering round face on his shoulder. "Alfie's home." He wanted to say Your dad's home, but even alone with the baby, he couldn't bring himself to use the word.

He couldn't presume like that. Couldn't pretend like that. But he wanted to. 

Alfie came creaking up the stairs, whistling an old Jewish tune Tommy had learned by heart over the last two months from hearing him hum it to the baby on fretful nights. 

"Tommy!" came the voice at last, hearty and cheery even after what must have been a long, wet, weary day. "And there's my lovely boy. Hello, Charlie." Alfie rubbed the silky baby head and gave Tommy a peck on the lips. "You sure you should be up? You're looking a bit peaked, you are. I'd wager a gold watch your back hurts and you're not fucking resting it enough, are you, mate?"  

Tommy admitted he was right and let Alfie lift the baby off him, an instant relief that left him even more aware of the pain he'd been braced against all evening. He bent over slightly, but the change did nothing but send fresh pain radiating down into his ass, bone-deep and more severe than he wanted Alfie to know. 

He grimaced. "Damn it," he said softly. 

"Can you make it back to the bed?" asked Alfie, shifting Charlie to an upright position against his shoulder and offering Tommy an arm. 

"Yes. I'm fine," said Tommy, ignoring the arm and hobbling over to the bed, one ruthless throb of pain at a time. 

Sitting was going to be too much, he knew already, so he climbed on the bed frontwards and laid down on his stomach, propping his arms and head up on a pillow. "You can set him here," he said, fighting through the invisible assault on his body. He patted the mattress beside him. 

Alfie had been out all day—it wasn't fair to ask him to care for Charlie too. 

"It's alright, mate. I'm alright. Missed the little tyke, actually, I did." 

That sent a different kind of pain through Tommy—a wanting pain, the candle flame getting tall and scorching him from the inside. He wanted Alfie to love that baby. Was it self-interested? Maybe. Manipulative? He didn't know.

He just knew that when he saw his little boy curl into Alfie's chest like a puppy in a safe pair of hands, it made everything in him ache with wishing. Charlie would be so much better off with Alfie Solomons as his father. He could imagine them, once Charlie was bigger, running around, playing and laughing, wrestling like bear and cub. He wanted that happiness for his boy. 

For himself, well... 

Alfie, sitting up against the headboard, looked over. "He needs a change." 

"He must have just done it. He was clean a minute ago." 

"Ahh. Saved it for me, did you, little man? Keep the big messes for your favorite papa, do you?" 

Papa. 

Tommy didn't know why his smile turned into something he couldn't control. 

He was tired, he supposed. 

He tried again, lost his way between the slipping, sliding emotions, and hid his face in the pillow until he could figure out what was wrong with him. 

"Hey. Tommy. You alright?" 

"Yes. I'm—" 

Tired? Confused? In love with you? 

"When did you last have a bite to eat, mate?" 

He didn't remember and didn't care, really. He reached out without his eyes and found Alfie's hand and held it, awkwardly, fingers getting oddly in the way. 

After a few seconds, Alfie took his hand away and patted Tommy on the back. "Give me a minute here, right, and I'll clean him up and get you your supper. You've over-fucking-done it, haven't you?" 

It's okay. I'm not hungry. I just want to stay here and listen to you talk to my baby and lie to myself about what it all means. 

Alfie had said from the beginning that he'd keep them until Tommy was recovered from the birth. He wasn't recovered yet, and strangely, he was grateful for the complications. Up to two months, Lizzie had estimated, and it had been two months now, but Tommy was still far from normal. Part of him hated himself for trespassing so long on Alfie's generosity, but another part of him would have stayed injured forever if it meant staying here. He could endure almost anything if it meant staying with Alfie. 

Alfie was singing to the baby as he changed his nappy. 

Tommy couldn't get over how kind the man was, even when he was tired. He had his moments of irritability, certainly, but there was no cruel Alfie—no resentful Alfie who blamed the people around him for the difficulties of his life. Tommy had never had to worry about letting him hold the baby, not once.

"Look here, Tommy. He may have your smile, mate, but he's got my frown." 

Charlie's face was scrunched up, his little forehead drawn down between his brows as he kicked at Alfie's big hands. Alfie was grinning. 

Fuck, he loved them. 

"You learn that cranky face from me, little man? Yeah? That's my face, innit? You rascal."  

Tommy pulled himself up onto his knees and clapped Alfie's shoulder. "You stay with him. I'll get something to eat." 

Alfie pinned the diaper faster. "Aw no, mate, you're over your fucking limit. Just hang on a minute." 

"I'll be fine." Tommy got to his feet, finding the back of the armchair briefly as he grimaced. "He missed you all day." 

"You walk down those stairs in a state like this, Tommy, and I'm going to be mopping your brains up from the front hallway, and I am not in the fucking mood for that kind of chore tonight, not to mention that blood is very fucking hard to get out of carpeting and I am clean fucking out of baking soda." 

Tommy smiled. "I'll hold onto the banister." 

He suffered his way ungracefully down the stairs and into the kitchen and made up a tray with two plates—cold boiled potatoes, sliced roast beef from the icebox, hard rolls from the bakery. He always knew when Alfie was burning the candle at both ends because he got bread from the shop instead of baking it himself. 

He made it back up the stairs with willpower and one weak spell in which he stopped and held onto the banister and cursed himself silently, waiting for the pain to lessen. He held himself as straight as possible when he brought the food in, walking steady. 

"You are a big fucking man, eh? Risking life and limb to fetch up some cold roast beef and a couple of two-day buns? You will be the death of me, you will, Thomas. I prophesy it now." 

"Now, Alfie. I'm back in one piece, aren't I?" Tommy set the food on the bed and carefully lowered himself back down frontward into the pillows. 

Alfie wrapped Charlie in the swaddling shawl and laid him in a bundle at Tommy's side. Tommy tucked him in close with one arm over him and sighed. He was tired, too tired to eat just now. He would be okay in a few minutes. 

"You, mate, look like you got run over by a fuckin' racehorse." Alfie's hands came over him, firm and gentle, massaging the tight muscles of his back. "If that hurts, you tell me, Tom, you hear me?" 

"Mm," grunted Tommy. "It's fine." 

Alfie's hands did hurt a little, but the benefits outweighed the discomfort by far. 

Charlie turned his face and nuzzled into Tommy's arm, sniffing and feeling with his little mouth. "Hey," murmured Tommy. "You're alright, love. I'm here." 

"Is it mum or dad, Tommy? What's he gonna call you?" Alfie asked. 

Tommy shrugged. "I'll let him decide. Once he's old enough to speak."

"You don't care?" 

"Why should I?" 

Alfie raised skeptical brows. "Most people have a preference one way or the other. You did mention something about hating your father, I recollect." 

Tommy let his forehead sink into the pillow and focused on the heavy pressure of Alfie's hands moving lower, toward his hips. "Well, hating my father's got nothing to do with loving my son. He's already down a parent, so I'll let him call me whatever he pleases." 

The hands on his back stopped moving. One left, the other gripped a little tighter. "Tommy, he has got me, ha'nt he?" Alfie sounded hurt. "Am I not his papa?" 

Tommy's brain and heart stuttered at the same moment, leaked warm love and grief all over the bed. 

"Tommy?" 

His throat was so dry it hurt. "Yes. You're his papa, if you want to be." He held the pillow too tight, head thick, eyes hot.

He wanted Alfie. He fucking wanted him, wanted to be loved, wanted to be a family. It was too much. He wasn't supposed to want things anymore. Not like this. It was like being handed the sun, a wild beauty beyond imagining, with hands too human and skin too fragile to hold it without charring. 

"You alright, mate?" 

"I'm fine, Alfie." 

"You don't sound fucking fine." 

It was practically a liturgy by now, an exchange they'd had so many times he hardly registered it. 

Alfie came around where Tommy could see his face again, laid down like a fortress between Charlie and the edge of the bed. "I will never force you into anything, treacle. There is no fucking obligation, nor you don't owe me nothing, you understand, mate? This is all free." He motioned to the room, himself, passed a splayed hand over the invisible weeks past. "But I do want you, Tommy. And him. I do. And I am not fucking playing with you, right. I am not the sort of man who goes around throwing my time and money and beloved sleep and very precious rum at people because I want them to stroke my cock or my balls or my fucking ego, see? I am the sort of man who does not fall in love with fancies of growing old and fucking domesticity. But I am falling—in love—with you." He jabbed a finger into Tommy's chest. "You, Tommy. No one else." 

He swallowed, because his mouth was filling, and still dry, somehow. His throat hurt. His chest hurt. His hand didn't quite look like his, but he reached it out toward Alfie because it was all he had. He didn't have his voice. 

He found Alfie's arm, chest. His fingers trembled.

"I'm—" 

He leaned over Charlie, leaned in as close as he could, offering his face. 

Alfie kissed him. Held him. "You want me, treacle?" 

"Yes," he breathed. "I'm sorry." 

It hurt, for some reason. He was clenching his teeth against it, and Alfie was holding his face so fucking gently. "You're allowed to ask for things, mate. I've told you that. You're allowed to be as happy as you bloody well please. No law against that, there ain't. So there's no sorry about this, alright? Nothing wrong with it. You can fucking want things, Tommy." 

"I'm—not Jewish," he fumbled, losing track of his body as Alfie's tongue slid wetly across his lip. 

Alfie grunted. "Bonding outside of our people is frowned upon, mate, but not forbidden. There are cases. If an alpha brings on the heat of an unmarried omega outside the community, we are required by law to fuck 'em and then offer them an opportunity for monetary support or a permanent bond. Life is paramount, you see, Tom. Sex and bonding are subject to the necessaries and conveniences of lifesaving." 

"I'm not exactly on death's door," said Tommy wryly, kissing him again, holding onto his collar. "Or unmarried." 

"My point is," said Alfie, with a hungry little growl in between kisses, "there are exceptions. What about you? Any Irish or Romany taboos against fornicating and fucking about with outsiders?" 

"Frowned upon." He breathed in Alfie's skin, the caramel-brown beard still damp from the rain. "Not forbidden." 

"That's alright, then," said Alfie, suddenly solemn. His eyes were frank and direct. "Nothing to hold us back, is there?" 

Tommy gulped, trying to breathe through the press of Alfie's hot velvet mouth and powerful jaw. "Except..." 

"Ha, tshh—don't talk about him while I'm fucking kissing you, mate. You might as well take the mood out back and shoot it in the fucking head, now, mightn't you?" 

Tommy laughed, a distressed, relieved, almost hysterical little cut-off laugh that turned into a sob of softness as Alfie pulled him close. 

"Don't crush the little man," murmured Alfie, glancing at Charlie tucked snoring between them. 

Tommy reached down and put a hand over the baby, a surge of protectiveness blooming in him. "He's alright." The intricate red and gold of the swaddling cloth caught his eye, and he needed all at once to talk, to get it out, to explain to Alfie why he was the way he was. "I—we have a tradition, passed down from my father's mother and her people, to wrap the baby and hand him to his father after the birth." He frowned, not sure why his voice was failing him. "The father pricks himself and drops blood on the blanket to claim the child as kin. It's how you bring him into the family." 

"You did that with Charlie?" Alfie asked. 

"No. It's not for the birthing parent to do." He traced the corner of Charlie's blanket with a thumb. "My father did it for all of us." He scratched his nose. "I always thought I'd keep mine and give it to my wife when I was married. For our first child. But my father burned it." 

"Why the hell would he do that?" Alfie's voice was low, a rasp of anger growing in it. 

Tommy lifted his head and raised his chin, defiant, wandering back in time, not quite brave enough to let his eyes stay on Alfie in front of him. "Because I had the audacity to develop into an omega, like my mother. The only one out of all his children." 

"That," said Alfie, slapping his hand down on a pillow, "is a load of rancid fucking horse shit. I hope you know that, Tommy." 

"It wasn't to him." 

"Who gives a fuck what he thinks?" The rage-glow in Alfie's eyes was bright. "Who the fuck does he think he is to cut you out of the family, a fucking child? That is straight-up bigotry, mate. I'm sorry, but that's what it fucking is. Fuck him." 

He felt sluggish and buzzing at the same time, like he was drunk. "It's okay. It was a long time ago."

Alfie grunted, huffed, shook his head. "He shouldn't ought to've done that, mate. It wasn't fair." 

He had wanted Alfie to know. To hear his disgrace and make a judgment. To get that knot of shame dislodged from the place where it had sat, chafing and bruising since he was a boy crying behind the barn. But hearing the anger with his own ears, so simple and immediate and unyielding, he felt slightly sick, as if he'd done his father a wrong. 

A brawny hand came down over his, on Charlie's back, as protective as Tommy's own. 

"You want me to do that for our boy?" Alfie asked. 

Our boy. 

He looked Alfie in the eyes and found a bottomless well of compassion and earnest good will. It made him smile despite himself, pure wonder at his own luck—luck he'd never had before, bringing him a man like this out of the blue. 

He nodded. 

"Say no more." Alfie reached for the plate with the roast beef, wiped the knife off on his shirt, and dug the tip into his finger, just a tiny divot. He winced and swore, in Alfie fashion.

"Here we are." He wiped his bleeding finger on Charlie's blanket, leaving a drop that lengthened into a smear. "Any words to go with it, Tommy? You want to say a prayer or something appropriate to the occasion?" 

Tommy shook his head. The red and gold wavered and ran together in the heat as he reached out to take Alfie's hand. He kissed the bleeding finger briefly. "That was perfect." 

Alfie beamed like a little boy and bent down to press his lips against Charlie's fluffy head. "How's that, little man? You want me to be your papa, hmm?"

Charlie gave a sigh in his sleep, and Tommy's heart filled.

He was happy. 

Alfie wrapped his finger in a handkerchief and wiped the knife-tip off again. "You thinking of eating anytime this century, mate? Because I am fucking famished and you know I hate taking meals alone." 

Tommy smiled and took a plate. "What did you do before I came?" 

"I wept, mate," said Alfie, around a bite of potato. "I fucking wept. It is not good for man to be alone—he needs another man to gripe at while he takes his morning tea and his evening pipe. That is in the holy books, innit?"  

He pointed his fork at Tommy for emphasis, and Tommy laughed. 

Chapter 16: in which may carleton hazards a guess

Notes:

Aka in which May gets a POV cameo because she's cool.

one month later 

The S key on the front desk typewriter always stuck. It was one of those persistent annoyances of May Carleton's life that graduated to the status of minor misery on nights like this one, when she was on the fourth hour of her volunteer shift without a single soul coming through the door. It was just her, a cup of tepid coffee, a stack of vaccination forms to be processed, and that damned key that she had to flick up with her thumb every time she used it. But (she reminded herself with a sigh) it was suffering for the greater good, flavorless coffee and all. 

As if in answer to her cheerless ruminations, the bell rang and the door to the street entrance opened. She looked up to see a hearty-looking man supporting—indeed, half-dragging—another through the door, who looked undernourished and extremely ill. A good Samaritan, she hoped, who had picked this man up on the street, or else this was one of the worse cases of maltreatment she'd seen this month. 

"He's an omega. Gone into fucking heat," said the stronger man, limping them both up to the counter. The other rested his elbows on the surface, sagging and not meeting her eyes. He was drenched in sweat and shivering, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. 

"I assumed as much," she said dryly, flicking her eyes from one to the other. "This is a shelter for omegas, after all. Mister...?" 

"Solomons. Alfred Solomons. You have something you can give him to make it stop?"  

She looked over the sick male again dubiously. "He looks far gone. Have you tried the hospital?" 

"He won't go to the hospital. He's—it's a fucking complicated situation, alright, and he needs something now. He started showing signs a week ago, but we thought it was a flu. His baby's been sick, had a bloody cough." 

"There's a baby?" May sat up straighter. 

"Yes, a fucking baby. He's with a friend. Can you give him something to bloody stop it?" 

The rising, thickening anger in his voice set off alarm bells in May's head. A temper—she'd seen men like this before, wanting treatment off the record, barging in and making demands. She pulled a blank registration form and fed it into the typewriter. "He's your partner?" 

"He's—" Solomons stopped, grunted, looked at the man sagging on his arm. 

"Yes," said the omega, low and rough. 

"And the baby is yours as well, Mr. Solomons?" 

The omega flinched like he'd been hit, and Solomons frowned. "Not—biologically speaking, but he's living in my house and I am fucking raising him, right?" 

Another red flag. 

May thinned her lips and entered Solomons' name with a note. "What is your partner's name?" 

"Look, he doesn't want to be on any kind of registry. Is there any way to do this without getting him into the bloody system? I'm a donor here—I was—five, six years ago. I can pay out of pocket for whatever treatment he needs." 

She made eye contact with the sick man and spoke low and clear. "We have protocols here, sir. For safety, you understand. Everything is completely secure, and we don't release records to the public. But I need your permission to open a case." 

The dark-haired man shook his head, lips pressed tight. "No. No paperwork. I can't." He sounded weak and wrung out. 

May gave the bigger man a hard stare, but his only response was distress. 

"Bloody fucking hell. Tommy, it's no use staying out of the system if you're fucking dead, mate." He gripped his partner's arm hard. "You hear me?" 

"We have a hormone treatment he could start right away, but if he's a week in...." She looked him up and down. "The success rate is lower. Sixty percent, I should think." 

Solomons slammed his hand down on the counter. "Fuck!" 

Tommy flinched again. 

May stood up, resolve hardening her voice. "Let me call in our medical team." She rang the bell on her desk and touched the omega's arm, kindly but firmly. "I need your information, sir. We're here to help you. And if you'd like a private room, we can arrange for that. It's your legal right to refuse visitors." 

The man shook his head again, distress rising. "Alfie," he whimpered. 

"Look, he's not comfortable being in the fucking system, I told you. He needs treatment, protocol be damned...don't you have a protocol against letting a man die in your lobby? Ey?" 

One of the volunteer nurses came out—a large man, thank God. May kept her voice level and said, "I'm afraid we do need to keep a record of every person who comes through. It's procedure, sir. We can't make exceptions." 

"It's his first full heat in three fucking years," said Solomons, gripping his partner to keep him from sliding down onto the floor. "Look at him. He's bloody dying, and I can't—" His voice lost its footing, a crack of real emotion. "I can't fuck him. He's had a baby and he couldn't nurse, so he's back in heat sooner than he should be, but he's still healing up. The doctor said it's another three, four months until the bone's back to normal. I can't—can't bloody fuck him. And this is my fucking fault, my goddamn bloody fault because his body is doing this for me, and I didn't know it was his bloody heat until it was too fucking late. Fuck!" Spit was gathered on his lips, eyes gone dark with rage.

This, May thought, was not a man accustomed to being refused. 

The nurse took hold of Tommy and looked to May. 

"I need a name, sir," she said again. 

Solomons put his mouth down against the feverish face, kissed and coaxed. "Tommy. Love. Please." 

"I can't." It was more of a sob than anything else, and May, who was used to heart-rending sights, felt her heart give. 

She inserted herself. She didn't trust this dynamic between them, the muscular, explosive alpha and the head-shy man who looked afraid to talk and was far too thin to be eating adequately. Solomons was clearly emotional at the thought of losing his partner, but they always were. "Why don't you come back with me, Tommy. We'll start with a basic examination and then you can help me fill out the rest of your intake form." 

He shook his head again, but he was too dazed to resist beyond that. 

The nurse took him back, and May barred Solomons from following. "We'll see to him and let you know if you're needed, Mr. Solomons. Standard protocol. I'm sure you understand." 

The man looked like he was ready to blow, but he nodded and stepped back, rubbing his fists against his thighs in fierce anxiety. "Don't force him, right? He's bloody fragile." 

"I promise you, sir, we obtain consent for every procedure." 

She called backup to the front desk and followed the nurse back to the exam room, marking the time on the clock. 2:38 a.m. A hell of a time to bring your partner in for medical treatment—one more red flag. It looked rather suspiciously like trying to avoid being seen in public. May had seen far too many of these cases in her four years of volunteering. It took weeks, months, sometimes years to convince an omega to leave a controlling bondmate, but she'd be damned if she didn't try with this one. 

The nurse had Tommy laid out on the cot and was removing his shirt. Poor thing shook like a leaf in the cold. His skin looked delicate, almost translucent, and the hollows of his eyes were dark and bruiselike. 

May crouched down beside him and took his hand. "We'll just check your heart rate and take a blood sample, and one quick look down below to confirm that you're in heat. I'll give you something for the pain and the fever, and you can help me fill out your forms. What do you like to be called? Tommy? Thomas?" 

He gritted his teeth and didn't answer. 

She helped him sit up, rubbing his back consolingly, and felt something that shouldn't be there—a roughness under her sensitive, practiced fingers.

A quick glance told her everything she needed to know. They weren't fresh, but there were scars there. A few months old, perhaps. It must have been a brutal beating to leave marks like those. 

The tightness in her chest strengthened and warmed into real anger, pity, all the rest. He had been coached to refuse the intake paperwork, she was sure of it. Threatened, possibly. The fear in his eyes, at least, had been unmistakable. 

"Tommy," she said gently, "tell me when you gave birth." 

His teeth chattered. "Three—three months ago." 

"Were you in hospital?"

"No." 

May exchanged glances with the nurse. "And your baby's name?" 

He was heavy-eyed, close to delirious. He shook his head. 

"We just want to help. You're safe here. What's your baby's name, love?" 

He made a pained noise as the nurse slid a needle into the vein in his inner elbow. "Charlie." 

"A boy?" 

"Yes." 

"And is Alfred Solomons the father?" 

Biting his lip, grimacing, head shaking no. "No." 

"Can you tell me how you ended up with him?" 

Tommy shook his head harder. "I want to go home," he said faintly. He was frightened. Terrified. May knew the look. 

"Tommy, we want to help you, but we can't do it without some answers. Tell me—" 

"I want to go home," he said louder, shoving at the nurse with surprising strength. "Fuck off." 

"Let us take care of you," May said as soothingly as she could. "You're very sick. I just need a few more things from you, and then—" 

"Alfie!" he shouted hoarsely. "Alfie!"

Damn. Not this. 

The door slammed open and Solomons was there, pushing past the nurse, who grabbed his arm and shouted for backup. 

"Get the fuck off me," the alpha growled, throwing him off. "I'm here, Tommy, I'm here. You're okay, mate." 

"I want to go home." Tommy struggled to his feet, tearful, sounding almost vicious. "I don't want a fucking doctor." 

"Tommy, listen. I can't—I can't hurt you, mate." He had his hands on the omega's face, holding him hard, the skin wrinkling under his grip. 

"You gave me your word, Alfie. Your fucking word." Tommy was trembling violently. "Take me home. I want to be with Charlie." 

"We haven't finished your examination," said May. "If you'll just sit back down, sir." 

Neither of them heard her. Solomons was locked onto his mate's eyes, breathing hard. "Alright. Alright, Tommy. I gave you my word, didn't I? Come here." He clutched the omega's head to his chest. "We will get you through this." 

May stepped forward, insistent. "Sir, this is a private room, and I have to ask you to leave. Mr. Solomons!" 

"Hands off," said Solomons, strangely cool and light-voiced now, waving at the nurse, who had come back with two other volunteers. "Hands fucking off, please, or I will begin twisting heads off, right? Nobody fucking touch him." 

May could smell it on him now: the alpha rage, the activation of his mating drive. He would take this poor man home and rut until he was sated, and she wouldn't get the chance to open a case and get Tommy the help he clearly needed.

She tried again to step between them, taking her life in her hands. "Tommy," she said, "we can bring your baby here, if you want. You just need to tell me where he is. You don't have to go through with this. I can call you a police escort." 

"Fuck." Tommy shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes and tore at his hair, overwhelmed. "Don't, don't fucking—" It dissolved in a sob. 

Solomons snarled like an animal. "Stay the hell away from him." 

It was getting out of hand fast. They were both losing their heads, going into the mating frenzy. There was only so much jurisdiction May had; if Mr. Solomons was a man of means, as he had implied, then physical interference could mean a lawsuit. 

"Mr. Solomons," she said in a last-ditch effort, "I strongly recommend he stay here for the treatment. You are not authorized to be in this room." 

"You bloody what? I am authorized to be with my mate, right, when he is in this fucking condition. He doesn't want you lot. He wants me, alright? Not you, not the bloody police. You've upset him, can't you see? You've got eyes, ain't you?" 

Well. She'd tried. 

They cleared the room, and the alpha dragged his mate out, practically carrying him now. The dark-haired man was glassy-eyed, flushed with fever, with emotion, and with something rather near panic. 

The street door slammed to and May leaned on the desk a minute before sinking back into her chair, weighted with worry. 

She didn't have a phone number, she didn't have authorization for treatment; she didn't even have a last name for the poor omega. But she could put in an application for a welfare investigation with the information she had: an alpha keeping an unregistered mate with indications of abuse and a baby that wasn't his. Without verbal attestation of abuse from the omega, it couldn't be processed as a high priority case, but it would be better than nothing. The name Alfred Solomons would give the police a place to start. And if he'd been a donor, like he claimed, she could give them an address. 

She pulled the unfinished registration from her typewriter, tossed it in the wastebasket, and thumbed through her files for a fresh form. She hoped to heaven Tommy could hold on a few more days. 

Chapter 17: in which alfie does the impossible

Alfie splashed cold water on his face and grabbed the sides of the sink. 

Come on, Alfie. Get a fucking grip, mate. 

He had been prepared to fight for Tommy. Hell, he'd slapped the angel of death on the fucking face for Tommy. But he was not prepared for this. He had fantasized so many times about taking Tommy to bed, and this wasn't how it was supposed to happen. 

The doctor said the soft tissue injuries were repairing fine, nearly healed. They'd had him out this week to look at Charlie's cough, and he had given Tommy a brief exam while he was at it. The tailbone wasn't out of place, but the slight discomfort Tommy had shown during the soft tissue examination had given way when the doctor pressed on the bone, two fingers from the inside and a hand stabilizing from the outside. Alfie twitched at the memory. Watching, he'd thought Tommy was going to pass out. 

He had to do this right. He had to keep his fucking head, instincts be damned, and be so fucking gentle. 

He rummaged in the cabinet for anything he could take to slow down his reactions, to cool him off. He was not going to hurt Tommy. They'd had a month of fucking paradise, a month of sleeping in each other's arms and Tommy kissing his neck and cradling his face—Alfie had never realized how self-conscious he was about his skin condition until Tommy had touched him like he was beautiful and his heart had fucking melted, all that shame he'd learned to live with evaporating like dew on a hot morning. 

It couldn't end here. Not fucking here, not because his stupid pheromonal signature had imprinted on Tommy before he was ready. 

He would use pain if he had to—shock himself out of it if he started sliding into that drunken lust where he'd lose track of his own body. He could fucking do that, right? Slap himself across the face, a pinch to the leg where it hurt, keep himself from going under. He had to stay cool for Tommy, because Tommy was hurt and Tommy needed him and this was about saving Tommy's life, nothing more. 

Sixty percent, the woman at the desk had said. A sixty percent chance if they tried to stop it with hormones. So this was the better thing to do any way you looked at it. He just had to be gentle. He could do that, couldn't he? Fuck. 

His neck was prickling, and he didn't know if it was from anxiety or from the cauldron of lust building to a boil inside him. 

That was the great fucking tragedy of being human, wasn't it? To be animal and yet something more than animal. To be at fucking war with yourself, wanting two bloody things at once. 

He smacked himself across the face, hard. Watched the skin in the mirror. He didn't see a mark, though there might be one in a minute. "You are a man, Alfie," he said to himself, aloud. "Not a fucking animal. Today, you are a man. Now. Bloody act like it, right?" He smoothed his beard, turned the taps and dampened his hair and gave himself a long, hard look. 

The man in the mirror stared back, earnest and flushed and a little scared-looking. He passed his hand over his eyes and sighed. "Oy gevalt." 

---

The lamps were lit and Tommy was on the bed, already naked. He felt strangely fearless, too euphoric from the fever and the rush of hormones running through his veins, making him cottony-numb and oversensitive at the same time, his skin hot and slick with sweat. He knew, in his mind, that he ought to be very afraid, that he could die if Alfie couldn't knot him, and that knotting would probably feel like it was killing him, but at the moment he didn't care, and that felt nice. 

It couldn't be worse than pushing the baby out, could it? And Alfie would hold him. He might kiss him, too—might run fingers along his spine and tell him he was good. He had survived worse things. 

When Alfie came in, wearing a robe and nothing else, freshly showered and smelling of that spicy, earthy oil, a wave of heat came over Tommy—desire and shame in the same moment. He was suddenly ashamed to be seen, to be naked. He wanted to crawl under the blankets and fucking cry, because his head was pounding and his cock was so stiff and hot it ached, and it was small and angry and pitiful and he didn't deserve to be loved. He was just an omega, a squirming hole to be pinned down and fucked into. 

He didn't know where it had gone, that ethereal calm of a few seconds ago. 

He moved to the edge of the bed, reached for the robe without looking at the face. Alfie's hands reached for him too, slid softly down his sides, and Tommy was so feverish and the skin so sensitive that he shuddered. He buried his face in Alfie's fuzzy chest and a moan dribbled out from between his lips. 

"You're alright, treacle," came the ever-comforting voice, sounding solemn and burdened this time. 

He wanted to apologize to Alfie. This was his fault, because his body couldn't do anything it was meant to do. He couldn't give birth without mangling himself, he couldn't nurse the way he was supposed to, and now he had gone into fucking heat because Alfie had shown him a little tenderness and he was a slut for that, wasn't he? Ready to get on his knees and worship anyone who looked him in the eyes like he mattered. 

He wanted to feel angry, to be a man, but he wasn't angry at anyone but himself, and that was just another form of pathetic. He got off the bed, hot and shaky, and in a dizzy dream put his hands on Alfie's cock, his face up close. He had never seen Alfie naked, though Alfie had seen plenty of him naked. Alfie's cock was new to him, and it was somehow what he expected, thick and rosy and warm, ballsack heavy in his hands, hair everywhere—hard not to get it in your mouth. 

"Tommy. Hey." Fingers were under his jaw, under his armpit, pulling him up. "You don't have to do that. I don't need you to take care of me. This is about getting you safe, alright?" 

His head was muzzy. He swallowed and looked up like Alfie was an angel, far above him. It hurt when he sat back down on the bed, Alfie guiding him so he wouldn't slide off again. 

Alfie knelt down and held his face, patted it a couple times, firm enough to feel. "You with me, Tommy?"

He nodded. 

"Now, I gave you my word, right, that I will never force you into anything again. Not with doctors, and not with Charlie. I kept my word tonight, didn't I?" 

"Yes." He had. He had listened when Tommy said he wanted to go home. He hadn't forced him to stay. That was good. 

Tommy leaned forward and put his chin on Alfie's shoulder, let his arms melt and drip down Alfie's back, hands clasped together. He was safe with Alfie. 

"... nothing to be afraid of, right? Tommy. Listen to me, love. I know you're sick, but I need you to fucking listen. I have to find a way to do this that won't put pressure on that bone, so I need your help. I need you to talk to me. Tell me if it hurts." 

Tommy nodded dumbly. 

He wasn't himself, was he? This wasn't like him. He ought to be worried about the pain. Maybe he was so afraid he had already resigned himself, and it didn't matter how Alfie fucked him, because it would be agony no matter what. 

At that thought, something gave way inside him, and he was suddenly very afraid, cold air freezing through a hole in his stomach, breath raking fast and high through his throat. He could think clearly now, irrationally clearly, and he understood that he was about to take a knot and it was going to hurt like holy hell.

For one blackout instant, he was going to die instead. Of course he was. He wouldn't do that to himself just to live a little longer.

...But then Charlie came back to his mind, and Alfie, and he knew that he would do this, and it sucked the air, high and cold, from his lungs. 

Alfie was there. Alfie saw and knew. And we are gonna get you through this treacle, you're gonna be okay, I'll be as gentle as I can, and hands on him, patting, apologizing for what was coming. 

Get it over, then, why don't you? he thought, angrier than he had a right to be. Jesus Christ. 

He laid flat on his back to start, no weight on the base of his spine, Alfie on all fours over him. His entrance was soft and wet and swollen from the heat, ready to take anything, but Alfie was only half hard. Tommy felt fingers trying to open him up and feed the cock in. It made an odd, squelchy sound and it ached a little and felt invasive, too intimate. Even loosened by the heat, his muscles were tense and sore down there from the slow recovery, and he felt his body fighting the intrusion.

Alfie's fingers slid and tugged harder—it was not as gentle as he'd been promised, Tommy thought—and the soft, heavy cock kept slipping out. 

Alfie swore softly. 

"You're not hard enough," said Tommy, a little bitterly. 

Alfie tried again, pushed slightly with his hips, and Tommy gasped (dull fire through his bones, his muscles, his entire frame jolting with it) and then the slippery wet feeling, and Alfie was falling back out of him. Tommy clenched, tried to hold him in, but the muscles were slack and useless and hurt too much. He was so fucking tender, none of it was any good. His fists were already tangled in the sheets, trying to breathe through it, and he was sweating faster. He felt it pooling in his neck, a rivulet running over down the side of his throat. 

"You have to knot me in the end anyway," he said through gritted teeth. "Don't fucking drag it out." 

"I don't want to hurt you," said Alfie. 

"I'm afraid that's not a fucking option." He didn't know where this was coming from, all the anger, the hardness. It baffled him. 

Alfie didn't say a word. He stroked himself, eyes on Tommy's face the whole time, and Tommy was the one who had to look away because the eye contact was too much. 

He closed his eyes, shaky with smell of his own sweat, suffocating.  

Didn't Alfie understand he was scared enough to fucking piss himself? He didn't want to call the shots. He barely had the courage to let it happen. He was a hair's-breadth away from telling Alfie to leave him to die. He couldn't egg him on through the whole thing, give him permission for every fucking step, or he'd never make it. 

Alfie was harder now. Tommy felt the head at his hole, slipping around a little in the wetness, and he screwed his eyes shut in anticipation, hanging onto the sheets for dear life. 

"Easy, treacle," he heard from above, and he opened his eyes just in time to cram them shut again as the head breached him. That was the burn he'd expected, a beautiful blinding tight burn, the same exhilarating panic as falling from a height, familiar as breathing, with a wave of sickening deep pain from his bone following almost immediately. He clawed at Alfie's chest, trying wordlessly to tell him to stop pushing, to let him breathe. 

Alfie understood, thank God. 

His hips ached, electricity running up his spine and up through his cock and down to his toes, and fucking hell, whenever his muscles spasmed he couldn't think. It was worse than he expected. 

Alfie was kissing him, leaning close and breathing in the air Tommy was panting out, hushing him shakily. "I'm sorry, love. Shh. You're alright, Tommy. You're alright."

He peeled his eyelids up slowly, burningly, to face the room again, and he saw tears standing in Alfie's eyes, mere inches from his own. 

His heart broke open like a creaking dam. His hand found the rough bearded face, and he was trying to come up with the words to comfort Alfie but he couldn't think with a tree trunk up his ass gouging into his back. He opened his lips and couldn't get anything out but the gulps and gapes of a landed fish, so he let his eyes fall shut again and held onto Alfie while a tear trickled down the side of his own. 

It wasn't—he wasn't scared, it just hurt. He was okay, he'd be okay. 

"I'm sorry," Alfie said again, voice thick and unsteady. He wasn't even moving, just lying perfectly still on top with his cock jammed in where it hurt most, trying to comfort Tommy. 

"It's okay," said Tommy, forcing his lips to move. 

Alfie shifted his hips and Tommy went blank, white sheets of lightning and ready to pass out. 

"No, Alfie, Alfie, I can't. Stop. Out." 

Alfie pulled wetly out and Tommy choked in relief. "Fuck." The room swung slowly around, spinning in place, making him gulp.

He pulled one elbow under him. "Bad angle." 

"Right, okay." Alfie looked guilty. Fuck. Alfie didn't deserve this. Not for their first time. Tommy had wanted it to be so good their first time. And his stupid, stupid body.... 

"Can I—" Tommy stopped, swaying and catching himself with an arm braced on the spinning bed. He was so hot he couldn't catch his breath. 

"Whatever you want," said Alfie. 

"Can we try it on a chair? And I'll be on top? Then I can—I'll use my legs. I won't sit straight down." 

"Yes." Alfie dragged the armchair over and sat near the edge of it, letting Tommy straddle him, hands on his broad shoulders. 

He reached down and caught Alfie's cock in his hand, fondled it a long moment, while his legs shook and his forehead rested on Alfie's shoulder. "Take your time, sweet thing," said Alfie, but Tommy could feel him vibrating with his own need, with the heady madness of the fever and the agony of wanting to be back inside. It must be costing him something tremendous to hold back—Tommy knew what alphas were like in response to a heat. He had always assumed they didn't have a choice.

The cock stood tall now, engorged with blood and heavy against Tommy's hand. He kissed Alfie on the cheek, wet and panting, before continuing. He used his hand to line Alfie's cock up with his hole and bent his legs until the pressure started to open him up again.

His breath hitched against Alfie's skin. Shame washed over him at the awareness that the man could feel everything—his clinging fingers and trembling thighs, the tiny catches in his breath, every flinch of his muscles or tightening of his hole. It was a kind of nakedness he couldn't bear. He needed to hide, to make it end. 

Overwhelmed, he hung his head and pushed down, took it all at once, leaning, leaning to make the angle bearable, utterly silent. Alfie gave a rending groan as he bottomed out. 

He dug his face into his knuckles, gripping Alfie's shoulders cruelly tight, putting his weight on his knees, unable to breathe. His pulse hammered fast in his throat. He felt sharp stinging and a muscle-deep, torn sort of pain, but he knew that one. It was okay. He just had to wait it out and try—fuck, try to relax. 

"Fuck, Tommy. What the hell." Alfie was grabbing him by the back of the head, caressing him almost frantically. "Breathe. Breathe, treacle." 

He was trying. He sounded like a winded horse, a high unsteady wheezing. His head roared and his throbbing ass was crawling up into his throat to make him sick. That was his heartbeat down there, thudding against the stretched flesh again and again like an animal in a trap. It sent little tickling sizzles to his cock and balls, and he tried to focus on that. He felt liquid trickle down his leg and hoped, in a flicker of mad humor, that it was glandular fluid and not blood. 

It felt too much like the night Charlie was born, grabbing onto Alfie for dear life. 

"What was that, Tommy, ey? Why the hell would you do that to yourself?" Alfie lamented. A loving hand petted him: the damp hair, the bared scalp beneath, and the viciously tight muscles in his neck.

"Just rest, treacle," said Alfie, absurdly. "Just keep on your knees like that and I'll do the rest. You tell me if it hurts." 

He nodded and bit into his hand until it distracted him from the pain. 

---

Alfie was overwhelmed. Tommy was on his lap, naked and panting, his face close and soaked with sweat, eyes glowing with tears, mouth hanging gaspingly open, lips pressing velvet-soft and frenzied into Alfie's neck. His skin was heated, burning to the touch, and he trembled with need. Alfie wanted to gather him up in his arms and lay him back on the bed in a sweaty tangle of limbs and give him everything he wanted, fuck into him with all the power he had, slapping-hard. But he had to keep his head because Tommy was deep in the fever and not thinking straight—clearly, given the way he'd just shoved himself down on Alfie's cock.

The difficulty was that Alfie found it wildly arousing: the clench, warmth, heat, aftershocks with the hole clamping around him in a rhythmless jumping dance of too much, and the feverish whimpers in his ear, the sound of the wet mouth opening and closing. Holy fucking hell.

He must not—must not—let go. Mustn't let the pleasure invade his head. This was Tommy on his lap. Tommy needed him. 

He needed to knot him now, as gently as he could, get it done with to give Tommy relief from this fever. Once probably wouldn't be enough—not after they'd waited a whole damn week to realize it wasn't the fucking flu—but once would give him a window of relief, and maybe the second time would be easier, and the third easier still. That's what he told himself, anyway, to make it bearable. 

Tommy was relaxing a little—sagging, melting into Alfie's body, every breath exhausted. He was still tight and tense around Alfie's cock, but no longer clenching like a motherfucker. He just trembled, trembled all over, and Alfie saw the flush taking over his body, and he knew the trembling wouldn't stop until climax was reached. This was the point of no return, where Tommy's body needed Alfie to act before the sheer stress on the omega's system put him in a coma. 

No pressure, was it? Just a life hanging on his ability to perform right fucking now, that was all. Bloody hell. 

He held onto Tommy with one arm, braced himself on the chair's arm with the other, and nudged his hips upward into Tommy's. 

He felt the shockwave run through the body, ending in a cracked moan at Alfie's ear. 

That was it. Easy, Tommy. Good boy. 

He did it again...again...again. Tommy's face was buried in Alfie's shoulder. 

Then Alfie began a rhythm, listening to the hot tormenting urge, a pressure beyond anything he could describe. He needed—his gut, his cock, his throat, his whole raging body needed to take Tommy, to claim him from the inside. 

He gave a teeth-gritting growl of a sob, frozen for a long moment, his gasps in harmony with Tommy's high whines. He mustn't hurt him. That was the job, right? Be fucking gentle. He didn't know how to be gentle and build a knot at the same time. 

"Out," gasped Tommy, and Alfie pulled out. It was bloody torture, wasn't it? Working your way up and pulling back again—he'd never seen the appeal in that kind of thing, and his instinct that he wouldn't like it was now thoroughly confirmed. 

But they couldn't wait long. Not with Tommy's eyes fading like dying stars under heavy lids, looking like consciousness was ready to slip away at any moment. 

Alfie reached down and rubbed the crack of Tommy's ass, where the injury was. Tommy gave a loud whimper of protest. 

"Shh, I won't hurt you, love. I fucking won't." He just needed to feel, to know where he was and where Tommy was and be able to move without jarring him too badly. He could stabilize Tommy with his hand, keep him from making sudden movements that would make things worse. 

The moans continued as Alfie pushed back in and rocked, hand still cradling the injury. He felt Tommy drooling, teeth making brief contact with the skin of Alfie's shoulder as he breathed out in harsh gasps. 

"Easy, treacle, breathe. I know. We'll get it done with. Get you what you need. You need my cock in there, now, don't you? I'll just be gentle with it, yeah. Nothing to hurt you, Tommy. Just relax for me, don't fight it. Nothing to hurt you." 

"It does, it bloody hurts," seethed Tommy through spit and barely controlled bursts of breath. He was pinching Alfie's sides bruising-hard, making the red of pain and passion rise to Alfie's face too. Alfie could barely stand his own body's demands as it was, craving, roaring for more heat, more friction, desperate for the knot. It was all he could do to open his eyes and look up at the ceiling, blowing out thick huffs to calm himself, blinking away sweat and the fog of his desire. 

He could have wept, thundered, broken Tommy in half, but he tried to focus on the pain where Tommy was pinching him, to stay awake, stay in control of his actions. He felt Tommy's buttocks under his hands, tender and trusting. 

"I won't hurt you," he said again, as much for himself as for Tommy. His voice sounded thin and strangled. 

He felt it: the burst of hot blood in his cock, the arousal beyond arousal that made him grab hard onto his mate. He fucked up into him, deep, until Tommy cried out, and then he held him, praying the knot would take. 

"Hold on, Tommy. That's it. Help me, love." 

Tommy clenched around the growing knot, an irresistible bodily urge, and gave a shout of pain followed by a long, fierce noise. Alfie held onto him for dear life. 

"Damn you," gasped Tommy, like a dagger in Alfie's side. 

They gasped and gasped, drowning in sweat and heat, too desperate to speak. Alfie's knot was building and holding. Tommy keened in pain that didn't stop. 

Alfie's head was clearing a little before the finale, and he gathered Tommy close, soothing him with his hands up and down his flanks, around the sore muscles of his ass and thighs, and gently, with delicate fingertips, where their bodies were fused together. He felt Tommy from the inside, every breath, every heartbeat, every trembling spasm.

They were doing it. They were doing it together. 

He pulled Tommy's weeping head to his chest and stroked it. "Almost there, love. Feel it? We're almost there." 

Tommy's voice was suddenly strange and bewildered, like it had been the night of the birth. "Get it out. Get it— it hurts." 

"No, no, Tommy, don't fucking do this. Fuck. It's Alfie. You're here with me. We're almost done, right? Nearly there. Stay with me, treacle." 

Minutes they stayed like that, trying to hold still while their bodies bonded, Alfie groaning from time and Tommy crying on his chest. At one point he started to struggle, and Alfie had to hold him in place, writhing slick limbs and little sobs that broke Alfie's heart. 

"No, no, Tommy! No, hold still, mate. You'll hurt yourself. You're okay, love. Shhh. You're alright." 

It wasn't what he'd wanted. Not their first time, not their first bloody bonding. It shouldn't be like this. He should be worshiping Tommy, making him keen in ecstasy, showing him how fucking much he cared. 

When it was over at last and Alfie pulled out, spent and aching, he helped Tommy stand up and stagger back to the bed, where he laid down flat on his back, panting. Alfie lifted one of Tommy's shaking legs, bent at the knee, to check for damage.

Two fingers in the swollen entrance didn't reveal much—just thick, gooey seed, some stained pink from the friction. He would have to watch that. A little blood was okay, but not more than that. 

He leaned over and kissed Tommy tenderly on the forehead. "How's your back, love?" 

"Hurts like the devil," said Tommy. "But that's okay." 

He was cooling already, the heavy flush receding, leaving him pallid and weak. His own release was smeared on both their stomachs, thin and sticky and honey-sweet, the enticing smell of omega. 

"Thank you," he said, tugging at Alfie again, bringing him down for another kiss. Then his face crumpled, an entire world of change in an instant, and he started to cry again.

Alfie laid down beside him and pulled him in close. After a minute, he made out the words I'm sorry.

"I wanted it to be good for you," Tommy sniffled. He was back to the forlorn voice, his eyes vague and wandering. 

Alfie kissed him on the forehead again, hard. He wanted to say that he'd wanted it too, that Tommy deserved so much fucking better. 

"It's alright, treacle," he said instead. "You rest now. We'll get through it." 

Chapter 18: in which tommy recounts a betrayal

Notes:

CONTENT WARNINGS for this chapter in the end notes. Stay safe.

"Where's Charlie?" was the first question Tommy asked when he woke from a fitful, sweaty sleep in the middle of the bed. 

Alfie, by the bright window, turned around to see him half sitting up, his hair a mess, his voice low and croaky. 

"He's with John and Esme, remember? Lizzie took him over last night." He went to the bed and sat down on the edge, feeling bafflingly shy. "How do you feel?" 

Tommy stretched and winced. "I've been better." The blue eyes fastened on Alfie, looking him gravely up and down. "You?" 

"Right as fucking rain," said Alfie. He was a little sore at heart from the way the knotting had gone, and truth be told, his body was already readying for round two, a feeling like acid building in his veins, energy pent up in every muscle; but for the purposes of the question, he was fine. More than anything, he needed to know that he hadn't hurt Tommy. 

He made breakfast while Tommy took a leisurely bath, and they ate on the bed, Alfie ravenously, Tommy languidly. 

"You think you ought to take something before that fever comes back, treacle?"

During a full heat, an omega's body produced copious amounts of pain-relieving hormones after each cycle—probably why Tommy wasn't currently doubled over begging to be shot—but under the circumstances, Alfie figured his mate could use all the help he could get. 

Tommy nodded. "Some of your excellent rum, if you have a bottle handy." 

"That I do. But don't you want the stuff from the doctor?" 

Tommy looked at him with very clear, tired eyes. "The rum," he said evenly. 

So they laid on the bed in the sunshine, freshly washed and sore, and Tommy sipped from the rum bottle every so often while Alfie embellished stories to make him laugh. 

Despite the pain, there was something softer about Tommy now. When Alfie looked over at him, he couldn't stop staring at the fog-blue of his eyes, the faint freckling on his cheekbone and upper lip. His lips were rosy from being kissed, and Alfie wanted to keep kissing them, to suck all the rum off them and fill Tommy's deep, hot mouth with his own scent. 

He was beautiful always, but when he laughed— 

Alfie ached, inside and out. He wanted him like this. He wanted him for-fucking-ever. 

Tommy leaned his head back on the pile of pillows and rolled his eyes to look at Alfie. "What's the matter?" 

Those sea-glass eyes would be the death of him. 

"Nothing's the matter." Alfie gave in to temptation and stole a soft kiss. "Not a bloody thing. How's your back?" 

"It's my fucking ass," said Tommy, rolling onto his side and then his front with some difficulty. He clapped his hand down on Alfie's and turned his head back to face him again. "You don't have to mince words." 

"Well, then," Alfie said patiently, "to be fucking pedantic about the correct anatomical terms, how is your fucking ass?" 

"Killing me. But I am, you note, alive to be killed." 

This was a new Tommy: a mildly drunk, mildly witty Tommy with a terribly sardonic eyebrow to mask his pain. 

Before Alfie could respond, the hand on his squeezed tighter and the thumb rubbed a nervous circle in the center of his palm. "Alfie, there's something I need to tell you. Before we're bonded." 

"You should have thought of that a week ago, mate, because we are pretty well on the way," said Alfie.

Tommy didn't laugh. 

Alfie waited a second or two. "What is it, treacle?" 

"I—when I met Lizzie, there were things she didn't know about me." He was slow and halting, every word careful, as if he was picking his way over broken glass. "And I didn't tell her. I should have told her, and I didn't." 

Alfie frowned. He didn't know why his heart was thumping, and he didn't know why he didn't care what Tommy was about to say—all he cared about was the way his eyelashes were bent against the pillow, like a blackbird's wing broken and spread out on white snow. 

"My father, you know he left us when my brother Finn was a baby." Tommy swallowed. "That was my doing." 

Alfie rubbed his nose and whiskers and snuffled to fill the silence. 

"I saw him slap my sister Ada and push her into a wall, and I lost my temper. I told him I could take care of the family better than he could, and I told him to fuck off." The black brows crumpled under the dark hair, still damp from the bath. His lips looked sweetly bitter. "He was terrible with money. Fucking poured out of his pockets. He drank and he gambled and he loved risky ventures. And he fell back on me when he needed a pocketful of quick cash." 

Alfie didn't guess what he meant until he saw Tommy's eyes, a haunted ocean under storm-dark skies. 

"From the time I was nine. I was the only omega, so he thought he might as well get some use out of me." His tone was measured, as if he'd recited it—or heard it said—a thousand times.

Alfie's breathing stopped. 

"I was supporting my whole fucking family when I was nine."

The quiet heat in Tommy's voice was outmatched by Alfie's boiling, towering rage. He didn't know where to look, what to do. His hands were ready to kill, and he had nowhere to put them. 

"Fucking hell," he said, because it was the only thing to say. 

"The worst part was he taught me to be proud of it. I knew I had to keep quiet because it was illegal, but I was proud to be the one putting money in my mother's jar and bread on the table. Even if my father was the only one who knew. It was our secret, he said. And he was proud of me. The only fucking thing he ever said he was proud of me for. Because I knew how to keep a secret and to take a cock every way a boy can take it." The bitterness was scalding now. 

Alfie wanted to drag him close and hug him until his ribs cracked, but he couldn't move. He stayed there, barely breathing, paralyzed with reverence for the suffering of a dark-haired little boy who didn't exist anymore. 

"I've been with a lot of people," Tommy said, flushed with shame. "Men and women, all types. I'm clean, but I'm not—I'm not innocent, Alfie. I did a lot of things I'm ashamed of. The things people want from a boy because he's—because it's already taboo, so there's no line to cross. There's no limit. You've already missed the crossroads, days ago." 

He seemed to be tangled in the metaphor and not sure how to get out. 

Alfie offered his respect in the form of privacy, looking down and clearing his throat, giving Tommy the space to work his way toward the next sentence. 

"Early on I nearly bit one man's dick off," came the surprising words, close to laughter. "Worst strapping I ever had when my father got his hands on me, but it was worth it." 

Alfie wanted to break his heart open and tuck Tommy inside, put all that hurt where it would be safe. 

"Well, I drove him off, that day with Ada. It was the only time I ever raised my voice or my hand to him. I told him what I thought of him." 

"I hope to hell you told him he was as pathetic and disgusting a son of a bitch as ever walked the fucking earth," said Alfie. 

Tommy's lashes fluttered downward. "I told him a lot of things," he said, swallowing, and his jaw went hard. "I was angry. I didn't expect him to leave." A long, scattered breath. "The next time I saw him was years after. When I was engaged to Lizzie. He was in town, and I got a message calling me down to the police station." 

Alfie felt sick and he didn't know why. He closed his eyes to listen and imagined Tommy's face. 

"He was always in and out of trouble, you know. Petty theft, gambling debts, fucking pub brawls. And I was arrogant. The horse business was booming and I had shoes on my feet and money in my pocket and a ring on my finger." Alfie heard the soft exhale of dread. "I imagined he was calling me to apologize and to ask me to bail him out, since I was a big man now. I had some stupid notion he was coming back to join the family. When I got there, they took me around the back and he was there in the inspector's office." 

Alfie opened his eyes at the long pause and when he saw Tommy's face, he wanted to reach out and offer comfort, but he didn't dare. 

"My father, apparently, had swindled a few of the wrong people, and the Chief Inspector, Campbell, had the evidence. It was that money my father used to purchase the run-down stables he bought on a whim before he left. I built the entire family business on stolen money." He reached for the rum and drank, then set it on the pillow with a hiss at the burn. "You understand, Alfie? Our livelihood, mine and Lizzie's, Arthur and John and their families, Ada and Finn and our cousins. All built on a foundation of fucking straw. All Campbell had to do was pass the information into the right hands, and we'd go up in flames, drowning in lawsuits, debtor's prison, kids in the workhouse. But...."

He clucked as if to chide a wayward horse. Alfie recognized dull resignation in his eyes, a dullness beyond the comforting haze of the rum.

"But this Inspector Campbell was a man of particular tastes. And he was willing, he said, to let my father off scot-free and leave the business untouched, for a—a bribe." 

"Fuck." Alfie rubbed his hand over his eyes, down his face and beard, drawing in a breath and letting it out in a slow stream. "Tommy, you don't have to tell me this." He set a hand on Tommy's back. "I trust you." 

Tommy shook his head. "I never told Lizzie. I should have told her. I lost her because I couldn't fucking talk about it." He looked sick to his stomach, curled over a bent elbow. "I told them I was pregnant and they didn't listen. I wasn't showing. But I had just—I know it was early, but I'd felt the baby move, I think, a few days before. My father held me down on the table, and the old man took his fucking bribe." 

"Bloody hell, Tommy."

He reached out and fondled the shaved back of Tommy's head. Tommy sank his face into the pillow, only his mouth kept free, to speak into the hollow between his arm and the bed. 

"I didn't have the courage to tell her, and after we lost the baby, there didn't seem to be a point. One lie was as good as another. I was—I don't think I was in my right mind. I was having nightmares. Drinking a lot. Taking things to sleep." 

"Of course you were." He shouldn't blame himself for that. 

Tommy rolled his head into Alfie's arms. He was getting warm again, the smell of soap being overtaken by the smell of sweat. "You know Lizzie. She deserves better than that." He sounded angry and afraid and exhausted. 

"You deserved better than that," said Alfie fiercely. 

Tommy shook his head numbly. "There's more," he whispered. 

"Tommy, I don't give a fuck. You're mine now. Nobody else's. Fuck the rest of 'em." 

Tommy let out a long sigh, a whimper, and clung closer. 

Alfie could see it coming back: the fever and the restlessness, and his own body was responding, molten heat building in his core. 

"How do you feel, Tommy?" he asked gently, smoothing the dark hair back from his forehead. 

He looked lazy and lost. "Fine," he murmured, then hid his face. "Alfie...I'm scared." 

Alfie wasn't feeling especially brave himself at the moment, but he pulled Tommy to his knees and they leaned on each other for a minute, reckoning with their bodies. He didn't know what to do when Tommy was like this.

"It won't hurt as much this time," he said. 

Notes:

Discussion of child sex trafficking. Non-graphic.

Discussion of adult rape. Non-graphic.

Chapter 19: in which tommy receives absolution

Notes:

Big monster of a chapter. Thank you all for sticking with me through the intensity. I appreciate your comments so much.

It was different, the second time. 

It might have been because Tommy was so drunk on hormones and rum and that thick layer of numbness and bewilderment that now made perfect, sickening sense to Alfie. It might have been because Alfie knew these things now that he couldn't un-know, and whatever drive he had felt to protect and care for Tommy had doubled, tripled since hearing what he'd heard. 

The thought of Tommy's father made him livid. He would like to kill the bastard slowly, with a broken wine bottle and a bread knife. That would be a fitting end for a good Catholic man, he thought: a sacrifice with bread and wine, and some blood mixed with the wine, yeah, because they were all about fathers sacrificing their fucking sons for the greater good, weren't they? That was where the Christians all went fucking wrong. The point of Abraham and Isaac was that it didn't bloody happen, did it? Fathers trying to make sacrifices of their sons weren't allowed to go through with it, right, because it was fucking barbaric. 

Tommy hadn't deserved to be laid on the altar like that, not even to feed his family. 

He gave a heavy shudder, like an animal shaking off a biting fly. That was, he thought, why the Christian children had all been holy terrors, pelting him with shit and rocks in the street as he covered his head and ran past on his way home. Nothing worse than to be a child, was there, in a world that worshiped the sacrifice of children? Nothing fucking worse. It wasn't natural. Charlie wasn't even born his, right, and he would cut off his fucking arm before he let someone harm Charlie. 

Tommy lay sideways on the bed this time, one leg spread up and over Alfie's shoulder, the other straight and motionless between Alfie's knees. It was a strange angle, but it gave Alfie easy access and it kept everything in sight, so he could see as well as feel the angle of entry. He was rocking in so fucking slowly, the quiet squelch of their bodies like a hand milking a cow one sluggish squeeze at a time. 

There was almost no reaction from Tommy, he was sunk so deeply into that drowsy state. A moan from time to time, a vague drunken whine and shudder when Alfie's hip made accidental contact with the bone; that was all. 

He kicked himself every time it happened. He was trying so bloody hard to be careful. 

Tommy didn't cry or fight when he was knotted this time, just screwed his face up, the whole body going into an endless timeless moment of convulsion, a spasm that caught and held for minutes. Alfie hunched halfway forward over him, locked in place, arms guarding Tommy's head, his face falling into Tommy's hard bare chest, and Tommy reached a hand up and buried clawing fingers in Alfie's hair. 

"You alright?" panted Alfie, hardly able to speak above the thundering of the blood in his veins, a tide with a powerful undertow dragging at his whole being, beginning at his groin. 

Tommy made a wordless noise through his grimace, too small to be a grunt, too meaningless to be reassurance. 

When Alfie came, in wild, body-shaking spurts of pure heat, Tommy shook too, but he didn't release. His cock was still swollen, deep purply-red against his pale flesh. "Alfie," he said, high and shaky, almost panicked-sounding. 

"'I've got you, love," said Alfie.

He was in love, in fucking love with Tommy, the roughness in his chest and the warmth everywhere, honey-strong, every fiber of his being vibrating with the want to care for him and make him happy. 

The knot softened slowly, still trapped inside Tommy's body, so Alfie caressed and kissed him, distracting him with deep sucking moans on his mouth, on his chest, on his neck, leaving marks. Tommy was whining, mouth open—would have been writhing, Alfie thought, if he hadn't had to keep his hips perfectly still—and it made Alfie lightheaded with love. He reached back at last with gentle fingers and began to pull Tommy toward release, and Tommy was so sensitive it didn't take much.

Desperate as he'd been for climax, the spasms still hurt him. Alfie felt the muscles clamping hard around him, the ripping pain in the roots of his hair where Tommy's hand was—knew what it must be doing to him, saw it in his face. 

By the time Alfie was finally able to pull out, hot and tender and exhausted, he had so much anger and grief and self-hatred built up against the inside of his chest that it splintered like a door under a battering ram. 

He lowered his face to the innocent chest mottled with red kisses and let out an animal sound of grief. 

Tommy hadn't fought him at all this time—he had been so quiet, so painfully, patiently good—and Alfie couldn't help the sick, awful thoughts that kept tearing at his mind, wondering whether Tommy had fought that day at the police station, swearing and struggling, or whether he'd been like this, barely present, too compliant, letting it all happen as if he was a body without a soul. 

He didn't want to wonder that. And he didn't want to be the one on top of Tommy making him hurt. 

Then he heard Tommy breathing, felt the firm rise and fall in the muscle and bone beneath his forehead, and he felt the hand clenched like rigor mortis in his hair loosen, and Tommy was petting him, shushing and soothing him like a mother. 

"It's okay," he kept saying. "It's alright, Alfie." 

Alfie wanted to kill, wanted to line up every person who'd ever fucked Tommy for money and rip the throats out of them. 

He nosed his way upward until he found Tommy's mouth and kissed him, slow and deep, swallowing down the taste of him, brushing his hair back from his ear with an adoring thumb. 

They lay side by side on their backs awhile after that, grateful for the relief, and Alfie could feel Tommy coming back from the exile of fever, the man he knew slowly surfacing. 

"Are you alright?" Tommy asked, his voice deep and cracking stiffly. 

"Yeah, mate, I'm alright," said Alfie, not at all sure it was the truth. 

"What happened?" 

Alfie thought for a minute and couldn't put it into words, couldn't even come up with a long-winded excuse, so he said, "I dunno, mate." 

"Did I do something?" 

"No. You're fine. You were perfect," said Alfie, patting Tommy's thigh without looking down. "You need anything?" 

Tommy cleared his throat. "Water." 

Alfie needed water too, and a meal. He was bloody starving. 

He brought towels and a basin and they cleaned up together, then ate and drank—slower this time, watching the lazy sun filter through the curtains and fall, lacy and dancing, on the floorboards. Alfie rolled over and kissed Tommy's marked chest and neck, lightly this time, soft presses of his lips against the cooling skin. Tommy still smelled sweet, the lingering scent of his own come on his body. Lower down they both smelled like Alfie, a rich musk that made the blood pump faster at the first whiff. 

After a minute, Tommy took a slow breath. "I need the morphine," he said. "Right fucking now." 

Alfie clambered out of bed and fetched it from the bathroom, and he watched as the pale tightness around Tommy's lips loosened and his body relaxed again. 

"Thanks," Tommy said. He ran his tongue over his lips and sighed in relief, looking up at the ceiling. His eyes were so blue today, like pools of clear water. 

Guilt sat on Alfie's chest like a bucket of lead. 

He should have known living in close proximity like this would trigger Tommy's heat. It was his own fault. If he hadn't had such a fucking hard-on for Tommy, there wouldn't have been anything for the omega's system to respond to. 

Should have fucking known. 

Morphine always made Tommy sleepy, so Alfie laid down and took him in his arms. He set his face against the faintly freckle-spattered one, felt the strong brow, the stubborn jaw, the quietly sinking lashes, the cream-soft lips that melted under his. Tommy breathed in and tilted his face and gave Alfie a look like he'd never seen anything more beautiful. 

Alfie quivered inside. He wasn't used to being looked at like that. 

He kissed Tommy again so he wouldn't have to meet the wistfulness in those eyes.

He drew him in close, and they both slept soundly, maybe more soundly than they had in weeks. 

---

Tommy jarred awake, sick with fear, and didn't remember why. 

His throat was dry, his eyes stung and welled in the heavy air. Alfie was still holding him. The lamps were out, and the room was getting dark. 

He had been choking to death, he thought. Someone shoving a hand down his throat till it killed him from the inside out and he couldn't breathe at all. His limbs were putty and his stomach hurt. 

Alfie stirred at the feeling of Tommy moving in his arms and put a hand on his head, tucked him closer where it was very warm, almost hot, and said in a thick sticky sleepy voice, "You alright, treacle?" 

He held onto Alfie, sweaty and clinging. His heart was still racing. 

"Your back sore, is it?"

He nodded, still too taken up with breathing to talk. 

"You want something for it, mate?" 

He didn't answer. He was too tired. He clung tight to Alfie, wishing for a kiss. 

Alfie didn't kiss him but rubbed his bare back in circles. The hammering heartbeat made Tommy feel ill. He was chilled, cold and hot at the same time. 

"Fuck, it's bad, innit? That bad, Tommy?" 

It wasn't the pain. It was everything else, the dream he couldn't remember.

"Let me fetch your medicine." Alfie started to sit up. 

"Alfie—Alfie." He held him there. He didn't want medicine. He just wanted to lie quiet in the safety of those arms.

Alfie's eyes took on a tender gleam in the dark. He slid one arm under Tommy's head and neck, let him rest his sweaty face against the strong shoulder. The other arm went over him, the hand sliding down to Tommy's lower back, weighted and warm, and then down further to Tommy's ass, very gently massaging the muscles. 

"Is it better when I rub it, or worse?"

Tommy didn't know. His head was crumbling from the inside, glowing cinders turning to dust, but Alfie was holding him, so it would be okay soon. He closed his eyes and waited.

It couldn't stay unbearable forever. Nothing ever did.

They both smelled of sleep-breath and sweat, with a hint of camphor and sour goat milk on the bed left over from Charlie, but the smell of Alfie was there too, whatever stuff it was he put on his beard—a rich, rainy citrus that Tommy breathed in like the smell of the earth herself, a smell of calm and safety. 

They smelled like sex, too, and that always made Tommy feel weak in the head, a little faint, a little fuzzy. 

A tiny moan slid out of him.

"What is it, treacle?" 

He didn't know. He wanted Alfie. Everything in his craving heart, his aching worn-out body, his bones that creaked and screeched like the battered frame of an old house, all of him wanted Alfie near him, with him, inside him. He wanted to be kissed again. He didn't want to be touched below the waist, and yet he did. That part of him wanted Alfie too, irrationally, worshipfully, self-destructively. 

The fever was coming back, and he was scared. He wanted Alfie to save him from it. 

This was the one, he could feel it. After this one he'd be free—and, at the same time, never free again, because he and Alfie would be bonded. He felt it already in the way his body reacted, even to the feel of Alfie's breath on his face. It went beyond the mating drive and the hormonal mirroring and the pheromonal mingling; it was a tie between them, heavy and solid, steady as the earth herself. It was something he would never lose, he thought. 

He wanted to live and die with Alfie. He wanted that face next to him as long as he was here in the world. He wanted Alfie's mark on his body, a scar in the shape of Alfie's teeth, unique as a fingerprint, branding him as belonging. 

It was the fever, wasn't it? Was it normal to think all this? 

His last full heat had been with Lizzie, and he remembered feeling drugged like this, imagining life with her forever—but she had already made plans to marry him then, so he had been thinking those things anyway. 

He didn't know.

He looked at Alfie again and felt the kindling in his chest, the ease in his heart, the rightness and safety, all despite his body and the way it was broken and sore and crying at him for rest. 

No, it was him. This was the real Tommy, deep-down, the Tommy he'd hidden away where no one could reach it, telling him that Alfie was right, that Alfie was safe, and that Alfie was what he wanted. 

He hadn't wanted anything in a long time, so this one must be important. 

"Fuck," he said out loud, softly, very calmly, and without knowing he was going to say it.

Quiet despair—that was the feeling. Fear that he was too afraid to feel, so it came to him in the usual form, a serene conviction that it was all hopeless anyway and he needed to fold his wishes back up and return them to the locked drawer where they belonged. 

"You need your fucking medicine," said Alfie, sitting up with a grunt. 

"No," said Tommy. "No—Alfie, stay. Listen to me." 

If he didn't get it out now, he might never find the courage again. 

He felt sick. 

"You can't love me," he said. A terrible way to begin. The worst thing he could have said. 

Alfie looked confused, of course. 

That wasn't what he meant. 

"I have to tell you about my mother," he tried again—not much better, since it was his father he had to talk about first. 

Damn it all. He felt stupid, ashamed of himself and his family, ashamed of the way he was lying naked on Alfie's bed and making him confused. 

Maybe he'd told too much already. Because it wasn't about his family, was it? It was himself. He was the one problem, and it was himself Alfie need to know and be warned of. 

Whatever Lizzie had told Alfie was right. 

The clumsiness of all his thoughts overwhelmed him. Nothing was coming clear to him. 

He didn't feel right loving Alfie without warning him first. And it wasn't just the years of filth and fucking poverty, the way his body had been used as a dumping ground for the worst fantasies of shameful, spiteful people. It was what he'd become afterwards. 

It was the way he had become like them, with that shame and spitefulness entwined in him like a poisonous vine grown into the bark of a tree. He wouldn't be a good husband to Alfie. He shouldn't be cared for and treated tenderly and looked at with those pure, adoring eyes when he was hiding that inside him. 

He looked up and Alfie was waiting, patient and confused and concerned. 

Tommy wanted to sit up because lying here was so silly, so stupid and uncomfortable, but he knew the pain would get vicious if he tried to move, so he didn't. He was glad it was dark. 

"I slapped my father across the face," he said, and that was just as ridiculous, but it took him more in the direction he needed to go, so he forged onward. "I didn't even hit him with a fist. I was angry at him for slapping Ada, but that wasn't it." It still didn't make much sense the way he was telling it. 

"I despised him," he said. 

The slow cave, the void of despair and nothing, was opening up under him. He remembered the feeling and hated it. 

"He wouldn't have left if it was just a fight. He fought with my mother all the time. He fought with my brother Arthur sometimes. He used to beat Arthur with his fists instead of with the belt the way he did the rest of us. He—Arthur was—"

That wasn't what he wanted to say. 

He couldn't tell all of it because it wasn't his story to tell. 

"I humiliated my dad." That was where it hurt, the truth of what he'd done. "I wanted him to feel small. I played dirty because I knew him so fucking well, better than anyone, because we were the same. I ripped him fucking open, Alfie." 

"You were not the same," said Alfie, his first response, and he sounded utterly sure. The simple faith in him broke Tommy's heart. 

He shook his head. "I made him leave. He couldn't stay after the things I said." 

His father couldn't bear shame. Tommy sometimes thought it was the only thing his father wanted in life—to not be shamed. He knew that, and he had still done it. He'd stood there in the kitchen and dismantled a man's soul, piece by fucking piece, and he had enjoyed it. 

"He hated omegas because his father was one," he told Alfie. "His mother was an alpha and she treated his father like dirt. My aunt Polly told me. That's why Dad grew up the way he did. He couldn't bear being weak." 

Tommy sniffed—his nose was running from the pressure in his head, and his stomach was sour and full of acid. He closed his eyes so he didn't have to look at Alfie. "I told him I knew he'd been pretending his whole fucking life. It was just an act. I knew he was a beta, and how—he dressed to disguise it, and kept imitation pheromones at the back of his whiskey stash, and talked big and made jokes about everyone who wasn't an alpha. He hated himself, I think." 

It hurt to say it out loud, because he knew the feeling so damn well. He'd always been told he was the most like his mother, but that was because no one saw the deep-down parts of him and that secret world his father had built for him to live in, that cage of black, seething disgust for his own existence, disgust that he had never, ever been good enough to love. 

"I told him I knew. I told him that everybody knew and he was a fucking joke everywhere he went." 

He had watched the mask fall. He had hammered right through the flimsy, brittle case his father lived in until it cracked and fell, a useless shell, leaving him naked. He had seen his grandmother's little boy cowering in front of him. 

The shame was unbearable, a mirror to his own torment. It was the same way he had felt the first time someone looked down at him shivering in pain and called him a dirty whore. And he had done that, with an open palm and his fucking words. 

He had gone out of the kitchen, left his father cracked open raw and leaking out, pus-and-blood-like, a wound he couldn't heal, and he had vomited out in the alley. 

Nineteen years old, young and stupid, but old enough to understand what he'd done. And his father had stalked out, the way he always did, but that time he hadn't come back. 

"Tommy," said Alfie. 

He had forgotten, for a few seconds, that Alfie was here. 

"Your father was a brute, you hear me? He fucking tortured you." A hand, a warm, strong hand, wrapped around his. "Personally, now, I would've beaten the ever-loving shit out of him." 

That wasn't it. It wasn't about that.

Alfie hadn't been there. He didn't know how Tommy had tasted that power and savored it like blood, wanted more. 

"You've got to forgive yourself for it, treacle. You kicked back one time. You're bloody human like the rest of us." 

No. No, he didn't understand. 

He pulled his hand away and shook his head, wanting to cover his ears. "Alfie, Alfie. Just listen. I need to get this out." 

He rolled onto his front, dropped his head into his arm. "That—man. The police inspector." 

Alfie was silent, but Tommy could feel the rage sloughing off him like sweat. 

"There was a—he had a woman. A beta. Not his, but he'd loved her for years. Sent her flowers every Sunday." He wasn't making sense. That didn't matter, that part about the flowers. 

Fuck, his head. He was so miserable and fucking confused. 

"I wanted to get back at him, too. After everything. I told you, when I lost the baby I wasn't thinking right. I was going crazy. I was losing Lizzie too, and I was angry, and I kept—every night I was having these dreams about being a kid again." 

He swallowed, took a breath, looked at his arm and didn't recognize it. He had to get through this somehow. 

"So when Grace came back to town, I saw my chance to get even. And it wasn't because I was grieving, Alfie. I wish it was, but it wasn't. I wanted revenge and to make him small, like my father. I wanted to do to him what he did to me and see him writhe like a fucking worm."

He was choking with rage now, with regret, spit building up in his mouth. 

Alfie rubbed his arm. 

"I used her, Alfie. I was a fucking cad. I'd heard she liked a pretty face, so I arranged to bump into her in a public place and I seduced her." He almost laughed. "They always told me I was a whore." 

He was blinking, hardly sane, trying to pull his thoughts free from the tangle in his throat. 

"I got her sympathy by talking about the baby. And I made her think I loved her. We started sleeping together. We did it five or six times at her flat."

And then. 

His voice was low and rough, reluctant to say it out loud. "Then, one night, I called him on his phone at his office. I bragged like a sailor." Bragged like my father. "I told him if his patrolman looked up on his rounds, into the window of Grace's flat, he would see her with a man. With Arthur Shelby's boy. I taunted him, and I enjoyed it." 

His heart was thudding in his chest, and Alfie's hand on his arm, comforting, felt dreadfully wrong. 

"I underestimated him. I fucking—" 

"Breathe, treacle," said Alfie, low and somber. 

"He showed up with a gun," said Tommy. He breathed, but it was too high and shallow. "He was ready to shoot me. We were both naked. She got up. She—he wanted to shoot me."

He had to stop. Couldn't think. He was sweating, heat all over, swimming in it. 

Alfie was close, his hand on Tommy's neck now, stroking him. 

He had to find his anger, the humorless laugh that helped him come back from madness. "She took the bullet," he said, getting it over with. "Bled out on the couch while I kept screaming at him to call a fucking ambulance. He had the gun and wouldn't let me up." He licked his dry lips and pinched the lower one hard in his teeth until he could laugh again, that arid laugh flickering like fire in his aching head. "I could have tried, I suppose. I kept—pressing on her, trying to stop the—" 

Alfie was breathing on his neck, holding him. 

"He had it cleaned up privately." His eyes were wet. "I didn't testify because he still—it was fucking stupid, picking a fight with him. Everything he knew. He threatened me." 

"And your family," Alfie said shrewdly. 

"Yes." 

"You didn't kill her, Tommy. That bastard did. He's the one who pulled the fucking trigger, not you." 

"It doesn't matter." All of it came rushing up into his mouth like vomit, horrible and convulsive. The guilt. He loathed his bragging, arrogant self, picking vulture-like at the wounds of bigger men.

"I used her," he said harshly, not sparing a single word of it. "And she died trying to protect me. She thought I loved her." He shook his head and the laugh was aloud, this time. "I didn't feel a fucking thing for her." 

"Tommy, mate. Stop." Alfie was pulling him up, getting an arm underneath him, helping him breathe. "Fuck, you're getting warm again." 

He was, he was too warm, and getting dizzy in the dark. Alfie was solid strength, like leaning against a horse. 

"It was my fault," he said, floating in the dark, hanging from Alfie's shoulders, hanging around his neck, mouth wickedly close to Alfie's skin, wanting to kiss him. He accepted the comfort and the big gentle hands rubbing up and down his sides, selfish even now, even as he was laying out his sins. "I have that devil in me from my father, Alfie. I wanted to see him break. I wanted to humiliate him, and I wanted to humiliate Campbell. I enjoyed it, you understand? And two women are dead." 

Alfie shook his head, pulled him in tighter, rubbed his back. 

This was beautiful, and it hurt, and he didn't want it to end, Alfie holding him like this in the dark. 

"Your mother?" asked Alfie. 

Tommy nodded. It was all coming out now, like birthing the baby. He just had to get it out, and maybe all his insides would fall out too, but it was too late to stop it. 

"After my dad left. She found out about the fight and smacked me around the head for it, you know. Nothing—it was nothing. She had a temper. Finn was a baby, just new. There was—" He wasn't making sense again, bringing up things that didn't matter. He shook his head. "My Uncle Charlie saw the bruise on my face and he talked to her."

It was too much, all suddenly, out of nowhere. He was fighting a tidal wave of grief, warm and wet and stormy, trying to get out. "After that she didn't treat me the same. She knew. I saw it in her eyes."

He drew in an awful, ragged breath. "She wasn't supposed to ever fucking know. Uncle Charlie knew because he caught me a couple times, taking a piss or having a cry out back, after—and he found blood in my trousers once. A pair I was trying to throw out so my mother wouldn't know. She hated how I went through trousers." 

Fuck, he couldn't breathe. 

"She wasn't the same, Alfie. She left us in her head. She went off, disappeared for weeks and came back with a pony I was too big to ride, but she gave it to me instead of Ada." 

It hadn't been for him, really. He knew that. It was for the little boy who didn't exist anymore, the boy she was trying to apologize to. 

"Then she ended it. We found her in a pond under a tree, out by the pasture." 

That was it.

It was done now, and he was so, so tired. 

He kissed Alfie's neck, quiet and final. A kind of blasphemy, really. Asking for what he didn't deserve. 

It was that little-boy longing he'd never been able to kill, just wanting to be loved, after everything. Despite everything. 

And Alfie—Alfie was his god now, and Alfie turned his face toward him, beard scratching along Tommy's smooth jaw that couldn't grow one. 

"You hungry, treacle?" he said, his voice a little unsteady. A gentle hand carded through Tommy's hair. "There's brisket left in the ice chest." 

It was the last thing on earth Tommy expected him to say, but it sent such a flood of relief through his body that he couldn't answer right away. 

"Yes," he said, faintly, after a minute. 

"I've got bread too." 

"Sure." Tommy nodded and blinked and squeezed his eyes shut on Alfie's shoulder. "Bread sounds good." 

Alfie kissed him on the side of the head, then pulled his face forward and kissed him on the lips, tender and slow. "Stay here. You're sore, right, so don't fucking get up and try to help. I'll bring it up." 

Alfie lit the lamps and they ate again and lay in each other's arms. 

It was a long, beautiful night. Gentle, the third and last time. Tommy was on top, draped over Alfie's body with a leg on either side, and Alfie held him and kissed his face and cried with him when it hurt too much. 

The sweat was everywhere, sliding between them, and Tommy came first this time, and it smeared all over Alfie's stomach as they went on. 

When Alfie knotted him, he let the shocks and cramps roll through his body and breathed through it, deep and fierce.

He rocked upward a little, until he felt the tug, just on the fair side of danger, and whispered to Alfie to mark him. And Alfie did: he put his teeth in the tender place between Tommy's chest and shoulder and bit down, and the thrum in Tommy's blood was so thick and sweet and wild that he barely felt it. 

It wasn't the screaming, messy affair he'd always heard about, with the bloodlust taking over and the omega shrieking, howling like a dog being worried by another dog's fangs. 

Alfie wiped the bleeding place with the edge of the sheet—how many of Alfie's sheets had he ruined now?—and said hoarsely, "You're so beautiful. Tommy, you're a bloody angel, you are." 

He threw his face on Alfie and kissed him, and kissed him, and didn't stop until he was completely exhausted and the shrunken knot was slipping out of him in a soft mess of slick and come and blood, and he was gasping against Alfie's shoulder at the last pulsing stretch, the last burn, and it was over and they were together. And they were okay. 

Alfie laid him down, ever so carefully, and cleaned him with wet rags and told him he was good. 

Tomorrow they would call John, and Esme would bring Charlie back. 

He was nearly asleep and it was a cool night, starlight peeking through Alfie's mum's lace curtains. Alfie leaned over to him and said, a bit muffled, "I'm sorry about your mother." 

He let it sink in awhile, let it soak into the mix of grief and shame and unbearable regret that lay pooled in the bottom of his heart. At last he took in a deep breath, sighed, and turned his face toward Alfie. He found Alfie's hand and held it until he fell asleep. 

---

It was early, the light dawnlike, when Alfie woke to the sound of a commotion under the window. A motorcar, and a loud voice—more than one—followed by a loud banging on the front door. 

Tommy was stirring, hair a mess and blue eyes bleary, face pink on one side from being crumpled into the pillow. At the sound of the banging, his eyes wavered and went knife-sharp, frozen in fear. 

A shout came up through the window: "Alfred Solomons? It's police! Open up!" 

Chapter 20: in which the bell strikes three

Notes:

This chapter finally finishes out the events covered in the prompt. Only took me 20 chapters! Thanks again to elskierr for the inspiration.

We're almost at the end of part 1. A few more chapters.

"Don't go down." Tommy watched with unfocused eyes as Alfie buttoned his shirt and pulled on his trousers. Alfie saw the lump in his throat bob as he swallowed. 

He spat on his hand and ran it over his hair and beard, flattening the worst parts. "I'll just talk to them, Tommy. It'll be alright. Might be something to do with the brewery, mightn't it? We've had break-ins before." 

"Just get back in bed and wait till they fucking leave." Tommy's upper body sagged. He braced against the mattress, waited another moment. "Alfie." 

But Alfie was irritated at being dragged out of bed by the noise outside, and he was sore and stiff from all yesterday's fucking, and he was not in a mood to be told what to do. "Lie back down, mate. Won't take but a minute," he said, stepping out of reach and out the bedroom door—the last moment he and Tommy would ever be together in that room. 

He met the officers at the door, three of them, with his shirt untucked and his sleeves rolled up. "Alfred Solomons?" asked the one directly in front of him. 

"That is the name my mother gave me," Alfie said. He blinked in deferent sarcasm. "How may I be of help to you fine gentlemen, at, you know, five-thirty in the fucking morning?" 

He wished, afterwards, that he hadn't come out with his rapier of a tongue at the ready. It might have been easier to talk to them, right. To make them listen. 

Because they didn't. They didn't bloody listen, not at the door, nor in the hours at the police station afterward. Tommy had been right: they were here for him. They'd been sent to investigate Alfie for abuse, they said, and to escort Tommy to public omega housing until it could be verified that he was legally in possession of his alpha's baby— 

"Alfie?" Low and tenuous. Tommy, behind him, standing at the bottom of the stairs with a frown, chalk-pale and holding onto the banister for support. 

That image haunted him. 

Tommy wasn't well. He was very quiet but shaking when the officers led him to the car, struggling to breathe, red cheeks and frighteningly pale lips. Halfway there he stumbled, and one of the officers grabbed him around the middle to keep him from going down. He snapped and fought like a feral cat. 

Alfie shouldered his way into the flying fists and jabbing elbows, getting between Tommy and the larger of the two men trying to subdue him. "Hey, Tommy, Tommy—fuck, mate, be fucking gentle, he's got an injury, alright? Tommy, listen." 

Two of them had Alfie by the arms now, pinning them to his back. He felt handcuffs locking on behind him. He didn't fight, but he didn't move either; he stayed with Tommy, and Tommy grabbed him, clung to him, eyes shock-blue and unseeing. He wasn't thinking, didn't have his head. Walking had to hurt him right now, let alone scrabbling and twisting the way he'd done a few seconds ago. Alfie prayed he hadn't done anything to the bone. 

"Don't hurt yourself, alright, Tommy?" he murmured into Tommy's hair, gentle and vehement at once. "You've got to listen to me. Fucking listen, alright? I'll come get you. Once they let me go, I'll come find you, I'll come get you, and we'll go home, right?" The sound coming from him was a kind of crying Alfie had never heard from him before: very quiet, very high, every breath sounding like it was going to kill him. "You just stay fucking calm and don't hurt yourself. Give me your word. You don't try to bloody fix this on your own. Right, treacle?" 

The fear of Tommy being alone and like this had his heart in a chokehold. He might try cutting an artery again, this time without Alfie there to save him. It would end up in the newspaper as an item of morbid curiosity, and Charlie would go to his other father, and Alfie would be alone.

He couldn't think about that. 

"Tommy. Love, you've got to fucking breathe and calm down." 

It broke his heart to hear those soft senseless sounds Tommy was making, half curled in on himself like a dog gutted in an alleyway somewhere. 

The dark head went down onto Alfie's chest and a long breathlessness grated out of him. He was trying. He was trying to listen, to do as he was told, and Alfie couldn't hug him.

"I want Charlie," Tommy said. He sounded numb. 

Alfie looked up at the nearest officer. "Our—his baby—he's at the in-laws place, over—" 

"We already sent someone to John Shelby's house," interrupted the officer. "The baby is on the way to the care facility. You can see him there, Mr. Shelby." 

"Where did you get the address?" Alfie asked, fresh fear hitting him like a wild gust of wind. He nodded his head toward Tommy. "He never even gave a last name the other night. He wasn't fucking registered. How did you find the baby?" 

They didn't answer, of course. They packed them both into the back of the motorcar, all of Alfie's demands ignored.

Tommy looked frozen and vacant, unmoving except for the way his hands and shoulders shook. It wasn't a long drive to the police station, but he shouldn't be sitting up like that, not today. Alfie would have let him lie across his lap, but there was an officer between them. When they arrived, Alfie was dragged out of the car, and Tommy tried to follow. He was out of the vehicle before they had their hands on him. 

"No, no, Mr. Shelby. We're taking you down to the shelter." 

He didn't listen; he shoved back at the man holding his shoulder from behind and narrowly escaped a cuff on the ear. 

"Leave off!" Alfie glared at the officer. It felt like something was jammed into the pit of his stomach, something with a sharp edge. Sickness lurked around his jaw. Tommy should be in bed, not out in the chilly morning in a thin shirt being manhandled by idiots. 

The policeman behind Alfie put a hand on the handcuffs, holding him fast, a warning.

He was afraid. "Tommy." His voice was sticking, his throat so fucking tight. "Give me your face, love."

Tommy lifted his face and Alfie pressed lips to his forehead, willing him to calm down and be okay. "It'll be alright, Tommy. I'll come get you and the little man in a few hours, yeah? Just wait there for me." 

And then Tommy was kissing him, mouth warm and wet and deep, soft lips clinging, and Alfie couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Tommy's breath was on him, all over his face, their noses nudging. 

The church bell in the distance rang the hour: six. 

"I love you," said Tommy. He sounded like himself again—exhausted, wrung out, but steady. 

Alfie's whole body strained, wanting to hold him, wanting to grab his face and clutch him tight and safe after that confession. He should have known then that Tommy knew—that Tommy's fear or Tommy's sixth sense was telling him things wouldn't be okay. He should have kissed him again, told him how good he was, how perfect he was, how brave he'd been, how fucking sweet his mouth was. He should have told Tommy that he would come for him and Charlie, no matter what. 

But the hand on his wrists was pulling him away, and Tommy was being taken back to the car. The dark head ducked down and disappeared, and Alfie couldn't see him anymore, couldn't see his eyes. Just a shape through the window. 

---

They didn't question him. 

They removed the handcuffs and left him alone in a room for hours, letting him pace and chafe and worry. He never stopped picturing Tommy, wondering if Charlie was with him yet, wondering if he had a comfortable place to lie down—he couldn't sit for long without pain, and after the last two days probably not at all. He needed to know if Tommy was being listened to or poked and prodded and ignored; if he'd had anything to eat, and whether he could keep it down; if Charlie would take strange milk, and if not, was it sending Tommy back into desperation? Was anybody watching him? 

He'd told Tommy he would be there in a few hours. It had been five now, at least. 

Around noon—he guessed it was noon, though there was no clock, and his pocket watch was on the nightstand at home—they offered him a plate of food, beans and fucking bacon. Alfie kept kosher indifferently well on his own, but he had never touched bacon in his life and was not about to start now. That was a calculated insult, he was sure of it, and he let them know what he thought in no uncertain terms. 

It was well over an hour later when they let him go—two, perhaps—and he was miserably hungry and angry. He had to walk all the way home, and it had started raining. 

He went to the kitchen first, made himself a sandwich, and ate it while he went upstairs to pack some things to take to Tommy, in case they wouldn't let him leave yet. 

He grabbed clothes for Charlie (hand-me-downs from Esme's boys), a warmer shirt for Tommy, the false nipple and a bottle to go with it, the swaddling blanket, the camphorated oil for Charlie's cough, and what was left of the last bottle of morphine, and he packed them all in an old carpet bag he hadn't used in years. 

He stopped and rubbed his eyes, rubbed the back of his head, wondering if he'd forgotten anything. He was so damn tired. 

He called a cab to take him to the shelter. The rain was coming down harder than before. He didn't think much at all on the drive; he'd done nothing but think, bloody think, all day, and now all he could do was look out at the drizzle and the shapes of people passing with their hats pulled down and their shoulders hunched, or holding old newspaper over their heads for protection, or the ones lingering under the eaves of shops and pubs, waiting for the rain to be gentler. 

The cab stopped in front of the shelter and he paid the man to wait. He would be coming back in a few minutes with Tommy and Charlie, he hoped. 

But he wasn't. 

The man at the front desk seemed new and nervous. He said Thomas Shelby had been discharged at nine a.m., left with an older man, seemed willing to go, didn't make a fuss. A taller man—Irish, he guessed by the accent. Yes, the baby was with him. 

Alfie couldn't hear. The room blurred a minute, then turned too bright. 

"Name," he said. "Give me the bloody name." 

"He didn't leave a name, sir. Shelby signed himself out. And even if I had a name, I couldn't give it to you." 

"Fuck!" 

Several of the omegas on their cots and sitting on the intake bench jumped at Alfie's outburst. 

Someone had to know. The other staff, someone had to have heard a name, to have shaken his hand when he came in, maybe they'd seen him before. Jesus fucking Christ, were they all idiots?

The anxious man at the front desk asked him to leave, and when Alfie refused, he threatened to call police. 

Alfie was sane enough to realize that that wouldn't do Tommy any good, him holed up back at the station.

He grabbed the carpet bag, swore again, and stalked out. 

In the street, in the rain, he closed the door behind him and stood against the wall for a few seconds, wondering if he should wave the cab on or take it, and if so, where. As he stood there, the door beside him creaked open and a man sidled out—one of the omegas, a thin young fellow with bruised arms. He glanced around and tucked something into Alfie's hand: a scrap of paper, a corner torn from an advertisement on the front window, something scrawled on the back. "The name," he said softly. "We all know him. He comes in here sometimes. They don't do anything." 

Alfie's throat went hard with feeling and he clutched the paper tight. It would be a man like this who knew, and who gave a fuck, wouldn't it? 

"Thank you," he said roughly. 

"I hope you get him," said the omega, and slipped back inside. 

Bloody hell. 

He looked at the paper, at the name of the man he wanted to chase down and beat to death with a fucking crowbar. 

John Hughes. 

The church bell across town struck three. Alfie shoved the scrap of paper into his pocket and walked to the waiting cab. 

Notes:

There will be no sexual abuse of minors in this story beyond what happened to Tommy in the backstory. Father Hughes gets his power trips by abusing adult omegas.

I promise everything will be explained.

Chapter 21: in which tommy seeks sanctuary

Notes:

General warning for heavy content in the next few chapters. Specific warnings in the end notes. Stay safe.

three years ago 

It was dark and raining, and Tommy Shelby sat on the steps of the church, feeling nothing. 

The mark had come off his hand, but it still hurt. He didn't know why it hurt, why it was stiff. He was imagining it, maybe. There wasn't anything difficult about what he'd done. 

Point, pull the trigger. 

One finger. That finger, the one he was holding out in front of him, and bang. The man was dead. And there hadn't been blood, not much, because he'd pushed him off into the river and what was on the bridge would be washed away by the rain. 

The dive into the water was the hardest part, and the irrational fear of the body coming back, touching him, grabbing him, even though it was up ahead of him and didn't have the power to swim back. He had crawled out into the woods, sick to his stomach, crying silently, and lain in the dirt for hours. He didn't even care if they found him. 

He'd thought about sliding back into the river and ending it. He was so fucking close, could almost feel his mother's hand on his arm, pulling him. 

But he hadn't. He had dragged himself to his feet, shuddered in the cold—he was as like to die of a fever as anything else, after hours in the frigid rain—and staggered back to the streets. He should have gone home, run a hot bath, slept it off. 

Something drew him here instead. 

He had his back up against the doors, and the rain was running so fast down his face that it was hard to breathe. He wiped his hand over his cold, rubbery nose and cupped it around the nostrils, creating a little shivering cave. His eyes were closed because all he could see with them open was the blue-black color of an impressionist street with water running down the canvas, blurring everything but the bright specks where the street lamps had sneezed on the cobbles. 

And he was crying again, meaninglessly, too tired to be ashamed. He felt the hot spill over into the cold on his cheeks and squeezed his eyes tighter. 

It couldn't be guilt that had drawn him here. Not for the thing he'd just done. He didn't feel guilt about tonight, didn't feel anything. Maybe some other part of him did, deep down, and had forced his steps in this direction—but he had been guilty for weeks, and he had never once thought of going to the church. 

It was something else that haunted him. Blood, he thought. He was so tired of blood.

Blood on his legs, dripping down when it was supposed to be a baby, the chunks of red coming out of him and stealing his child's life. Days of working through a gray fog of pain and cleaning up blood every time he was alone, just like when he was a kid. Campbell had done that to him. 

And the other blood: Grace's, on his hands physically, morally, metaphorically, warm and salty and slippery, clotting too slow, her crying pain as he tried to press on it to keep her from dying. That was where the guilt lay, and the guilt over Grace didn't gnaw at him—it fucking tore, flesh and bone giving way under the teeth, knowing it was his arrogance and his damned sadistic streak that got her killed. Campbell had had him in a fucking chokehold after that. 

That was Tommy's mistake. Tommy had tried to kick back, and the man's grip had only gotten tighter. Some people let go, others doubled down. You had to be smart. Know the difference. When to fight for yourself and when the best thing you could do was lie very still and let them have their way. 

He'd been an idiot. Lost his head. Misjudged his man. 

He wiped his hand across his dripping face and grimaced, fighting back another wave of grief. His eyes hurt, his chest was hollow, his throat burned.

He hadn't been just an idiot, had he? That was too forgiving, too dishonest. He had been...what? A whore? A murderer? A vengeful man, a patricide in spirit if not in fact. His mother was dead, his baby was dead, and Grace was dead—Grace, who had nothing to do with him and had trusted him. She had held him, kissed him, fucked him gently and let him fuck her, served him wine, fondled his hair, and thrown her naked body in front of his to stop the bullet. Her innocence was his accuser, and if the dead could see the living, she must realize now what he was and how he deserved to be sitting here, half-frozen and wishing he was dead. 

He had wondered, ever since he was a kid, whether he could kill someone if he had to, if someone backed him into a corner with no way out. Would he go numb and submit, give in and die? Or would something in him fight, scratch and claw and slash his way out, kill to save his own life? 

He knew the answer now. 

He had almost made up his mind to get up and walk home when the door behind him gave way and he fell back into the entry of the church, catching himself on an elbow. There was an instant gasp of dry, echoing, incense-scented air, and a man's lilting voice came from the dark, empty space above him: "Are you looking for shelter, son?" 

He scrambled to his feet, dripping water everywhere. "No, I was—" His heart pounded. The voice was Irish, and for one horrible split second he'd had the wild thought that it was Campbell, that he was in a dream or had dreamed the whole night up till now. 

But it wasn't Campbell. He was Campbell's height, but thinner, a little younger, not gone gray yet, with a longer, quieter face. His eyes were half-moons of sympathy, his mouth pursed with patience. 

It was hard to breathe because of the chill. "I'm sorry. I was just leaving."

He stepped back toward the door, and a hand caught his arm above the elbow, firm and gentle. "It's nasty weather out there. Why don't you sit a spell and dry yourself?" 

Normally he would have shaken the hand off, but it was a priest; and Tommy was numb and freezing and so damn tired. 

He stood still as the man shut the door with a heavy creak. 

"I was about to head home, but I can't leave a poor creature shivering on the doorstep of the Lord's house, can I?" He said it like a shared joke—kindness, not condescension. 

Tommy hadn't noticed he was shivering. It seemed to get worse as soon as he noticed it, a violent rocking shudder he couldn't control, with nausea accompanying it through his body. He wrapped his arms around himself tightly. 

"Have you had anything to eat, son?"

Tommy shook his head. 

"It looks like you're injured there." 

He looked down where the priest was pointing and saw that he was right. There was a gash on the front of his left thigh, right through the trousers. He couldn't tell how badly he had stained his clothes, not in this light. It must have happened on the riverbank or up in the woods. It wasn't bleeding much—stemmed by the rain, no doubt. 

The pain of it swept in now, a tide with a razor-edge, as sudden as the shivering. It was a strange magic, the way this man took notice of his afflictions, the things he didn't see himself, and brought them to life. 

"Do you want a bandage first, lad, or a bowl of stew?" The priest touched his elbow as if to guide him deeper into the church. Tommy went stiff and the man paused, peering closer. "Or perhaps you were looking for something else?" 

Tommy's breath left him at the look on the man's face in the low light from the vestibule lamps; it was a keen attention, eyes-to-eyes, studying him in what he did not doubt was minutest detail. 

"Perhaps," said the man shrewdly, "you were here looking for aid in matters of the soul? A confession?" 

Was that what he had been looking for? Was that why he had dragged himself across town in the rain at midnight and dropped down on these steps? 

He found himself nodding without knowing he was going to do it. 

With knowing eyes and without a word, the man ushered him into the sanctuary, black robes swishing like the black branches of the moaning trees in the wind by the river. 

He held the door for Tommy as he stepped into the booth, stumbling at the entry, awkward with the knowledge that he was getting everything wet. 

It was musty inside, with an old, wooden smell, but there was a sweetness too: the dark of too many secrets, too much sweating shame, mixed with the tang of candle-smoke and incense. He heard the footsteps as the priest walked round to the other side, the slow creak as he opened the door and ducked in. He held himself by the arms and shivered. 

The priest said nothing, and they sat too long in the dark. 

Tommy breathed warm gusts through cold lips and teeth. The words fought him. "B-" Bloody hell. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." 

"Bless you, my son," came the voice, the thick brogue that could have been Campbell—that could have been Tommy's father, in a drunken state, when his eyes glazed over and his accent thickened. 

He kept his head down, even though no one could see him. 

At last the priest prompted, "How long has it been since your last confession?" 

"I don't know." Tommy tried not to stutter. "I don't remember." It was the truth. "When I was a child." 

The priest waited again, silent as God. 

"I stopped going to—" (he sniffled, a purely physical thing) "to confession because—" 

Fuck. 

Because I was keeping secrets? Because I was doing something I knew was wrong for the right reason? 

"My family was poor," he said, and the admission felt like a cut to the roof of his mouth, cold air and cruelty. 

"There are...many temptations born of poverty," came the lilting voice. 

"Yes," he said, in relief, but he resisted it at the same time. He wasn't supposed to be talking about this. He was here for absolution for Grace and Campbell, that was all. 

The priest spoke so slowly, so calmly. "And what was the nature of those temptations, my son?" 

"I stole things," he said, facing the easiest first. "Food and coins and such, a—a silver watch, once." 

The low, understanding hmm eased him into the rhythm of his own speech, brought more spilling out of him. 

"I did favors for money," he said, jutting out his chin in the dark, defiant against no one. "Men and women. All types. I lied to my mother about it. And I—thought about—" Why was this harder than the rest? "I thought about the things they did to me, and I pleasured myself. I couldn't sleep otherwise." 

His heart was pounding, as hard as when he'd crawled out of the river, a murderer. He didn't know why or how he was confessing it all, but the grief of it, the shame of it couldn't be held in any longer. He was vomiting it up because he was so tired, so numb, so icy scared and cold, and on the inside he was hot and sick. 

"I sometimes thought of killing the ones who were rough," he said, gagging briefly, gathering his stomach up and putting it back in his mouth. His eyeballs were gone from his head, flown up to the top of the holy box, smashing into the dark corners, trying to get out. 

He was going mad, wasn't he? This must be it. 

It didn't hurt as much as he'd feared, but he felt sick, very sick. 

He drew in a deep, deep breath and hugged himself close. "I did kill one. Tonight." 

That was his voice, small like a child. 

"Was it a man or a woman that you killed?" came the calm voice after a minute. 

"A man," he breathed out. 

"And," (the priest spoke low and reverently) "what did you kill him for?" 

He killed Grace. 

He took bribes from my father. 

He wanted to pin a murder on me. 

He was threatening my family. 

He could have put us back on the street. 

He killed my baby. 

"He was rough with me," he said at last. He felt infinitely alone. 

"Tell me," came the voice, soft. Like his father's, but gentle this time. 

He felt heat from the shame, in his throat and mouth, rising up to his damp hair. It curled in his middle, snaked downward into his pants, made him shift a little, involuntarily, on the hard wooden seat. It creaked, and the priest must hear it. 

He spoke quickly, stumblingly, to get it out before he could stop himself. "He—they held me down," he said. He was all air, his voice, his head, his eyes, floating and ghostly. "He wanted me to say things." 

"What kinds of things?" 

He panicked a little. He hadn't come to tell all this. "He t—" (he needed to breathe, couldn't get enough through his nose) "—told me to beg. Asked me if it hurt. He kept—if I didn't answer, he would—" 

If he had submitted sooner, would his baby have survived? He'd been too afraid to ask the doctor. 

His nose was dripping now, running down his hands and chin, and he wiped it on his sleeve. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice and everything shaking, rushing rain in his ears. "Fuck."  

Oh. He—he wasn't supposed to say fuck in a church. 

The dark of the box roared into his head and he was on his knees, somehow, falling against the front wall. He heard the bumping thud of his legs, his head against the wood, and something was pressing on his chest, so fucking tight. He couldn't see, couldn't speak. 

He heard someone speaking to him but he didn't remember who it was. 

Then the door of the confessional swung open, letting in the less-dark darkness, and the tall man was bending down, reaching for his arm with a smell of candle-smoke again, strong and firm, pulling him to his feet, keeping him from sliding back to the floor when his feet scrabbled. 

"You're alright, lad. Get some air. That's right. You did so well for me." 

No, this wasn't right. He hadn't—he wasn't absolved, he hadn't been assigned penance or recited contrition. But his head swam and he gagged again, close to vomiting. 

The priest helped him to the nearest pew and sat him down, half draped him over the back of the one in front of him, and held him steady as he sobbed for air. The warm hand on his cold body felt like safety, the only human thing Tommy could find. "There, lad. Cry it out. He won't be doing those terrible things to you any longer." 

At those words, Tommy hurt, the memory coming back to him like a knife, grinding deep in his balls, ripping into him from the back. He couldn't move from the pain, couldn't lean back, couldn't sit. He was braced, legs stiff, head crammed against the wood of the next pew, clutching at the edge of the seat. And he couldn't breathe. 

The priest reached over and held him around the middle, stroking his hair with one hand. "You're alright, son." 

Tommy nearly wept at that, irrationally, thinking of his father who had never held him when it hurt, only held him down for more. 

He grabbed again at the pew, harder, and a hand took his and uncurled the fingers and lifted it gently. "Is this the hand that pulled the trigger?" 

He nodded, eyes squeezed shut. 

"It was a gun, then." 

"Yes." His voice didn't sound like him, it was so taut with strain. 

"And the man is dead?" 

"He's dead." 

A long pause, and the priest stroked up and down his heaving side. "What is your name, my child?" 

Tommy wiped his nose on his sleeve again. It smelled like dirt. "Thomas. Shelby." 

"Thomas Shelby." He said it with such patience. "We'd better see to this leg of yours." 

He had forgotten about the leg, but it stung again, a brief flare, as the priest's hand touched him there. 

"We've a room in the back for those who find themselves in need, Mr. Shelby. I think you'd better stay the night. You're in no condition to be walking the streets." 

He had walked through much worse. But the thought of going back out into the rain when he was already so cold.... 

The man's long fingers brushed across the back of his head. "We can talk about your penance once you're well enough. Tomorrow morning will be soon enough." 

He nodded.

Usually it made him angry to be told what to do, but right now, it was a relief. He wanted to rest and be forgiven. He wanted to be good, wanted it so much it made him sick. 

And now, finally, it happened. His stomach lurched and the sparse, stinking contents spilled out between his feet as he hung from the pew with one forearm. He was choking, drooling, and couldn't close his mouth. 

The priest touched his head again. "Good lad." 

---

He looked down at the omega asleep on the mattress in the spare room behind the vestry. 

Lying like this, breathing softly, the tempter was defanged, vulnerable; without the wild unnatural eyes and enthralling deep voice to distract from his slightness, he was just a boy, wasn't he? 

Hughes knew the type. He found them, sometimes, at the shelter: a man in appearance, covered in scars, wearing toughness for show, but when you pressed in with practiced fingers and found the right latch, they would spring beautifully open, all their childhood fears rising like yeast to the surface of a pot. Putty in your hands. And this one, curled on the mattress on the floor with his hair still wet from the rain, shirt gone, a little blood seeping through the bandage Hughes had placed with his own tender hands—he looked miraculously sensitive, a thing to be nursed and coaxed into trust and then impaled. 

He was a Gypsy, he had said. Half Traveller, half Romany. His father was a horse-stealer and a fortune-teller. It brought burning disgust creeping into the back of Hughes' nostrils, a revulsion that was, in its own way, addicting. A Gypsy and a whore he was, a man who had sold his body for money. And a murderer—the unholy Trinity. 

It made him roil inside, the thought of all the lawless bastards who must have had their way with this one, punishing him for who he was, what he was. He must take it perfectly, with his lovely rolling voice and his already blissful eyes, and that pink tongue Hughes had caught a glimpse of when he was vomiting in the sanctuary. He would be good at it all, after so much practice. Hughes had heard the whimper in him as he recalled the man who wanted to hear him beg. He was rough with me—a tone so plaintive it sent a dark, rich thrill burrowing down into the gut. He was a begger by nature, this one. Easy to push over the edge with so much groundwork already laid, with all that festering shame and a body conditioned to obedience. Ripe for the taking. 

And to think he'd nearly missed him on the front steps. If he had gone out the back or left an hour earlier.... 

But he hadn't. 

He had a bedraggled, half-naked, beautiful Gypsy boy in his vestry who was so eaten up with guilt he could hardly see straight. A boy who needed chastising, a firm hand to drag him back from the devil's employ and put him to a holier use. And a face like—well, he'd never seen a face quite like that one. Angel and demon at once, old and young, womanlike and masculine, the whole of sinful humanity in one crawling, gagging, bright-eyed creature.

It was meant to be. It must be. 

Hughes crossed himself at the door, blessed the room, and latched it quietly from the outside. 

Notes:

Religious abuse/abusive relationship. Panic attacks. Discussion of past adult rape, CSA, miscarriage, and murder. Racism and slurs.

Chapter 22: in which penance is imposed

He woke and didn't remember, at first, where he was.

The rain outside was thick and steady, the window high and small and nearly too dark to see, and the room was full of whispering voices, spider-thin and unreal. 

No, not the room—his ears, and his eyes. His eyes saw crawling, spinning shadows in the darkness, cobwebs of strange light, and he felt like a little boy again, scared in his bed, fallen between the mattress and the wall because Arthur was sprawled over his side again. He turned his face and felt that his pillow was still damp where he had laid down his rain-soaked head hours ago. 

He remembered what he'd done. The big body sliding off the bridge.

He looked at the raised shape of his arm, a hand-shaped hole in the dark...the hand the priest had touched, that had pulled the trigger. Twisting hot feelings grabbed at him and he fought not to let them into his eyes. He was bad. He'd done something terrible and he couldn't undo it. He wished frantically to go back to sleep and wake up two days ago, or three months. 

He covered his face with his hands and rocked to one side, teeth tight, every breath like sucking air from a sealed drum. He shouldn't have done it. But Campbell had threatened his family, and Tommy would rather be a murderer than see his nieces and nephews starve or worse yet, see them do what he'd done to keep from starving. 

He rolled back to face the ceiling and took in an awful, harrowing breath. He couldn't face his family. 

Lizzie would be there at work every day. Polly hated him now, thought he had betrayed Lizzie the way his father had betrayed his mother a dozen times. He wanted to defend himself, but he couldn't bear for Polly or any of them to know the truth. The truth was a hundred times worse. Better be thought the wild one, the black sheep, than to have his brothers and all the rest picture him like he'd been, pinned down naked and fighting for his life. If they saw him like that, he wouldn't want to be alive through the next morning. 

It was cold in here. He was shivering, his skin too warm. The storm was getting angrier against the little window. 

He rolled onto his side, away from the wall. The hollow in his stomach spread through his body, into his limbs and throat, into his hard locked-up chest, all the way down into his fingertips. He ached.

He missed Lizzie. Missed his family. If he could wake up three months ago, he wouldn't go to the police station this time. He had been so stupid, so fucking stupid to think of his father like that. After all this time, after innumerable betrayals big and small, he had never outgrown that childish wishing, his disgusting fucking need for that bastard's approval.

His head ached with a hunger he couldn't tamp down. He reached for his hurt leg, touched the bandage gingerly, and then cupped his hand over it, willing it to calm, to ease. After a minute the hand slid upward to his cock, rested over it—not looking for pleasure but for safety, comfort, to cover the vulnerability he felt. He couldn't sleep when he was afraid, and tonight he was so fucking afraid. 

But there was no comfort. Only the guilt of the priest's quiet voice asking him things, prying his throat open for words, probing him for images of suffering. 

He moved his fingers up, felt his own forehead, his temple, just a soft touch. Then he groaned and hid exhausted eyes in the crook of his arm. 

He wanted to be held. A hand on his hair, kisses on his cheek and neck, something, anything. The very blood in his veins ached with a pain he couldn't understand. It was like being a boy again on the nights he'd gone to bed hungry: he was starving, curled in half with need, and not even Grace was with him anymore. It wasn't sex he needed, just to be touched, even once, and not to be alone. 

The room was dark and empty and no one here was breathing. He felt lost. 

He lay still until he fell asleep. 

---

He had a throbbing headache when he woke next. The pillow was wrinkled and damp from sweat now instead of rain, and the room was quiet except for the faint patter of a continuing sprinkle on the high window to the outside. There were no lamps, but the room was dully visible from the grayish light of the window. 

He couldn't tell if it was morning or afternoon. He was stiff, bleary, aching. His leg hurt when he moved it, and he thought of last night, the priest crouching down, like a stained-glass St. Francis feeding sparrows, to bathe the wound in salt water and bandage it. 

He looked around for his shirt—he was naked to the waist—and it was nowhere to be seen, but a new shirt lay waiting for him over the seat of a slat-backed chair, the only furniture in the room save the mattress and a bare table. He hobbled over and pulled on the shirt. It was too long for him; the sleeves hung nearly to his fingertips, and the bottom past the middle of his thighs. He felt like a child in a nightdress. 

He tucked the shirt into his trousers and cuffed the sleeves up to mid-forearm before they would stay put. It would have to do for now. 

His trousers were the same ones he'd worn last night, wrinkled and stiffly clinging from being slept in wet. It was strange to him that the priest would take his shirt but leave him in cold, wet pants. He had been too tired to think about it last night. A hand-sized section of the left leg had been cut away to make his wound accessible, but there were stains below where blood had soaked downwards. 

He went to the door and found it locked. 

He pushed. Rattled the handle. Banged on it a few times and listened. 

Nothing. 

He banged again and shouted, but the only sound was the rain.

It was an hour, he guessed, before he heard the sound of the vestry door opening, and then the handle of his door rattled as the latch was undone and the door opened to reveal the same priest as last night, carrying a bowl and more bandages. 

"You locked me in," said Tommy from where he sat on the mattress, half-sprawled against the wall. 

The priest raised a mild eyebrow. "Yes, it seemed better than the risk of you running off into the night to commit another murder, or worse yet, someone getting in here to, ah—" he thinned his lips and narrowed his eyes in something like pity— "have their way with you in the night. It's neither safe nor proper for an unprotected omega like yourself to sleep in an unlocked room in a public place, now, wouldn't you agree?" 

He said nothing. His neck was warm, sweating. 

"How did you sleep?" 

He shrugged. 

"Have you lost your tongue, boy?" It was the same purred, patient tone, but something in it, something intangible, made Tommy look up. 

"No," he said, his neck bobbing as he swallowed against the lump. 

"That's good. You're to answer when you're spoken to, from now on." 

"Yes." 

"I'll see to your injury, and then we will discuss your penance. Then you can have breakfast with me in the refectory." 

Tommy shook his head, shame curling through him. "You've done enough. Stayed late and let me sleep here. I don't need all that." 

"I think you do." He gave Tommy a keen, patient look that made his stomach stir with father-longing. "You see, we keep this room for special cases of charity. I spent the morning in prayer seeking wisdom about your...situation, and I feel it's only right to offer you the chance to stay here and make amends for your sins." 

Strange pity radiated from the man, taking in Tommy's every twitch, every breath. He didn't know what to make of it. The priest came over to the mattress and crouched low in front of him, eyes glinting with vague tenderness. "Mr. Shelby, I understand more than you think I do." 

It stung, the way he said "Mr. Shelby"—like appeasing a child with a title of artifice. The hand came to rest on Tommy's injured thigh, the fingertips brushing the bandage. It made him want to squirm, the holy man too close to his unholy, uncomfortable body. 

"You told me last night of your...extenuating circumstances for the murder. About your family and your fornication with the society girl." 

Had he told him those things? He must have, but he didn't remember. He remembered being bandaged, and then a bowl of soup and a cup of something medicinal. He didn't remember finishing the soup or finishing the conversation or lying back down and falling asleep. 

"You understand that all these things stem from the same root?" The priest's eyes were mournful but his mouth was faintly smiling, and his voice was perfectly tranquil. "I work, you see, with several charities. I see thousands like you, Mr. Shelby. I see the ones who make it and the ones who don't. You now have two murders on your conscience, three if you include the unborn whose death lies at the hands of your—reputation for promiscuity." 

Some high, thin thread in Tommy's ears snapped. A low drum beat in his gut, sick and intimate. His face went cold and hot all over. 

The gray eyes cut into him, keen as glass. "I tell you this. Unless you change your ways, you will end your life as you began it: wallowing in the mud, penniless and hungry. You will be the plaything of a prison yard with higher walls and worse perversions than the slum where you were raised. Do you believe me, lad?" 

Tommy felt numb.

He cleared his throat, so dry it cracked. His head was buzzing. "Yes." 

"I see the devil in you, boy, and I see an angel." The man reached out and took Tommy's chin, a thumb on top and fingers crooked beneath, tipping his face up, forcing him to look into the searching eyes, the same way his mother had when he was small and suspected of telling a lie.

He always felt exposed with his throat outstretched. 

"I can help you destroy your devil," said the father. "But only if you let me." 

Tommy pulled his chin away and dropped his eyes to his throbbing leg. He didn't nod, didn't assent outwardly, but he didn't refuse. A hand reached for his wrist, then his chest, then the crook of his neck. He shivered at the cool touch, but his body yearned toward the contact despite himself. 

After several seconds, the priest gave a sigh of satisfaction. "I'll see to this leg of yours, then." 

---

He sat in the chair and had Shelby take the edge of the table with his legs dangling off.

He lifted the bloody bandage slowly, and the blue eyes closed as it stuck. The cut looked angry despite the care he had taken with it last night. He pressed along the intact flesh either side of the gash, where the skin was raised and red, and Shelby hissed. 

"Sensitive there, is it?" He glanced up at the stoic face for any other signs. 

The omega closed his eyes and shook his head. 

"You don't have to hide the truth from me," Hughes said quietly. "I'm not one of your customers. Be honest with me this time." He pressed the soft skin beside the opening in three places, and the third got a flinch. "There?" 

Shelby nodded, looking over his head to the far wall. 

He carefully increased pressure until the lips of the wound came open at the indicated place. Then he squeezed, bringing out new blood. He wiped it with the edge of the old bandage and squeezed some more, enjoying the way Shelby's scarred knuckles flexed on the table's edge. 

"It's not a painless thing," he said philosophically, watching the red bloom until a drop formed and trickled away, leaving a red tear-track. "But without the treatment it will only get worse. I've seen a gash like this lead to fever or rotting or even a tumor, left untended. If there's filth inside, you have to bleed it out and use a cleansing agent, something more than water. Do you take my meaning, lad?" 

"Yes." Shelby's weary eyes looked penitent and angry at the same time—indignant, perhaps, at the suggestion that he might be too thick or too prosaic to catch the analogy. 

Hughes wiped the blood away again. He brought the salt water close and poured some in, holding Shelby open with the fingers of his other hand. 

That would burn, violently. He waited for the reaction, the grimace, the yelp, but only got the slightest quickening of the breath, the sound of air being pushed and pulled through a proud nose with utmost control. 

He was hardened, this one. Hardened against pain, which meant hardened against discipline. Hardened against the change he so desperately needed. A proud, hard spirit. Hughes shouldn't have expected better from one of Shelby's kind, but it disappointed him nonetheless. 

It would have to be dealt with. Charity was one thing, pearls before swine another. 

He set the bowl back down and pinched the salt-bathed wound closed with his fingers. There was the crack in the stoic front: a little noise, involuntary and odd, a brief whining crack at the back of the throat. 

But Shelby stared at the wall again and didn't react when Hughes looked at him. Pretending it hadn't happened, was he? 

The hiding, the lies, the defiance came naturally to him. 

In a burst of sudden, compelling rage, Hughes squeezed harder until Shelby gasped and looked down at him, shocked, betrayed, infuriated, tears of pain standing in his eyes. 

"You are going to learn." His mouth was crammed with a thick, muffling rage as he got to his feet and stood over the pale, miserable thing. "You will not defy me." 

"Fuck you," came the reply, small and hateful. 

He moved before Shelby could shove him off, trapped his legs against the edge of the table, grabbed him where it hurt and held on, just enough pressure that the boy didn't want to squirm.

The shock in those glassy blue eyes was beautiful. He wanted them. Wanted to mount them in a frame, just so, shiny marbles of white and blue, take them out and play with them before putting them back. 

He wanted to bite Shelby's soft sweet face, squeeze him until he cried. 

But he didn't. He controlled himself, controlled his breath and his need, just held him there, trapped, and felt the way the young man's heart was beating fast and affrighted. 

"You," he said, low and precise, "will not defy me, you filthy fucking whore." 

The eyes, already bright with fear, quivered beautifully. And there was another thing in them: shame, shock at the words Hughes had uttered. 

But they were the right words. They were the only words to describe such depravity, and Hughes delighted to use them. "You will come with me now and fulfill your penance. You are not the first of your kind I've taught a better way to live, and you will not be the last. I don't need you, boy, but you need me." 

He let go of the tender thing in his grip and felt Shelby's legs tremble in relief. 

"If you want absolution for your crimes," he said, calmer now, "you will have to earn it. And if not..."

He moved his hand to the omega's shoulder and felt the muscle beneath the bare skin. He wasn't tall or broad, this one, but he had made the most of what he had. He looked athletic, capable of putting up a fight. It wasn't Hughes' preferred body type for his spiritual protegés, but that could be altered with time. Penance could take many forms.

"Then what?" said the omega. Hughes had almost forgotten he was there, waiting. 

"Then I know everything your lecherous police inspector knew, Mr. Shelby," he said. "The seal of confession does not apply to things revealed outside the confessional. And as a good citizen of this country, I would consider it my duty to see that the murder of a government employee be duly punished and that the fraud upon which the Shelby family fortunes were built be thoroughly investigated." 

Shelby looked like he was going to be sick again, like last night. Those lewd, lovely lips were slightly parted, with warm quick breath coming through, and Hughes thought of bruising them—with a fist, with his teeth, smashing the obscenity of them into submission.

It had him feeling alive and strangely lightheaded. 

"You can't fucking do that," breathed the dark-haired creature.  

Dionysus, he thought suddenly. The young master of heathen revelry, wild and sensual, with those wine-red drops beading up from his thigh. 

"Mr. Shelby, I assure you I can." 

If he had expected a fight, he didn't get one. Shelby apparently possessed just enough shame to recognize a fitting punishment and just enough wit to accept it as inevitable. 

"Your first penance will be for the lies to your mother," Hughes said gently, cupping the resentful face. "I've made up my mind. You'll take breakfast with me and then I'll have you on your knees until noon." 

The way the eyes flickered up and down and the jaw tightened immediately brought heat welling into his core. "In prayer," he clarified, scolding Shelby for the unspoken thought. "I'll hear your contrition, and then thirty Our Fathers and three hundred Hail Marys without moving from your place." 

Astonishingly, the omega nodded. His eyes fell closed and the muscle in his jaw softened, letting himself be touched without complaint. 

But there had been that anger in him a few minutes ago. The hardness. Hughes hadn't imagined that. That was the creature's game, showing one face and then another, masking evil with innocence. 

He would fix that. 

---

"...blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen. Hail Mary full of grace...."  

The boy hadn't moved, two hours in with his knees set apart and his hands out as he'd been instructed. But the vestry floor was hard and he looked like he was coming down sick from last night's chill, and his eyes, blue as the Madonna's cloak, were beginning to resemble the eyes of the agonized crucifix on the wall above him. 

Forty to go and his voice started to crack. 

Hughes, at his desk, could have let him struggle on, but he felt merciful. He set down his pen and walked over as Shelby's tongue tripped over "fruit of thy womb." He wondered how many of the two hundred and sixty times so far had made the omega think of his miscarried child, fruit fallen unripe to the ground, paying the innocent price for his sin. 

He put his hand on Shelby's head and murmured, "Up. Come." 

The pain-glazed eyes looked up at him as if it must be a trick. 

"Did you hear me, boy?" 

Shelby got to his feet and braced himself on stiff legs. 

"You don't look well." He wiped at the glass bead in the corner of the omega's eye, a single drop the testament to his distress. 

Shelby turned his head away a little. One of those involuntary flickers of defiance that seemed to come to him as naturally as breathing. Hughes wanted to slap him. 

He dug his fingers into the omega's neck a moment before letting him go. "Go rest in the back room. You've done enough."

The white finger-marks were reddening. 

"I can finish." He looked stubborn, sounded exhausted. "I'm not weak." 

"The strong have no need to prove it," said Hughes. "Obey me and go lie down." 

Shelby still hesitated. 

Hughes grabbed him by the back of the shirt, at the neck, and walked him across the room and through the door. There was a burning at the root of his nose, behind his back teeth, behind his eyes. "There is no absolution for attrition," he said. "A thousand prayers without sincerity and humility mean nothing, do you understand? That is what you must learn. Not the prayers. Not the words. You cannot be forgiven with defiance in your heart." 

He let go of Shelby with a shove, and the man staggered forward a step or two before standing still, shoulders hard and hunched. 

He walked up behind the man and put a hand on his waist, felt the shudder as he did so. "What do you have to say to me, son?" 

Shelby drew in a long, low breath. "Hail Mary, full of grace..." 

---

He heard the blow to the back of his head before the pain registered, a thin tight thwack like the snapping of a string. Then the priest had him by the back of the collar again, dragging him to the table. 

It was comfortable. Familiar. Easier than an hours-long display of torturous penitence with those shrewd gray eyes raking over him, top to bottom, over and over. This was a song he knew the words to.

If he was going to live here, trapped in the same nightmare he had just escaped with Campbell, he would play the game the way he knew how. 

Thoughts seeped away like spilled water as his face slammed down on the wood and the lonely peace took over, that old, old ritual of accepting that he was about to be hurt and fearing it the way the shore fears the sea, knowing the wave is coming but never knowing how far it will come this time. 

He didn't listen to the words. He had never been good at doing two things at once. 

He heard a belt being unbuckled as that hand pushed him, held him uncomfortably hard against the table. He laughed at himself because he knew that priests wore trousers under their cassocks and the other children hadn't believed it when he told them. 

As soon as the first strike landed, he knew the man had experience. Fuck. A fucking priest. The second stripe was in exactly the same place, deep and toothy, right across the meat of both buttocks. Ah, fuck. 

He had been fucking contrite—to his mother. Not to God or to this holy representative who was blistering Tommy's ass with the warm belt from his own body. But the joke was on the holy father, because Tommy was as good at taking a belting as this man was as giving one. 

The third blow had him drawing up, drawing in, an involuntary, pathetic movement like a worm chopped in half with a shovel.

He dragged his chin back up from his chest and set it hard against the table, gripped the far edge with his fingers, and screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the next. 

It didn't come. Only a hand on the place where he'd just been punished, sliding up onto his back, and then warmth bending over him, a slithering calm voice in his ear. 

"Now, stand up." 

This wasn't right. He wasn't ready. His body was hot, roaring with the fear and courage of anticipation, waiting for it to be unbearable so he could fight or shout or go limp. 

He didn't know what to do now. 

He was dizzy on his feet, the room bright and dark in waves. A hand coasted down the side of his head and came to rest in the curve of his neck, pinching hard. His ass burned, pure evil fire because he hadn't gotten far enough, hadn't gotten enough of the agony to make him numb. It had only woken him up, made everything too bright and too wild and too sharp. 

The priest was turning him around, sitting him down on the table. It was like sitting on a razorblade. 

"Mr. Shelby," came the soft, hateful voice, the heavy breath baptizing him with fear, "I am a merciful man, but you mustn't tempt me." 

He didn't know what the fuck that meant. 

His ass hurt and he was confused, and his head felt like it had been doused in ice water. 

A hand was sliding down into his trousers, and that made him panic, though it wouldn't have five minutes ago. He fought, kicked at the man, tried a knee to the groin and was grabbed and crushed against him, held too tight to breathe. 

He was strong, this priest. Stronger than Tommy. 

The hand kept going, found his cock and began to play, touching and bouncing and squeezing and pinching, making him pant and squirm. He didn't fucking want this. He was scared in a way he hadn't been all day, and he didn't know why. 

The man told him not to come, ordered him to control himself, but didn't let him free until he did, several gasping minutes later, a shameful soft splotch on the inside of his ruined trousers. 

Tommy was shaking violently, nauseous and so fucking ashamed. 

"You'll lie down and rest now," said the man in his ear, giving his cock a pitying once-over that made him whimper high and raw because he couldn't be touched there after he'd come. "But you will be punished for this later, make no mistake. I told you to control yourself. You are not an animal, Mr. Shelby." 

He didn't say anything, just sagged sweating against the black wall of cloth and didn't care that he was hugging the man who had just forced him.

That was how it was going to be, then. Insanity, no rules but the ones made arbitrarily to keep him guessing, no way to win because the odds would be stacked against him every time. 

Like life, then. 

Like fucking life.

The stripe across his ass was like a white-hot rod, scorching. And he almost laughed, because of course a priest would be this way. A priest was a messenger for God, nothing more. He had his own personal piece of God now, assigned to punish him here in his own personal hell, just like the outside, just like everywhere fucking else in the world. There couldn't be escape because the whole world was one huge cage, the domain of one mad torturer. 

It all made sense now. 

He laid down on the mattress on his right side, avoiding his hurt leg and his seared ass and his oversensitive cock, and he stared into the nothingness of the wall as the door shut and the key turned in the lock. 

Chapter 23: in which father hughes drinks a bitter cup

Notes:

Content warning in the end notes.

It was two years to the day after he killed Campbell for killing his child that Tommy knew he was pregnant again. He sat at the miserable, dingy kitchen table in the miserable, dingy one-room flat and didn't cry.

He didn't cry anymore. Hadn't for more than a year. Even on nights—and mornings, and afternoons—when it got rough, anything that came to his eyes was just from the pain, and it never lasted more than a few moments.

He knew he ought to feel something, but he didn't. Not emotions. Just an ache through his whole chest that felt like he'd been body-slammed against a wall and held there by an arm that wouldn't move. 

Nine months ago, Father Gregory had walked into the vestry and found Father Hughes fucking their long-term omega charity case into the carpet like a dog. The next six weeks had been utter hell as the miserable but quiet life Tommy had become accustomed to was blown to bits. 

It had been in the newspapers. Scandal: Beloved Priest Defrocked After Dalliance With Former Prostitute. Hughes was called before his bishop and removed from the clergy with full ceremony. He wasn't Father Hughes anymore. Just John. The entire parish knew who Tommy was now—not just the rescue omega who cleaned the floors and washed the windows and made deliveries to the widows and the sick, but the wanton who had returned their generous welcome by defiling their spiritual leader, body and soul. Hughes made sure everyone knew of Tommy's history as a ha'penny whore in the slums and garnered a measure of sympathy as the compassionate priest who had tried to reach such a lost soul and succumbed, tragically, to temptation. 

Their faces hurt the most. Parishioners who had greeted Tommy heartily for months walked past as if he didn't exist. Children he had helped with their catechisms, full of jokes and smiles, now shrank back and stared because he was a bad man. That one felt like a hot flatiron being pressed into his chest, but it didn't make him cry. 

He was done crying. It didn't do a fucking thing. And it always brought that look to John's eye, a look like the man was licking some kind of delicacy off a plate with his bare tongue. It made Tommy disgusted with himself. 

After the last ecclesiastical hearing was over, they had been escorted through a rare London snowfall (an omen, perhaps) down to the courthouse where the bishop oversaw their legal marriage, a requirement for Hughes on pain of excommunication. The laws for betas were less strict than for alphas—they weren't usually required to provide for an omega after being caught in a sexual liaison out of wedlock, since they wouldn't imprint hormonally and endanger the omega's life the way an alpha would—but in this case, the bishop judged that Hughes, beta though he might be, had effectively ruined Tommy for any other mate due to the public scandal, and therefore he had a Christian duty to be bonded and care for him for the rest of his earthly days. 

Tommy hadn't even been asked if he wanted that. All an omega was supposed to want, after all, was to secure a mate who would feed them well and fuck them at regular intervals. 

John Hughes wasn't feeding him well, exactly. Not even adequately, to tell the truth. Just like growing up, food was a privilege. During Tommy's time at the church it had been watched over, rationed, used for training, but here at the flat, there simply wasn't enough. John ate out and at work, kept the cupboard sparse, and always noticed if Tommy took more than half of what was there. The muscle Tommy had put on while he was with Lizzie was wasting away, slowly but surely. He wasn't underweight, but getting awfully close. 

As for the fucking at regular intervals, John did that—with more gusto than ever now that his life was in shambles and he had Tommy to blame for it. Tommy wished he wouldn't. He was tired of it all. Tired of the touching and the hot breathing and the fingers that weren't gentle and the beta cock that shouldn't have been large enough to hurt but did hurt because it was used like a goddamn weapon. 

And John wasn't monogamous, either. He kept on working for his charities—from the civic side now instead of the spiritual, working as an organizer in the records office and down at City Hall. And he had his pick of the omegas at every shelter in the area. Tommy always knew when he'd been fooling around because he would come home smelling like it. On those nights he would either be mellow, with little interest in touching Tommy, or aggressive and crueler than usual. Those were the days, Tommy guessed, when he hadn't gotten what he needed from his victim and came home with the sole intention of getting it from his husband, who was reduced to a tool, a thing, the human equivalent of jacking off in the bathroom. That made him disgusted with himself too. Sometimes he would crawl out of bed after John was asleep and sit on the balcony and smoke until it was light out. 

He supposed his husband was as unhappy as he was, in his own way. 

A key scrabbled in the lock and he jumped, a twinge of pain running up his spine. His heart hammered hard and fast, and his hand fluttered, almost without thinking, to his stomach. 

He knew from the moment he saw John's face what kind of a night it was. 

"Where's the supper? Didn't think to save anything for me, did you?" 

"I didn't eat." Tommy's voice sounded like he'd been smoking, but he hadn't. "I told you, I'm sick."

"You're out of bed." The miserable peering eyes fixed him as John set his briefcase on the table with a clatter and a creak. "If you were as sick as you claim, Tommy, you'd be in bed." 

The finger. Pointing, gesturing, telling him everything wrong with his damn life. He hated that finger, waggling at the empty floor between the bed and the table. 

"I had to get up to puke." 

"Don't be fucking smart." 

The language had deteriorated in the last eight months as the smarmy, solicitous priest devolved into something ratlike and vicious. There had been flashes of that side of him from the beginning, but it had infested him now, fed by the humiliation of public shame. 

Tommy didn't answer. There was no answer to that remark that wouldn't bring something flying at his head, either a blow or more words. 

John undid his collar and a button or two and threw his tie down on the table. It was a hot night, sweaty and stifling. "Well, if you can't satisfy one appetite, you can satisfy the other." He said it so fucking calmly, without the smallest hint of shame. 

Tommy was ashamed always, John very rarely. 

"Get on the bed." 

Tommy walked over and sat down. "I have something to tell you." 

"You can tell me after." John pushed him slowly backwards until he was lying flat and Tommy closed his eyes as the hands pulled off his trousers and shorts. "Did you eat today?" 

Tommy shook his head. 

"You're clean?" 

"Enough." He didn't open his eyes. He felt heat as the other man lifted his legs, exposed him, and took a moment just to stare. 

Looking was enough to get John erect. The forbiddenness of it, probably, because he'd been a priest so long—all it took was simple nakedness to make a rabid dog out of him. Tommy hated it. 

He felt the damp tip nudging. 

"You're like a fucking virgin, Tommy. Relax." 

A slap on the side of his ass. 

"Give me a fucking minute," he complained. "At least try to get me hard, Jesus." 

"You've got some mouth on you, boy." A rending, savage pain, John forcing his way in, angry, and stretching him all at once. 

"Fuck," Tommy gasped, biting his tongue hard, grabbing the sheets. 

John fucking loved that. Tommy didn't have to open his eyes to know the face would be fierce and distorted with lust. 

There was blood in his mouth from the tongue. It was dripping back into his dry throat. It tasted like bruises and smashed teeth and his father's fists. 

"Relax," said John again, jabbing and sending another hot wrench of pain through his lower half. 

"I can't," growled Tommy. He didn't add because you're fucking hurting me. He knew if John really wanted him softer, he would have given him a chance to open up first. John wanted the struggle, the excitement of a half-dry fuck and Tommy spasming around him. 

He was getting heavy in his head now. Couldn't answer when he was spoken to, which was just as well because his mouth only ever got him in trouble. 

It was over fast, and they were both panting. John pulled out and came on Tommy's leg, a pitiful stinking smear. 

Tommy pulled himself away and to a sitting position, legs still splayed a little, sweating. The discomfort had him clenching, breathing too hard, and too dizzy to care. At least it had been quick. He was still pitifully limp, hadn't even begun to get hard, which was strange for him—usually his body was in a rush to protect him, accustomed to violence on short notice. 

But today he felt sick and numb and as far from aroused as he could be. 

John was buttoning his pants, wiping his hands off on a handkerchief. "What's the matter with you today?" 

"I'm pregnant," said Tommy. It sounded more bitter than he'd meant it to sound. 

"Well." His husband stopped short and looked at him as if seeing him for the first time since he'd walked in the door, eyes scraping across Tommy's body, down the naked skin-rolls of his thin stomach. "Praise be." 

He sat down on the bed beside Tommy and spread his hand across the lower abdomen. Tommy watched his skin shrink back from the touch and the hand pursue, catching him and pressing gently inward, like a doctor examining the area. "You've delivered a child before?" 

Tommy shook his head. "Carried. Never to term." 

"How many times?" 

He didn't want to talk about this. It brought a scalding knot to his stomach that hurt even through the fog in his head and limbs. "Three or four." 

"Was it three or was it four?" 

He pinched the sheets in his hand. "Four." 

"Did you lose them all naturally?" 

He shook his head. "Two of them. The other times my dad took me to someone. I was too small. Even if I hadn't been, he didn't want—"  

He was against John's chest then, pulled into his shoulder. The warmth felt good. The hand on his back, rubbing up and down, felt good. 

The hand slid down and squeezed his buttock gently, almost tender. "Why did you never tell me in confession?" It sounded like a threat, despite the gentleness. 

Tommy shook his head. He didn't know. 

He probably hadn't wanted to end up on his knees doing several kinds of creative penance for one of the worst experiences of his life, nor to hear another diatribe against the degeneracy of his people. 

"We'll have to watch you this time. No more outings, no strain." 

"Outings aren't a problem. I like them," said Tommy, moving to lift his head in protest. 

The hand held his head down, fingers trembling with the strain as they fought for a few seconds before Tommy's inevitable surrender. "You heard me." 

"I should see a doctor." He couldn't admit it to John, but he was equally afraid of losing the child and carrying it to term. He'd been around too many poor omegas giving birth in the slums without help, and he'd seen the ways it could go wrong, ending in death or permanent injury for mothers and babies alike. As a boy of eleven, he'd realized that could happen to him, and it had become the source of years of nightmares. 

John ran a hand down Tommy's arm and squeezed the bruise there, a silent reminder and refusal. "If you see a doctor, you'll be paying for it yourself. You're not sick. I keep you housed and fed and off the streets and away from the drink. There's no reason you shouldn't be able to carry a child. It's what you're fucking designed for." 

The hand on his buttock crept down, a finger sliding into the crevice, nudging at the place where Tommy was sore and swollen now.

He sucked in an angry breath and suddenly his stomach revolted. He had just enough time to twist away and get it on the bed instead of in John's lap. It was all acid and water, the only thing he'd had today, mixed with the blood from his mouth. 

"Jesus," said his husband, broad and Irish and blasphemous. It always sounded worse in his mouth, because Tommy had heard him pray so often. 

Tommy moaned, stomach gurgling, and swallowed instead of spitting. He wiped his face on his sleeve. His nose was running and his tongue was bleeding. 

John got off the bed and left him. "We can't sleep on those sheets. You'll have to change them." 

Tommy didn't know what possessed him. His personal devil, probably. He was sick and scared, didn't want to give birth alone with John, didn't like the way the blood looked on the dingy, pale sheets. "You don't want me to see a doctor because they'll see the fucking bruises." He said it with venom in his voice and bloody bile in his mouth. 

The slap was ferocious and it left Tommy with his face throbbing, bent over the mattress trying to clear his vision. 

Another slap—to the back of his head this time—and then a knee to the underside of his thigh, shoving him face-first into the bed. 

"How dare you," said his husband, white-hot fury soaking into Tommy's ears like acid. "You'll take whatever I give you, you ungrateful mongrel, and you will lick my hand." 

He was hitting Tommy on the ass, the leg, the arm as he spoke, and Tommy threw a hand back, trying to block him. John grabbed the arm and pinned it against Tommy's back with a cruel twist. "Stay still." 

Fuck off, Tommy thought. 

"You may have ruined my life," came the voice, searing into his ear from behind, hot breath on Tommy's already hot neck, his arm bent so violently it was all he could do not to whimper. "But all that means, Tommy, is that there's nothing left you can do to me. Whereas you still have your freedom, and your vermin kin, and this child within you, all to lose, understand? I don't think you want to cross me." 

Tommy didn't move. 

His arm. He couldn't think. 

John let go and gave him one more hard slap on the ass, leaving him trembling and embarrassed. "I could have you in prison like that." He snapped his fingers. "Any day I choose. But I prefer, out of the goodness of my heart and the charity of my soul, to keep you here and give you a chance at a better life and an opportunity to atone for your many sins. The church may have given up on me, but I haven't given up on you. And the thanks I get in return is your smart fucking mouth and your filthy omega ass." 

John went to the cupboard looking for food and left Tommy to clean up the red-stained vomit. He pulled his shorts back on first, nearly toppling over from the dizziness. 

"We'll call him Patrick," said John from the other side of the room. "Or Beatrice, if it's a girl. I won't have any of your heathen names or words in the house." 

"Suvvin ballo," Tommy muttered. Fucking pig. 

He put his hand over his stomach and told the baby, without words, that they would have to look out for each other. 

Somehow it made him feel better. 

Notes:

Depiction of marital rape. Mention of miscarriage and abortion.

Chapter 24: in which tommy is not sorry

Notes:

Content warnings in the end notes.

The morning before Charlie was born, he dreamed about a horse: a handsome black gelding, two years old and ready for the track. 

He was readying him for a rich man, currying and sweet-talking him for the last time while sadness gathered in his throat like smoke at a wake. He didn't want to say goodbye, but the horse wasn't his. 

He combed the coarse mane under his fingers, patted the glossy coat beneath. "Good boy." Then he heard Ada's voice at the end of the barn, and he looked out of the stall to see her approaching.

She was trying to tell him something important, but he couldn't hear. His ears were cottony. And then there was a hand on his neck, pinching from behind, and lightning dread bolted through him as the hand clamped down to crush his spine— 

And then he was awake, sickened in the hot bed, pain burning through the side and base of his abdomen. He swallowed, dry and sore, and his eyes stung. He needed water.

It was morning, and John wasn't in the bed. The apartment door was open. There were voices at the street entrance. A woman's voice. 

Ada's voice. 

He sat up, wincing, supporting his heavy stomach with one hand. He listened, and then he was sure, and his heart gave a wild flop like he'd landed a fish on the inside. 

It was fear and yearning at the same moment—fear of John seeing his family, harming them, but also a terrible, nauseating flutter of hope, that illogical little boy inside him that thought someone had finally come to find him, to rescue him and take him away and make things the way they used to be. 

It couldn't be good. It wasn't good for Ada to be here. Anything John had to say to her would be wrong. He would be lying, telling her things—did she know Tommy was here? Was she here looking? Or was this some kind of sick joke, asking Ada here for something to do with her charity work and never telling her that her missing brother was upstairs, pregnant and sick and so fucking remorseful? 

He moved as fast as he could, but by the time he made it to the head of the stairs, John was coming back, halfway up, and the street door was shut. 

He tried to push past and John held him by the shoulders. 

"That was my sister," Tommy said. "I need to talk to her." 

"You're imagining things." 

"It was her. It fucking was—let me go, before she's gone!" 

"It was not your sister," John said again, forcing him backwards. 

Tommy fought and got a shove in response, pushing him back toward the apartment. 

"Get back in there. You're not dressed. I won't have you parading about in your unmentionables." 

"What was she doing here? What did you tell her?" 

John picked him up under the arms and moved him, half threw him back into the room and shut the door. Tommy grabbed the table for support and felt a livid, blood-red hatred rise through his body, a whoosh like wine caught on sudden fire. 

"You won't touch my family," he said, feeling the voice come over him, out of him, like an oracle. "I've stayed with you. I've done everything you fucking asked. I'm carrying your baby, for Christ's sake." 

"I'll touch anyone I please, your dog-piss family included." John turned aside, the words venomous but the face and voice so cold, so fucking matter-of-fact. "You think I give a rat's fucking arse whether a nest of vermin lives or dies?" 

And there, after almost three years—there it was. Tommy's breaking point. 

With the sound of Ada's voice still in his ears, he gave a roar, a strange wounded sound that he didn't even recognize. He gripped the edge of the table and wanted, sore and weak and pregnant as he was, to commit murder. 

John heard it in that noise, saw it in his face, and a change came over him, like dark thunder descending. "Don't you look at me like that, Tommy Shelby." 

Everything in him was jangling, screaming, awash with hatred and a desperation he had only known in moments when he thought he was dying. It was a physical panic like drowning, his whole body contracted into one shrieking thought: Get out. 

"I can't do this." Tommy made a move for the door and was grabbed, painfully, by the arm. 

"You set one foot outside this building and I will see you arrested, imprisoned, and hanged." 

"You think I bloody care?" It was almost a shout as he pulled back, willing to rip his arm in half if only he could get away. "I'd rather—"

A violent scramble ensued, a hand almost wrenching his shoulder out of the socket. "Fuck you," he sobbed. His voice cracked and his hands weren't strong enough to shove the man off. He wished he was Arthur. He couldn't fucking— 

The baby didn't deserve this, this hell to live in. 

Snapped wild and alive, close to tears with rage, he let loose a vicious torrent, a machine-gun fire of obscenities laced with curses in three languages. He was biting, clawing, ripping at John with words and teeth, his mouth the only thing he had left. He was nearly blacked out with rage, returning all the degrading names of nearly three years in one desperate onslaught. 

The hands on him were so strong, so fucking rough, and now he gasped because one seized on his hair, sending fire through his scalp, spinning him around the other way, dragging, and then he was swung down, smashing his face into the table. 

His arm saved him, thrown up just in time to break the blow, but the side of his head caught a brass candlestick and it hurt. 

An instant ringing set in, his ears sounding the alarm that he wasn't okay. The pain pounded in his head as the other man flipped him on his back, pinned him there against the table, and started beating with his fists, blows smashing into Tommy's chest, his ribs, his sides. He gasped and gasped and tried to curl down, hide his front, protect his stomach. A blow in his left side, just under the ribs, made the room go black, and he was choking, crying without breath at the pain he couldn't stand. 

He slapped at John with a lost, futile hand and caught air. 

Three more blows, six, seven, and then he was held still by his hair again. He was far away from himself and the pain in his bones, a slender insect dangled in thin air by cruel fingers. He wanted to die, not to go on and feel these bruises in an hour or a day. He already hurt so fucking bad, the pain radiating through his middle from that left side where he'd been hit, like something around the baby had been ripped loose. 

John's eyes were too frightening to look at, like a devil leering over him. 

"You wicked, ungrateful little shit." A backhand across the face. 

It felt like his nose was driven back into his skull, pain like hot whiskey up his nostrils. His mouth hung open like a wound, trying to get air. 

"A whore's bastard, am I? You pathetic fucking mongrel." 

Another one. Tears were running down his face for no reason, released with the shock of the blow. 

"Over the table. Come on, over with you." 

His side, his stomach hurt too much. He couldn't press there, couldn't lie on his front. He moaned, yelped like an animal when John tried. 

"Hold the edge, then," came the words like another slap, and he was jerked back. 

He set his hands on the edge of the table, bent forward at the hips because his waist was full of the baby. His ears were roaring, the room and his insides and his eyes all melting, dripping down around him, cold and hot at once. He was drowning in it, couldn't get a breath. The instinct to obey, to hold still, held him like a steel bond now. 

He cramped violently down his left side. He hoped desperately that the baby was okay, that the baby could feel him there to protect, that the baby knew it didn't have to face this alone. 

"You have pushed me and pushed me," John was saying. "I am a patient man, but I have my limits." The hatred pouring off him like fever heat had Tommy dizzy. 

A whore's bastard. That one had gotten to him. 

Tommy wondered if it was true. 

The belt was coming out. He could hear it, and John was reaching around, taking Tommy's clothes off, telling him to stay still. 

Tommy gripped the edge of the table and wanted to cry, to disobey and fall down and beg like a child. But he didn't. He felt horribly vulnerable, his entire body an exposed nerve. He couldn't tense and fight and go hard—he was sore and swollen, his legs weak from holding up the extra weight, his heart breaking over the little scared thing inside him. It wasn't right. 

John cracked the thing down like a chain going taut, whipping down, not sideways, and the weight of it made Tommy nearly buckle. It landed across his bare waist, a shock that made his whole body jerk. 

Fuck, fuck. 

He'd never done that before.

Tommy wondered if, after all these months of things getting worse and angrier and more irrational, the man intended to kill him. 

The second blow landed higher up his back, a slap that hurt his ears and felt like it had cut him in half. His legs moved, trying to get away, even though he didn't let go with his hands. "I'm sorry," he gasped, before John had the chance to tell him to stand still. 

A growling purr like a tiger. A warning. 

The third blow hit his waist again and made him burst his lip. He let his mouth hang, let the blood drip down with the drool. 

Stop. Please stop. 

He tried to relax, but his body did the opposite, tightened up everything until it bloody hurt, and he was breathing hard through his nose. 

The belt came down again and again, for minutes, until he was bent low, half crouched away from the onslaught, his head pressed between his hands against the edge of the table. He was whimpering. Trying not to. 

It's okay, he told the baby. It's okay, I've got you. 

He heard the difference in John's breathing now, the heavy anger mixed with lust, and his knuckles trembled with strain. It was the worst when he was turned on by the pain. Rage was better. Rage was over sooner. 

Tommy couldn't take much more. That blow to his side had him weak and spasming, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Something wasn't right. 

"John, I'm—" 

"Did I tell you to speak?" 

A hand on his ass, a smack, a squeeze, pinching the burning skin, pulling him open a little as a threat. 

He sagged, his knees crying. 

"Stay up," said the tiger-voice. 

I can't. 

He tried. 

John reached forward past him and he flinched at the movement, but it wasn't a blow. John was taking the candlesticks off the table, putting them up on a high shelf that he could reach and Tommy couldn't without something to stand on. 

He didn't want Tommy to kill him. 

And he was pulling the birch down from the shelf.

Tommy's head swam away suddenly, his body warm and floating. He felt invisible arms holding him, a motherly thing, someone there stroking his face, maybe even crying over it. 

It was a fantasy he'd made up as a child: that someone cared about him in these moments, cried for him when he wasn't allowed to cry, and it had stuck, and he couldn't get rid of it. It happened without even trying, the warmth and the swimming feeling, the dream-arms around him. 

The birch made him cry out and grab at the table, horror setting in like a drumbeat from the deeps of the earth. He was watching himself from the other side of the room now, mesmerized by the way his body jackknifed and the way his mouth and jaw went iron-hard. His forehead was granite against the table, and the rickety thing shook and squawked under him as his arms rocked forward with every stroke. 

It was like a blade being drawn through his body, deep, pulling through the wounds already there with the precision of calculated torture. Tommy barked and mewled with every awful slice. John couldn't know, couldn't understand what it was doing to him. He wouldn't do it if he did. He wouldn't be that cruel. He was just like Tommy's father—stupid, that was all. Not hurting him on purpose.

It was all a sad mistake. It was Tommy's fault for not explaining, for being unable to make him understand that this was too much, that it was killing him and his baby. 

"Please," he heard himself say, sputtering, sucking in wet air through sobbing teeth. "Please stop. I can't." 

"I'll stop when you've learned some respect," said the voice. John or his father, it didn't matter which, the voice too much the same.

He was naked, he was hurt, his stomach hurt and he was going to puke in another minute. He was already dripping from his face, tears and sweat and snot and pinkish drool. 

The blows came from behind now, a quick storm of six or seven at once on his buttocks and thighs, and he did lose control, a frantic climax of pain—didn't puke but gagged, choked, gagged, and lost control of his bladder like an animal. 

He was crying. 

Fuck, he was—

He screamed and let go of the table, a blow that made him gag again. John had him by the hair now, was pulling him up, turning him around—and he let go of the hair, held him, tucked Tommy's disgusting face into his shoulder and held him up because he couldn't see, couldn't speak, couldn't fucking stand. 

"There. You'll learn your lesson, Tommy boy. You'll learn to mind me, won't you? No more of your mouth and your rebellion." 

John's prick was hard against Tommy's leg, bumping against the base of his cramping stomach, but he couldn't be upset by it because he couldn't think. His brain was a sheet of ice with fire dripping down, melting the cold in chunks. 

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking, uncontrolled. He needed to pee again, worried he would soak John's trousers by accident. "I'm sorry." 

"You're sorry." The hand caressed his head and it was everything Tommy wanted, made him weaken and let out a stuttering cracked sound. "Tell me what you're sorry for." 

"Sorry for—" He couldn't remember, tried to think. "For my mouth." 

"Very good. What else are you sorry for?" 

"My—" A wave of pain took him over and he almost went down whimpering like a child, only John's tight arms keeping him up.

"I'm sorry," he said again, getting scared. He couldn't remember. 

"You're sorry for wanting to leave," prompted John, a low, soothing menace. 

"I'm sorry for—" 

Ada had been downstairs. She'd been there, and he had missed her and now she was gone. 

His baby was not okay. His baby was scared, and it hurt. 

"Wanting to leave," John said again, more severely this time. 

But he wasn't sorry for that. 

He pulled away a little, moving his nakedness away from John's leg. He didn't want to be touched like that. 

John tightened his grip warningly. "I wouldn't, Tommy." 

"Fuck off," he whispered, too horrified to care. He was scared, disgusted, didn't want those arms around him or those fingers on his neck. "Don't touch me." 

White fury met him, eyes narrowed to chinks in the sickening, pallid face. "Get your clothes on," came the hissing order. 

He obeyed clumsily, hands and legs shaking, pain everywhere, grabbing him and making him freeze and grimace. 

John pelted him with words. 

He was an ungrateful wretch, a crawling imbecile, a vile thing, full of demons, irredeemable. He was cursed, a disgusting whore, deserved every fucking and every beating he'd ever gotten. He ought to have his balls ripped out. He ought to be grateful John wasn't making him lick his own piss off the floor. 

He blocked it out because it was too much now, too much on top of the way his body was cramping up, his baby fighting him. 

I'm sorry, baby. Please stop. Don't hurt me. I'm here, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that to happen. 

John wanted him out. 

Chased him down the stairs, stumbling and hanging onto the rail. 

He could spend a day in the streets, see how well he liked it out there where omegas were easy pickings, see how he fared after dark with his slut's face and pretty ass under the street lamps, out where the unmated alphas drank and roamed all night. 

He'd be sorry, come crawling back, begging for forgiveness. 

He fell in the street because there was nothing to hold onto. He couldn't get up because he was cramping so badly. He bent double and rocked himself like a baby. 

Fuck, he couldn't do this. 

The door slammed. He peered up at the sun and blinked, looked hopelessly up and down the street for Ada, knowing she would be long gone. Hand over his belly, he crawled into the shadow of the building, laid down on his side, and groaned. 

Notes:

Graphic depiction of abuse, implied racial slurs.

Chapter 25: in which tommy haunts a ghost

Notes:

Finally a new chapter! Thank you all for being patient.

In life, she had never worried for Tommy the way she did her other children. After death, she worried for him most of all. 

The strange thing about after death is that you know more but can do less; you see yourself with clear eyes, and all the grime and cobwebs of the things you couldn't bear to admit to yourself are scrubbed clean. There is clarity after death. But there you are, watching your children, and you can see them better than you ever did in life—you can witness their agonies and insecurities with infinite, unclouded understanding and a sympathy that never comes near to incapacitating emotion or distorting vision or burning itself out—but you can't give them a single hug. 

She would have given eons for one minute today. One minute to go to Tommy as he stumbled and crawled through the streets, to stop him and tell him to rest, to dab his bloodied mouth and wipe the sweat from the hollows of his cheeks. She would tell him how sorry she was—something she had never been able to say in life. She would tell him to breathe slow and accept the pain instead of fighting it, because she'd done this five times and she knew that fighting only made it worse. She would tell him he had what it took to survive this. 

But she couldn't. In his agony, she could only watch and wish and send her invisible, faceless, armless love toward him. 

The time was of no consequence. Three hours, eight hours, fourteen, it didn't matter. She remembered it had mattered to her when she was in labor, but she knew better now. Each moment is its own, and the last moment can only bring pain to the present through the power of thought. 

What really mattered was the pain. That her boy, her Thomas, couldn't get up sometimes; that he would stop and hold onto a crack in the cobbles or claw miserably at a brick wall, breathing heavy with his mouth sealed shut. It mattered to her that he was scared and alone, that he was afraid the baby was dying and it was his fault, or that he would die birthing it and leave it alone, abandoned, unable to breathe or feed or save itself. It mattered that he still thought, after all this time, that he deserved the pain. 

She remembered the day Charlie told her. The way she'd gone cold inside when she heard what her child had lived with, her dreaming-eyed, stubborn little boy. She had gotten stuck staring at the pot of violets on the windowsill, violets that had dared to bloom early and that Tommy had dug up from the pasture to bring to her in the kitchen. They were rigid, caught by a late frost that had left the window silver-laced; they were withering up and she needed to throw them on the compost, but she didn't have the heart to now. 

The worst of it was that she hadn't been surprised. It had seemed, in that moment, like a thing she'd always known, a secret she had kept even from herself. 

She had never recovered from that day, not because of what had been done to Tommy, but because she hadn't been surprised by it. It had taken away the last shred of her that wasn't ashamed. 

Now, of course, she saw it all differently. She had compassion on herself—a good soul but a bad mother, hiding from herself all the things she couldn't stand—a creature full of heartache and disappointment, wanting, like all creatures, to be loved—and she had compassion on Tommy, infinitely more than she had been able to endure before, taking in every drop of his suffering, the full measure of his desolation. She could count every curse or whimper that had ever fallen from his lips from childhood till now and every one he'd held back, trying to be brave. She loved him as she loved herself, loved him as a part of herself. 

Tommy had endured hell because his father asked him to—his libertine father, who was still roaming the earth looking for the missing piece of his humanity he'd misplaced at three years old, not even remembering that he was looking for it, just feeling the shape of it like an old scar inside. She had been angry at him when Charlie told her. Wanted to go to him with a blade in her hand and set it against the pulsing vein in his smug, drink-swollen neck and ask why in God's holy name he hadn't pimped her out instead, whether he was only brave enough to harm a child who wouldn't fight back. She had wanted to press the knife into his gut and watch him sweat and squirm, to shout at him For Christ's sake, Arthur, he was your child. Don't you know a boy will do anything for his father? 

Thank God he was gone by then. 

It wouldn't have healed anything to kill him. It would have wounded them all worse, Tommy especially. But Tommy should have known, at least, that she'd wanted to do it. She should have told him before she died, not left him to guess. 

The white pony had meant Live, Tommy. I'm sorry, Tommy. Don't be like me, Tommy. Forgive yourself, Tommy. 

But she hadn't used words, and how was he supposed to know all that? And he had gone on to suffer like this, chained by his own guilt to this man who tormented him—chained, too, by the lie his father had told him, that he was proud of Tommy for taking care of the family in his stead.

It was a terrible lie, because Arthur had never been proud. He had been glad, she knew it. He had felt himself clever, congratulated himself for making the best of a bad business. He hadn't cared a whit that his gladness was built on the suffering of a little boy who worshiped him. 

She had been angry with Charlie, too, for not telling her sooner, blaming him with the runoff of the blame she owed herself. She had beaten him on the chest with her fists a few days later, falling apart in the kitchen with the porridge burning and baby Finn screaming from the bedroom. Charlie had let her hit him, then held her when she stopped and went numb again. 

He had put his lips in her hair and whispered in Shelta, worried for her. Stop scaring me, he'd said.

It was why he hadn't told her before, he said. He had been afraid of what it would do to her. 

In retrospect, he had been right to worry. But even that didn't give him the right to keep it from her. You don't keep a thing like that secret from a mother. Before death, she was most angry at him for that. But that had been her fearful, blinded heart. After death, she had realized that his worst sin, by far, was knowing. 

Tommy had begged him not to tell, he said. A lad of twelve, vomiting in the alley behind the house, stuffing his bleeding backside with rags and stealing pills to sleep. That should have been the thing, as a mother, that made her angry: that he had comforted Tommy without putting a stop to it. But it was still more than she had done, and it eased her a little now, after death, to know of those times when Tommy went to Charlie for comfort, hanging around for hours while he worked, listening to that low, easy voice. She wished she could send Charlie to him now, to pick him up and put him in the back of a cart and take him home.

She saw how the fear in him grew as the hours passed and the pains got worse headed into evening. He wasn't well; his wounds were inflamed after a long day in the hot sun, with burning sweat running into them and no water to strengthen him after the sweats. It was making him weak. 

Tommy was crumpling now, bracing one hand against a stationary cart, going down slowly onto splayed knees. He cradled the place where his hips and legs met, where the child was wedged deep, and his mouth gaped in pain, still trying not to cry out, trained to silence by years of practice. The street was loud around him, the final rush to get home before dusk and before the rain began. 

It wouldn't be safe for him on the street after dark. 

The horse attached to the cart turned its head as Tommy tried to crawl forward and out of the roadway. It drooped its large, sad face and touched him, and he grimaced and raised a hand, blindly, instinctually, to brush its nose. 

It was the only kind thing done to him all day. A horse, not one of the dozens or hundreds of humans who had passed by him. 

She watched as the respectable owner of the cart came out of the shop and saw a slovenly creature touching his property. She watched the man think his thoughts, an instantaneous calculation more than a rational undertaking. The blood on Tommy's shirt meant he was violent; the way he was hunched on the ground meant he was on drugs; the disheveled look meant he was a thief; and the pretty bones of his face meant, of course, that he was promiscuous.

He berated Tommy, kicked him in the leg, and when he didn't move away, gave him a flick of the cart-whip. No one else on the street seemed to care. A glance or two of curiosity, that was all. 

The horse looked regretfully over at his fellow sufferer, but Tommy didn't see. His face had been smashed into the stones and he was feeling for the street, the edge, eyes blurred with tears, trying to get out of the way, hand stretched out shaking with pain. The respectable cartman drove off muttering about trash on the streets and crime on the rise and what things were coming to. 

She watched as her son's forehead bowed all the way to the ground. He didn't care about the filth he was kneeling in or even about the cartman's whip. The child was leaving his warm womb and moving, inch by inch, down through the hard bones and tender flesh of him, and that was a pain like nothing else. He was going dark, losing his hearing with it; and at last a long groan rose from him like the timbers of an old, storm-battered boat about to break. 

Come on, Tommy. A little further. Keep moving, keep looking. Don't stay here on the street where the alpha packs roam after dark. 

But Tommy didn't move. A little while later, the rain began. 

It patted his head and back and bent haunches, soft taps at first, and then a shower that caressed his hair like a wet hand and stuck his shirt to his welts. The dried blood on his arms, where his husband had dug into him with vicious nails, began to run and stain his sleeves. And there was blood beneath him too, dripping, a rainy pool between his legs that it was becoming too dark to see. 

There, Tommy. It's alright to cry. You don't have to hide that from me anymore. I'm sorry, chavello...my sweet little boy. 

Veiled by the drops running down his face and the sound of rushing rain around him, Tommy cried. She felt the moment he gave way. It wasn't relief, but it was release, an outburst of the anguish he had held in all day for fear of attracting undue attention. He cried softly, a keening rhythm of awful pain, and locked his arms over his head the way he used to when his father was beating him. 

It was a fearful place to be. Omegas who gave birth in the street, amongst the mud and the piss and the shit and the rotting things, they were the ones who took sick after and died with their little ones mewling hungry on their chests.

She had been poor in her day, but never so poor as that. Never without a place to lie down and call her own. She wasn't afraid for Tommy, exactly—she was beyond fear now—but the shining panic that gleamed in her son's eyes through the blur of the water expanded her heart in a vast ocean of grief that seemed to have no end. 

She would have given anything to hold him.

She hovered there, invisible, and imagined he could sense her close. But of course he couldn't. He thought he was all alone in the world. None of the family knew where he was or the terrible things he'd done and suffered trying to protect them. None of them knew he'd been threatened, time and again, that if he tried to contact them, the whole family would pay. They didn't know he still thought of them all every day, lonely and scared and full of regret. 

She knew, though. She knew, and she wanted Tommy to know he hadn't been abandoned. 

She watched as he shivered through the next three hours of labor in the dark, shrinking back against the wall every time he heard a voice. She heard him whispering, and even though his words were washed away in the downpour, she knew that he was speaking to his child, telling it he was sorry for everything and asking it to stop, to please stop hurting him. 

When the fourth hour began, Tommy was pushing, violent frantic pushes like the sudden shock of a dry heave, the urge taking control of his muscles without his permission. But the baby was difficult. Large for him, and badly positioned. He could be pushing for hours at this rate—pushing, perhaps, until he had no strength left and expired with the baby trapped in the tunnel of his birth canal, dead just short of freedom. 

He had his back against the wall and his knees up and apart, trying to make space in his skeleton where there was none. She watched him grab at nothing, grimace with fierce teeth, his face puckered the way it did when he was little and trying not to cry. Between hard pushes he gave a mangled yelp, as if the pushing was something being done to him instead of something he was doing. 

If she had been before death, she could have gotten down on her knees beside him and said Slower, Tommy. Push slow and even, breathe as you do it. You'll wear yourself out if you do it like this. 

She could have called for help and taken him to a safe place where he could give birth in quiet, with other omegas to help. She could have kissed his head and held his hand, let him lean on her while he labored. 

She could have atoned, perhaps, for not doing any of it when he was a boy. 

Once, when he was eleven, he'd gotten sick with a high fever. She had scolded him for sleeping outside the house when it was raining, for being careless and disobedient. The anger had really been at a dozen different things: at having no money for a doctor, at Arthur for drinking, at not having warm enough clothes for her children, at the house being so miserable that Tommy didn't want to sleep there. 

That memory haunted her, because she knew now, after death, that he hadn't been sick from being out in the cold. He had been hurt by an alpha, and only Arthur knew about it. The wound had gone bad and Tommy was fighting an infection, but he couldn't tell her because it was a secret. He must have been so scared, in so much pain, and her own pain had made her blind to it. 

She longed for the chance to do differently now, to let all her children know that they were cherished and that their pain would not go unseen or unwept. And yet, with painful clarity, she knew that if she had lived she would not have been with Tommy tonight. 

She would not have been different, and he would still have been alone. 

---

Tommy had never felt this much pain in his whole fucking life.

Flashes of it, maybe. Worse pain that lasted a few seconds. Not this marathon, this endless onslaught that had him ready to bash his brains out on the street-stones.

He didn't even know if his water had broken. He thought not, because that should be warm. And all he had felt since the rain began was cold, icy wet everywhere, stuck to him and dripping down. He kept on talking to his baby, knowing it was nonsensical but unable to control the impulse. "It's okay," he said, a spatter of strangled low voice between the raindrops. "It's okay, baby." 

It wasn't okay. He couldn't be here. In the rain he would have no way to keep the baby warm. He was so thin and he only had the one shirt, soaked through with rain and sweat. The baby would need to be dried and warmed. Even the Holy Mother above the desk in the vestry, poor and rejected, had found a manger for her baby. 

But she had had Saint Joseph, and Tommy had John Hughes. 

The image of his husband haloed in stained glass kept coming back to him as he strained and swore in the dark, and as many times as he smashed it in his mind, it came back. 

Lizzie wouldn't have let this happen to her child. 

He was cold, so fucking cold. He couldn't stop shaking. His legs, his hands, fearful and disgusting in the black rain. And it hurt. God, it hurt. 

He wasn't the Holy Mother. There was the difference. He was an omega whore. Plenty of those gave birth on the street and died on the street. No house, no husband, no stable, no bloody manger. 

He didn't want to be that. 

He hadn't meant to fuck his life up like this. He had wanted to be better.

His father, selfish bastard that he was, had given all his children a safe place to be born. Tommy was going to get his baby killed because he couldn't even do that. 

A shift inside him as he pushed and the pain redoubled, a wrenching burn that pulled a yell out of him. It stayed, and he leaned forward, sick and panicked, trying to find a position that hurt less. 

Stop, stop. It had to stop. 

He kept barking instead of breathing, and he pushed again, as hard as he could. 

"Fuck," he sobbed. He was on hands and knees in the freezing rain, his mind puddling like blood beneath him. "Come on, baby. Don't do this." He wiped his face on his soaked sleeve and sobbed again, brief this time, just getting it out. 

He'd never been in so much pain. Fuck. 

"What're we gonna do, baby? Hm?" His voice was hoarse and splintered with cold. "What we gonna do?" 

Out of nowhere, he heard a whisper in his ear that made him jerk. Tommy. A woman's voice. 

He always knew he was in a bad way when he started to hallucinate. It made him want to cry again because fucking hell, he was trying. He didn't want his baby to die. He didn't know what else to do. 

It came a second time: Tommy, and this time it sounded sorrowful, somehow. It didn't scare him as much. 

He thought of his mother. She had been tormented by voices...she had told him about it once. She believed they were the voices of her family, people who had passed on. 

Tommy didn't believe that. But he thought of her, and remembered that she had done this five times. He had been with her when Finn was born—in Romany families, only omegas could help other omegas birth, and the neighbor woman had been sick that day. 

He had held her hand and given her water and caught the baby. But she was good at it, not afraid; she birthed easy, she always said. It hadn't looked easy. 

The thought gave him some comfort, and that chilling voice in his ear was less frightening when he imagined that it was his mother there with him, an arm around his shoulders, leaning over with him and telling him he could do this. 

It was a stupid thing, but it melted a little of the grief and panic away from his chest and let him breathe again. He moved his stiff arms. A faint splash as his hands moved, one at a time, in the growing puddle. He was sniffing, coughing, spitting water that ran fast down his face and into his mouth. 

He managed to lift his face, blinking in the rain, and look down the next street. 

It was a nice street. Like Grace's. Houses crammed together but rich folks in them.

That was no good. On a poor street, he might have the shirt snatched from his back or be run off by someone afraid of him, but he might also happen upon a soul who understood and would share a bed and a mug. The rich, they wouldn't give a fuck that he was dying. 

But he didn't have much choice. Behind him were pubs and cat-houses, the shops all closed. There were alphas who would fuck him even like this, marked up, barely able to move, and scrawny as a scarecrow even nine months pregnant. 

At least down this street he could find shelter under a doorway, block his baby from the rain as best he could when it was born. 

It took him a few tries to get up. Standing was hard, walking harder. His bones felt close to cracking under the pressure. As he staggered across the street, gravity did what all his pushing couldn't. The baby slid down inside him, and he howled in pain, shoved an arm into his mouth to muffle it. 

Fuck. Fuck, it was killing him. 

He stumbled to his knees on the stoop of the closest house, put his hand on the door as if he could beg and it would understand. 

He couldn't stop the sounds coming out of him, couldn't see straight. He clawed and pounded on the doorframe. 

He whimpered for a minute then, the pain just barely bearable, and reached down into his trousers and felt what he was afraid of. 

It was warm down there, the only warmth he'd felt in hours; and the baby was coming out. 

God, fuck, his baby was coming out. 

He whimpered again, high and panicked, as his body convulsed, trying to squeeze a body through his body, and he felt with his fingers where it was stretching him out, no more than a few inches yet, and it bloody hurt. 

He was scared, and he tried to imagine his mother, but he couldn't see her face. 

Instead he saw that above him, on the doorframe, was a mezuzah. 

A Jew lived here. They would know the meaning of hard luck. Rich or no, they might understand. 

He pounded on the door. Yelled, incoherently. Meaning it to be for help, but it was for pain. 

A window scraped somewhere above. "Oy, pipe down out there!" 

He couldn't, couldn't stop pushing. It took him over like possession, a violent urge, and he thought he would faint. 

Please, baby. Stop. Stop. I can't. 

The baby gave him a break and he sagged desperate against the door. 

He pounded louder. Anger came to him from nowhere, like he was pulling it out of the storm. He was going to save his child if it was the last fucking thing he did. 

Come on. Open the damn door. 

The voice came again. "Hey! You alright down there, mate? Got someplace to go?" 

No. No place to go. Not to his family, not to the shelters, not to the hospital. 

His body tightened around the child again and he couldn't answer. He could only make sounds, his gut climbing up through his throat. 

"Shut the hell up!" came another voice from another house. 

He couldn't speak, couldn't apologize, but he could keep banging on the door. He didn't need much, just to be out of the rain, and a blanket to wrap his baby in. That would be enough. He could do the rest himself. He would bury his face and be quiet, not disturb anyone. 

It's alright, baby. I've got you. 

He breathed, long and slow, shaking, stuttering. He felt beneath himself again, where his baby was trying to get out. He loved his baby. He wanted his baby safe. 

He wondered if his mother had felt that way about him. 

He grimaced again as his muscles clenched and his body burned. This morning, waking to the sound of Ada's voice, felt like a year ago. He hurt like a tortured old man, like a crying child, like a bleeding virgin, like a devil in hell. 

He threw a fist against the door, so very tired. Then the deadbolt clanked and the door swung open. 

Chapter 26: in which charlie meets his father

Notes:

This is a long one and a rough one. Content warning in the end notes.

present day

There were no words for what Tommy felt when he looked up from his cot in the back room of the shelter to see the wrong man standing in the doorway.

Instead of Alfie's ruffled hair and honest eyes and an "Alright, treacle, let's go home. I told you I'd be here, didn't I?" it was John's taller, leaner frame and dark, accusatory silence that met him. 

It was the same thing he'd felt when he was ushered to the back room at the police station and saw the look in Campbell's eye as the man locked the door: the living nightmare bursting into flame all around you; the sudden, sickening certainty that the worst is about to happen and it's too late to get away. 

He couldn't take it. He wasn't himself right now. He had fought those policemen a few hours ago because he couldn't stand to be touched, couldn't stand to be taken away from Alfie, and most of all couldn't stand to see his husband again, and it was all playing out exactly as he had feared. He was a soft-bodied creature without a shell, raw and vulnerable. He had worked so hard to undo the tightness, the hardness, and let Alfie in, and now he was scrambling for the pieces of his old numb self, not sure where they had gone. 

"Hello, Thomas," said his husband, with that soft, squinting look Tommy had once mistaken for compassion. 

Tommy didn't answer. He pulled Charlie closer to his chest and tucked the corner of the blanket protectively over the baby's head (It's okay, Charlie. I've got you) and they both kept absolutely fucking quiet. 

"Aren't you going to introduce me to my son?" John came and stood over them. "When was the child born?" 

"After I left," said Tommy, and his voice cracked hollow. "Hours. You almost fucking killed me." 

"Tommy." John squatted beside the bed and set a large, fondling hand on the shape beneath the blanket where Charlie's head was. "What happened is our business and no one else's. I hope you haven't tried to involve anyone else in our affairs." 

"No." Goddamn it, why couldn't he sound more convincing. He couldn't think, couldn't come up with words to add that would fix it. He sounded like a scared kid dangling over the cut by his collar, caught in a lie. 

As if he'd heard those secret thoughts in Tommy's kicking, scrambling head, John said, "Are you lying to me, Thomas?" The hand on Charlie's head moved to the back of Tommy's neck, a threat even while the voice was gentle. 

The hand stopped like it had found something nasty. The look on John's face changed and the air around him grew thick. "You were with someone." 

Tommy couldn't look at him. His head swam. 

"I smell it on you, Tommy. I feel it in your skin. Ripe as a stone-fruit at midsummer, you are. You were in heat, weren't you?" Fingers tightened on his nape, pressing into the skin where he was like John said: ripe, soft as a blushing fruit. His skin felt tight, fragile, as if too much pressure in the wrong place would burst it. "Weren't you?" 

"What do you want me to say?" said Tommy.

There was no good answer, no answer that wouldn't make the man angry. He had always been jealous of Tommy's heats, wanting to know about past alphas who had brought them on, bitter that as a beta he couldn't bring one on himself. And it didn't matter how many times John had come home smelling like another omega. Tommy could see the calm, the sanity slipping out of John's eyes now; he was taking on that wolf-look Tommy hated. He couldn't bring up the other omegas, the unfairness of it all, not without all hell breaking loose. 

"I want you to tell me the truth." The voice was even and rhythmic, like a quickening pulse, just the barest hint of teeth. "Was it a man or a woman?" 

"Man." (Unbearable sadness leaked from the word, because it meant Alfie.) 

"Did you sleep with him?" 

Tommy sniffled, shoved his hand up briefly across his nose and mouth. "He saved my life." 

"Did you sleep with him?" The voice was quieter but much, much fiercer, the wolf-look lifting off for one second to reveal something worse, pure malice. Not a wild animal with the instincts of a brute, but a man with a divine spirit whose intention was hate. 

"Yes." Oh, it hurt. 

Tommy writhed without moving under that look and under the memory of Alfie fucking him so very gently, with tears in his eyes for Tommy's pain. 

He stared at his baby-full arms, at the bed, watched them pulse far away with his heartbeat. He had learned not to close his eyes because John hated that. But he could turn off his eyes while they were still open, look without seeing, just a collection of meaningless shapes and colors and movements that had nothing to do with him, nothing to do with Charlie. 

"You miserable whore." The disgust was no more than a whisper, but it shattered Tommy even through the fog. He felt his self-loathing spilling back out from the place where Alfie had locked it up and sealed the door with a kiss. He felt monster-like, his three months with Alfie a guilty thing, his hurting body grotesque.

He turned, drawn against his will to look back at his husband, and the ugly look in John's eye was a mirror. A black mirror, maybe. A scrying mirror like Old Mother Boswell's. There were devils coming through it where Tommy's face ought to be. 

The hand on his neck let him go finally, and it hurt, but less than the rest of his body. "Get up. We're going home." 

He shook his head and with relief heard himself say in a clear voice, "I'm staying here. You don't have the right." 

"The fact that I'm not on the phone with police right now you should consider a grace, Tommy," said John. "I had them at your brother's house this morning and I didn't have him arrested. Did you think about that?" 

The hand crept back down and pulled the blanket away from the baby's face. Bright searching eyes looked up at Tommy and made his heart wrench. A dimple appeared in the soft cheek where Charlie was glad to see him after two days away with Esme. 

"This child is mine," came the low, lilting voice. Tommy wished he could kill the voice, smother it, make it stop. "I have a right to him, with or without you. If you want to keep him, I think you'd better come along." 

Surrender washed through him, cold and limp. He went blank and ached everywhere. He kissed Charlie's head briefly to let him know it would be alright. 

It hurt to stand up—hurt like hell—and John just stood and watched him. 

He'd broken out in a sweat by the time he was on his feet, holding Charlie safe, mouth clamped stubborn over the pain. He was on fire, melting, liquid with shame under those eyes. 

Then and only then did John reach for the child. "I'll carry him. You're looking weak." 

He knew how John was when he didn't get his way, but letting him take the baby was like being wrenched in pieces, pulled apart at the sinews where it hurt. 

His arms were empty now, dangling, and his body hurt him so fucking much. 

"Take my arm," instructed John. 

Tommy obeyed. He couldn't see straight. 

The church bell struck nine as he climbed into a car for the third time today and John gave the driver the name of their street. Tommy reached for Charlie, but John moved the baby to the arm further away, took hold of Tommy's wrist, and silently placed his hand back in his lap. 

He ached to have his baby back. He sulked like a child, his face set against the rain-streaked window, away from John. His forehead was cool but he burned everywhere else, felt like his spine had been pulled out and put back in, everything bruised and inflamed around it, getting worse the lower it went. It was like sitting in a brazier, burned by the lumpy, blistering coals. 

The ride was torture and the walk up the stairs to their room little better. By the time John was standing in front of him unlocking the door, Tommy was tense as a rail, shoulders bunched together under his rain-damp shirt and unwelcome tears in his eyes. 

The door whined open and stale warm air rushed to meet him. At the familiar smells of dust and dried sweat and cheap wine, despair set in, gentle as a kiss. It was a strange relief to be back. The room looked more barren than before: John's books were gone and the kitchen shelves were swept clean. A loaf of bread and a bottle of red (nearly empty, as usual) were the only things on the table. He wanted to ask why, but didn't dare.

He hated that this drab, miserable place felt like home. That he felt a sense of belonging here, like he was part of the furniture. 

"You know I could have you charged with kidnapping," said John, like a slap in the silence as he laid Charlie on the bed. 

"You kicked me out," said Tommy. "You chased me down those stairs." 

"You pushed and pushed me, Tommy. I warned you to stop. Several times, I recall." 

"You were hurting the baby!" He stepped toward the bed where Charlie lay, but John caught him in the middle of the room and held him there. 

"Tell me about Solomons."

Tommy's heart jolted.

John knew, then. He fucking knew. The interrogation earlier had only been a test. 

"Tell me what he did to you." 

The hand on his wrist was starting to hurt, grabbing the fresh scar John didn't know about. Tommy stood very still. "He helped me through the birth." 

"So you showed your body to a strange alpha in—" 

"It wasn't like that. It was—" That night was a blur in his memory, blood and rum and vomit, pain like his body was being twisted off from the ribs down. 

"Then tell me what it was like," said John, letting go of his wrist with one last hard squeeze. 

Tommy didn't flinch. 

"Go, sit down on the bed and tell me." 

He felt sick but he obeyed, glad to have the bed under him. He thought with brief longing of lying down, but the idea of being prone or on his back in front of John right now was too much. 

"I had him after midnight sometime. He came—out backwards." Feet-first, wrong and too big. It made him sick and hot and afraid, and he didn't want John to picture the scene. The body dangling from him, almost killing him, prying open bones and bare flesh until he couldn't think, couldn't bear it, would never be the same in his head after.... 

His eyes ached and the room swam. He heard, in his head, the sobbing as he had grabbed Alfie's hand, his arm, and tried with no strength to get Charlie out. I can't. It hurts. Help me.  

He laid a hand on the dingy mattress to steady himself. 

John was reaching for the baby's head. Stroking it. Charlie looked up at the man, curious, and Tommy's wrecked insides clenched in helpless rage. He wished Alfie was here. 

"So. This Solomons watched." 

Not watched. It wasn't watched, as if Tommy were a sideshow freak or a two-penny stripper. He'd been scared and out of his head—dying, maybe—and Alfie had helped him get Charlie out alive. 

He looked up at John, hurt, and saw naked jealousy in his eyes. 

Sickness spread through Tommy like poison, a sharp pain paired with an impulse to gag. With a chill, he understood that John had wanted to be the one there when he gave birth: the one with hands all over him, fingers digging inside him, listening to his cries and smelling his blood. He had wanted, maybe, to gather more words to stone Tommy with later, more shame to drown him in, wanted those sounds and sights of pain to look back on like a fucking portrait-book any time he wanted. 

The eyes were still on him, scrutinizing, sucking up his every flinch of discomfort. He had forgotten how violating it was when John looked at him like that, hungry for him with a gray, starving look, like a gaunt cannibal spirit in a grimoire. 

Tommy gripped the sheet harder as he remembered his head on Alfie's shoulder, his arms locked around Alfie's neck, breathing close and madly those last desperate minutes of the birth. He breathed shakily. "He saved my life." 

John scoffed. "Saved you so he could send you into heat and have his way with you. Don't be a child, Thomas." 

(He remembered, suddenly, how Alfie's eyes had filled with tears when he saw the marks of the beating on Tommy's back.)

"And I suppose you told him a pack of infernal lies about me," said John with a martyred sigh. "Nothing about how I took you in when you were on the run, saved you from the hangman's noose and tried to reform you, and for my pains was stripped of my position, my reputation, my sacred calling, and my livelihood." 

Tommy's throat was tight. He looked over at Charlie and wished he could hold him. 

"You didn't tell him any of that, did you?" John asked softly, accusingly. After a pause— "Did you perhaps tell him I was a beta who couldn't satisfy a man with your appetites? That I mistreated you, just as your father did? Was that it, Tommy? The innocent victim looking for sympathy?" 

Tommy pressed the back of his hand into his eyes, trying to clear his mind. The pain was getting to him, making it hard to think. "I told him you worked for the city. Nothing else. Not your name, not your fucking status. He thought you were an alpha." 

John moved closer. Ran a hand down Tommy's side until it came to rest at the base of his hip. "So he believed you had an alpha, and he still knotted you himself instead of bringing you home." 

Tommy wiped his upper lip and shook his head. Alfie wasn't like that. It wasn't about competition and domination and besting another man. It had been— 

He felt trapped, like each answer locked him into a labyrinth he wouldn't be able to escape. 

"He loves me," he said at last. 

A faint, disgusted smile. John didn't even bother to argue, as if the idea of anyone loving Tommy was too ridiculous to bear contemplation. He moved his hand down to Tommy's thigh, rubbed over the old scar from the night of Campbell's murder. He knew where it was, even through the clothes. 

"Thomas." He said it almost lovingly. "I want you to strip now." 

Tommy went cold, then hot. He swallowed the dryness in his mouth. "John. Please." He looked over at Charlie, whose eyes were roaming the room. "I'm tired." 

"I didn't ask you if you were tired. I asked you to take your things off so I can have a look at you." 

"Solomons didn't harm me. I broke a bone in the birth. It hurts to sit on, that's all." 

John nodded understandingly, eyes closed, but said softly, "Strip." 

Tommy obeyed, slowly, reluctantly. It was a little cold in the room, or he felt cold from tension and lack of sleep. He shook slightly as he uncovered his still-warm skin, got awkwardly off the bed to remove the rest, laid the clothes on a chair. 

John watched in silence and Tommy didn't look up. 

He stayed standing to give himself a break from sitting, and he shivered. 

John came close and put a heavy hand on his shoulder, a warm thumb creeping downward to his chest. "He put his fucking mark on you." 

Tommy nodded, a tiny, jerky movement. His voice came out low. "Yes." 

"It's fresh. Yesterday? The day before?" 

Another nod. 

The world split in half for an instant as a hand snapped viciously across his face. 

A finger wagged before his blurring eyes, bumping into his nose as he staggered. "That's for trying to hide it from me." 

Tommy nodded, wiped his upper lip again. "Can I put my clothes on?" 

"No. I am not fucking done with you. Stand still." 

The warm, clothed body pressed up against him and hands roamed everywhere. He still had a few marks from the beating three months ago, and John lingered on them. 

On the bed, Charlie coughed suddenly and then started to cry. Tommy moved to pick him up but John held him in place, a bit rough. "I didn't tell you to move yet." 

"He's been sick. I need to get him." 

"He's not dying and he's not too young to learn some patience. He's had all your attention for the last three months. It's time I got my share." 

John reached down into the crevice of his ass and Tommy swore. "Goddamn, stop—" He tried to twist away. 

John grabbed him closer and pushed inward until Tommy dug into his shoulders with blunt fingers, a hopeless protest. "Is that where the bone is, then, or did he ruin your filthy omega hole as well?" 

Tommy wanted to pass out. "Fuck," he whispered. Not the defiant fuck you that would get him beaten, just a pitiful lonely fuck, the way John liked to hear it. 

"That's it, Tom. Let me hear you." John was rubbing against him, stopped long enough to pull his cock out and crush it naked up against Tommy's lower stomach. 

He was going numb now in his mind, the sound of Charlie's crying like a meaningless alarm far away. Feeling a cock always did this to him. Too many years of running away in his head as soon as he saw someone naked or felt damp, heated skin against his own. 

John noticed him fading out and got rougher, trying to make him stay. A teeth-gritting jab, and Tommy stuttered out the shock from gaping lips. He was dry, fucking dry. After a heat he was no good for at least three days, everything spent in the crisis, and the muscle clamping around injured bone had him ready to gnaw off his own fingers. 

He wished, crazily, that the door would burst open and Alfie would barge in and scoop Charlie up in his arms and take them both away. 

His legs were giving out. "Stop, stop." He was down on his knees suddenly, couldn't move from the waist down, and he was shaking worse than before. 

"So you can take an alpha's knot but you can't take a couple of fingers up the bloody arse crack?" 

Tommy gripped the side of the bed, tried to pull himself up, and slipped down again. 

John just watched. 

Charlie kept crying. 

He tried again to get up and at last John bent down, crouched beside him, and took hold of his wrist. When Tommy hissed, John looked.

John saw.

"What's this, then? Thomas?" 

Tommy shook his head at the shame of it, the feel of the thumb on the raised scar. He didn't want John to know. 

"Did you think you could get away from the consequences of your actions?" said John shrewdly. "A slash there and it would all be over? Leaving him to starve?" He nodded toward the baby crying on the bed. 

Tommy didn't move. 

"Truly pathetic, that is. And a mortal sin, no less. What in God's name were you thinking?" 

"I wasn't." 

"You weren't what?" 

"Wasn't bloody thinking." 

"Yes, I think it's been a long time since you did much of that," said John, patting him on the side of the face. "The man who used to run the family business. The man who built the Shelby family fortunes in just ten years. Look at you now, Tommy. Back on your knees. You've got a husband and a child and you still have another man's mark on you because you can't change your God-given nature, can you? You'll always be a cocksucking knot-drinker from the slums, ready to sell your ruined arse to the highest bidder." 

He knelt there quietly, the misery of his own existence washing over him with the sound of Charlie's cries. He was in so much pain he couldn't fucking move. 

"Get up," said his husband softly after a few seconds, an expression of infinite disappointment. "Back on the bed." 

Tommy tried again and did it this time, eyes crossing from the dizzy discomfort. He felt warm and stinging, like he was bleeding down below where John's fingers had been, but he didn't dare to check.

"Now," said John. "We're going to get rid of that obscene thing—" his eyes flicked to Alfie's mark "—and then I am going to satisfy you, Tommy, as a husband should, and you are going to satisfy me." 

His lower half clenched. "John, I'm not—" 

A finger on his lips. "Did I say you could speak?" 

The finger played with him, traced his lower lip until it slid inside, pushed his teeth apart and found Tommy's tongue, curled around it and tugged and made him gag. 

His eyes were filled up from that, the unexpectedness of it, the strangeness and the violation. He didn't want John in his mouth. The finger was curled with its companions around the side of Tommy's face now, and the thumb was exploring the hollow of his cheek. It pressed in, that place where the jaw hinged, and Tommy thought for a split second that he would pass out. 

He had a wild thought of John taking hold of his skull and cracking it apart right there, at the jaw, taking the lower half off like a shelled nut. His eyes went buzzing around the room like a couple of bees looking for a flower that didn't exist. 

Please, he said to nobody. I don't want to die. 

John had a knife out, the sharp blade he kept in his pocket. He was bringing it up toward Tommy's chest and shoulder, tracing the bruised bloody mark. 

Tommy didn't mean to whimper. He wasn't aware of being scared, but the sound happened and fuck, he couldn't stop shaking. 

He needed to pick Charlie up. Charlie was fucking crying, he would think Tommy had abandoned him. He couldn't stay here, still, like John wanted. Let me have my fucking child. 

He realized, as the blade went still just over the wound, that John was serious. It made Tommy's head go still, his eyes serene and blurred, his breathing like a winded horse, loud in his ears. 

He closed his eyes and imagined Alfie's smile that day on the beach, pure happiness nestled in his scruffy beard as he took a swig of homemade ginger beer. He thought of beautiful warm lips on a lazy Sabbath morning, gently covering his own. Heavy breathing in lamplight, the tickling of beard on his chest as Alfie bit into him in the small hours of the night, deep and terrible and tender. 

He pretended it was Alfie cutting into him, and it helped. 

A downward cut that made him sweat and squirm, a crossbar in two pieces, slow and steady, like a ritual—the sign of the cross disfiguring the mark of Alfie's precious mouth, the thing he'd been so proud to keep the rest of his life. 

He wanted to say Fuck you, but for Charlie's sake he didn't. 

He was bleeding, and his head rang and roared, and his eyes were dripping into his lap now, and blood was running down onto his stomach. 

John wiped his knife on a handkerchief and then used the cloth to cover the fresh wounds. "Hold it there until the bleeding stops," he said. "And don't look at me like that. It's not deep. Be grateful I didn't make a mess of you, Tommy. I could have used my teeth." 

The animal glint in his eye as he said that made Tommy hang his head again, wanting to block everything out, to make that man in front of him not real. 

Alfie wasn't real now either, but he had been a good imagination while he lasted. He had made Tommy cry with safety, face buried in the warm chest, better bones than John, better arms, the way those heavy-sucking lips lingered like they loved him, not like shame prolonged. 

He wanted Alfie. 

"Now, Thomas." John was naked now, from the waist down, sitting in front of him on the bed, cock dangling reddish between lean, hairy thighs, and Tommy saw it all like a meaningless dream. "This is not going to be easy for you to hear, but I have to say it." 

(The hand on his face again, that lock-spring in his jaw, ready to crack him apart.)

"You didn't have a choice with him, Tommy. You were in his home and at his mercy. He may have made you believe you had a choice, but you and I both know better." 

No. No, it wasn't fucking like that. 

Why couldn't he pick up Charlie. He needed to tell him this was okay. He was scared. 

"I shudder to think of how it was for you." That—fucking hand climbing up past his ear, fondling the short hairs and the nakedness of his scalp. It tickled and Tommy wanted to slap the hand away, to bite it viciously. "You didn't have a say, I know that. You were still weak and had no power to fight off an alpha in heat. You wouldn't have a chance on the best of days, and certainly none with your body in the condition it's in. Tell me I'm right, Thomas." 

He still struggled. Found his thick voice around the swollen lump of his tongue. Shook his head stubbornly. 

"He was good to me," he said quietly, all his grief crammed into five words. 

He wanted Alfie. 

Ice cold came into John's voice. "Turn over. I'm going to take him out of your body and out of your fucking mind. You won't be needing him any longer." 

He was scared, tired, too bone-heavy to lift himself, and John was the one who had to turn him over and arrange his limbs and push his face down into the pillow. 

He was too heavy, too airy to care what the hands were doing to him. He didn't care, it didn't matter. Poor Charlie, still crying out of reach on the other side of the bed. Charlie shouldn't see this. 

It was his heart that hurt him most right now, strange a thing as that was. It consumed him, a void of sadness that clung to the lines of his ribs like spiders hanging onto a web in a storm. It was inevitable that the worst would happen, and still they clung. Tommy's heart was crying, craving what it couldn't have, a wound bleeding inside him and making him ache and scramble. He didn't belong here. Didn't belong. He wasn't a person, like the others. The sucking dark of it had him silent under John's hands, because it didn't matter. He was a nothing, a worse than nothing, and his mother had never loved him anyway. She had looked at him like a stranger when he was four years old, left him to fend for himself unless she was smacking him or beating him or telling him to do something. He wasn't fucking lovable, and Alfie was gone and hadn't been fucking real anyway. 

It hurt, that wound in his chest. The inside one. 

Then John was pushing in, hungry after slapping about wetly on his bare thighs for awhile to get ready, and Tommy screeched very muffled into the pillow, angry as much as hurt. 

It was bad. His entrance was so stiff, stinging like a motherfucker inside and out. He was bloody meat inside already from Alfie, who had been gentle. 

He decided quite calmly, with tears in his eyes, that he wanted to die again, but he wouldn't because of Charlie, so he was trapped in hell and he wouldn't be getting out. 

It was okay. He was used to this, fucking used to— 

He sobbed. 

It didn't matter. Please stop. I will be good. 

He wasn't fucking good. Never was never would be. He was just there, and John's body was rocking into him and he was screaming deep in his throat, deep in his pillow, because of the bruises. 

Oh, Charlie. Don't listen. You shouldn't be here. 

He was sorry about that. The baby. 

He shouldn't have had a baby. Terrible fucking idea. Not fair. 

But it was fine, it was okay, because he wasn't real and this was just somebody's corpse here on the bed, a doll, a nothing. It was okay. 

(He was fucking splitting apart, his legs ripping at the center seam until his spine peeled off and his neck jolted, a hammer thudding into his ass again and again. He wasn't sane anymore, but that was okay. Nobody minded.) 

Alfie wouldn't come get him. He was a stupid boy, thinking of Alfie. 

He was wet all over when John finished, his neck, his hair, his pillow, his trembling legs, his molten hole, his hollowed-out back where all the pain sat gathered like a cackling demon, a goblin-thing that laughed to see his naked emptiness. 

"There," came the softest voice in his ear. "Sit up for me, Tommy." 

He couldn't move. 

John pulled him up, and he cried from the pain. 

John held him close, stroked his hair, stroked his cock till he came, and he kissed John's neck, desperate tiny lipping like a newborn foal at its mother's teats, because John was there and the only human thing left. 

Tommy wasn't Tommy anymore. He was bleeding down the front, getting it on the hair of John's chest, and he was sorry. 

John dabbed gently at the wound and held Tommy's head when it made him grimace. 

"You made me angry that day," John said quietly, stroking his head and neck, holding his cock (where all the shame lived) in a gentle, cupping hand that rolled the skin every few seconds, tickled his balls, lovingly touched his swollen tip. "You pushed me, Tommy. And then you took my child, and you kept him from me, and you hid from me and you fornicated with another man. You did all that to me, Tommy, after I gave up everything for you. My entire life." 

Tommy bit into the shoulder beneath his too-warm lips, agonized with remorse, and John hissed and rolled him off, took the shoulder away, held his face, trying to get him back. 

"Look at me, Tommy." 

He tried. 

The shiny little eyes, like glints of silver-brown paper in a shop window, gleamed in Tommy's face. 

"I forgive you," said his husband. 

Tommy was dangling over a precipice and tumbled off, and John caught him and laid him tenderly down on the bed. 

Charlie's crying, convulsing body was finally brought to him, laid in his arms, covered with a kiss—and then a kiss on Tommy's lips, a chaste act of absolution, making him clean and good for the first time in his life. 

John's hand on his sweaty hair, pulling it back from the forehead. "Rest now, Tommy. We've a boat to catch in a few hours." 

A boat? 

John must have heard him thinking again, because he answered the question. "I've taken a job in New York. We'll have a fresh start, the three of us. I found an omega who will come along and nurse him for you. She won't cost us anything, just the price of passage. She has a brother there." 

He clutched Charlie close, breathing hard and fast into the baby-hair. His whole body was clenched tight. 

"Don't sit up, Tommy." 

A hand on his shoulder, holding him down. 

"We can leave the past behind. We'll forget about what happened with Campbell, and we'll forget about your little escapade with Solomons." The thumb touched the wound that was still bleeding a little, slow and red. 

Tommy shook his head, breathing in Charlie's smell tight and desperate, like it was the only air in the world. The baby pinched at his neck with tiny fingers and nuzzled against the bare skin of his shoulder. Tommy wanted to cry, but he didn't have anything left in him. 

Alfie had promised to come. He had Charlie's things, his bottle tip and his nappies and the swaddling with the bloodstain. He had Tommy's clothes and Tommy's Black Madonna. 

"Tommy." 

He raised his eyes, struggling, to John's face. He didn't know why it was so hard for him to look at. 

Sweat rolled down his neck and into the open skin, and it burned. 

"If you're thinking about trying to contact him, I promise you: you'll never see the child again." 

Charlie squeaked and bobbed his face against Tommy's shoulder. Tommy couldn't breathe. 

"Did you hear me, Thomas?" 

He nodded numbly. "Yes." 

---

They walked—Tommy limped—up the gangplank in the rainy gray of the afternoon. 

He held Charlie close and didn't let the woman touch him, but Charlie fussed for her, wanting more of the milk he'd had before they left the house. 

He shifted the warm body up on his shoulder and shushed him softly, keeping the blanket over his little head. He wiped cold rain out of his hot eyes. "It's alright, little man. We're okay. I've got you." 

The church bells struck three as they unmoored from the dock. 

Notes:

Heavy abuse (psychological, physical, sexual). Nonconsensual body modification (scarring).

Chapter 27: in which alfie sees a face

Notes:

PART TWO.

I thought about starting a new work here, but I don't want to make more hassle for people who are already subscribed to this one, so one long work it is. There will be three parts total, so you can consider this chapter the beginning of the next installment in a sort of trilogy. If you've made it this far, I'm giving you a high five. I will be available in the comments after the chapter to be yelled at or congratulated as you see fit. :)

three years later

Alfie rapped on the door with his cane and then waited, leaning on the heavy head, shifting his weight from one leg to the other more from nervousness than from pain. His heart was fucking pounding, and he reached up to stroke his beard, straighten his hat, and pull his collar up around the hard lump in his throat. 

It was a cool morning with a gray bite in the air, misty around the edges—or smoky, perhaps, in this corner of the city—and walking the long way round the almost derelict tenement had sent him through shit and mud. He smelled it, sharp and heavy, as he stood and waited; he heard birds cawing and scolding on the rooftops and clotheslines, ragtag children shouting at play; he felt the familiar warm handle of his cane and the breeze fretfully tickling his cheeks. 

He was very fucking aware of it all because it was the last moment of not knowing. In another few seconds, maybe, everything would change. 

A lock clanked quietly on the other side and Alfie's heart jolted up into his throat as the old board door creaked halfway open. 

Fucking hell. It was, it was Tommy. 

Same hard jaw, same dark hair, same pale blue eyes, same face that Alfie wanted to grab and kiss until he couldn't breathe. He was alive, and he was here. 

Alfie couldn't speak. His throat was hot and tight and fucking glued together. 

Tommy recognized him, there could be no doubt about that: that flicker in the blue, the bob of his throat, the lips gone chalk-white all in the space of one blink, one swallow. But Alfie had imagined this moment a hundred thousand times, and not once had he imagined the deadness in Tommy's eyes. 

"What do you want?" came the low voice, thick as smoke. 

Alfie felt half a dozen things at once, and at least two of them were hurt. "It's me," he said stupidly, as if that would make Tommy remember everything. 

"I know." Tommy raised an eyebrow, glanced back into the house, then held the edge of the door tighter and looked back at Alfie. "What are you doing here?" 

"I'm here for you," said Alfie. Sickness, acid, was rising in his gut. "I looked bloody everywhere, Tommy. I lost the trail, see, until last week when I got a telegram from my last private investigator, whom I thought had cut and run, you know. I thought he'd made off with the gold never to be seen again. But he sent me this telegram, and this telegram said he had found the John Hughes that fucking vanished from New York, and he gave me an address in Dublin, of all places. No record of you, though." 

He stopped because his throat was tightening, and he had to squeeze his eyes tightly with thumb and finger, get the sting of the Dublin smoke out of them. 

"I did not know if you were alive or dead, Tommy. I didn't know if that...brute...had fucking killed you by now, right? I did mean to come get you that day. I didn't fucking abandon you. I got there and you were gone, and I tore the whole fucking city apart looking, right? The whole of fucking London. And everything I learned about that man made me sick to my stomach." 

He ran his hand down his mouth, his beard, as if pushing the sickness back. Tommy looked at him considering, slow, with regret, but there was nothing there behind the eyes. Alfie wanted to shake him, shake the deadness out of his face, shake him until the old Tommy came tumbling out. It was like a nightmare. 

A pang shot through Alfie's leg and lower back and he shifted his weight. "Fuckin' hell." He shoved all the heat he felt into the words. Then he dared to look at those lifeless eyes again. "Tommy." 

The dark head shook, and Tommy hitched one shoulder in the suggestion of a shrug. "I'm sorry. You wasted your time," he said, far too calmly. 

"You're still with him," said Alfie, feeling a knot gather like anger in his throat. "This is his bloody house." 

"Rented, if that's what you mean," said Tommy with a hint of amusement. "We've not got the money for a bloody house." 

"And Charlie?" 

That made Tommy's jaw flinch, the skin around the eyes go taut, like a horse hearing a call from far off. Children ran and shouted in the lane behind Alfie, and a gust of cold gray wind passed by, tugging at his long coat and sending the faintest shiver through Tommy. 

At last Tommy said, "Yes. He's here. We, ah—we call him Patrick." He glanced back into the house again and sighed. "I'm sorry you came all this way, but we're fine." 

"You telling me you're happy, Tommy?" Alfie grabbed the door so Tommy couldn't close it. "You telling me you're happy with that sack of shit? You're fucking happy with the man who beat you half to death and left you on the street? That's him, innit? The man who nearly killed you and Charlie?" 

"He's changed." Tommy's voice cracked. 

"Bull-fucking-shit." Alfie hacked and spat in the mud. 

The gray nothing in Tommy's eyes was suddenly intense—a hard, bright nothing instead of a mild, dull one. He tried again to close the door, but Alfie held on. 

"I sent people all the bloody way to New York to look for you. Three years, Tommy, and I spared no fucking expense. Fucking ruined myself with detectives and lawyers and bloody private investigators. I lost the brewery. Lost my fucking health."

Tommy stopped pulling at the door, and Alfie stuck his cane into the gap so he wouldn't try again. "Ada was looking for you too." 

For one instant, something in Tommy's eyes broke. By the next, Alfie wondered if he had imagined it. 

"We found out, Tommy," he cleared his throat meaningfully, "that a certain police inspector disappeared the same night you left your family. I hear the body was never found. You wouldn't happen to know something about that, would you, Tommy?"

The faintest hatred passed over Tommy's face like a cloud. "Are you accusing me?" 

"I'm not accusing anyone, mate. Just putting two and two together, as it were. Is that what he holds over you?" Alfie cocked his head toward the gap in the door. 

"You and Ada need to keep to your own business," said Tommy. "Like I said. A waste of time." 

"Does he still beat you?" It slipped off his tongue like rancid butter. 

The hesitation was only a fraction of a second. "No." 

"When was the last time?" 

Tommy looked at the ground, blue eyes shielded by pale lids. "Six, seven months ago." 

"Do you have enough to eat?"

Tommy looked indignant. 

Alfie gestured innocently at the building. "Well, look, we are not exactly in the lap of luxury, now, are we, mate?" 

"The children have enough." 

Alfie blinked. Stuttered in his throat, teeth caught for a few seconds. "The what?" 

Tommy sighed. "Children. There's a little girl." His eyes strayed back into the house. "She's two years and a few months." 

"Is she yours?" 

"Nobody else around here birthing children, is there?" 

"Fuck, Tommy." Alfie ran a hand down his face and beard again, sniffed, gripped the handle of his cane. "Look, I told you I lost the brewery. I've got some put away, though. Enough for a fresh start. I sunk what I got from selling the place into a bar downtown, and business is good. I'll be back on my feet and I can get you a better place than this one, right? And you don't have to thank me, you don't have to fucking forgive me. I know it's been three bloody years." 

Fucking hell, it hurt. His chest was like an iron weight and someone had rammed coals down his throat.

And Tommy's dead fucking eyes were looking at him like a stranger. 

"Take this for the little ones, right?" Alfie reached in his jacket and pulled out a couple of folded bills. Tommy shook his head, so Alfie dropped them to the ground and slid them across the threshold with the toe of his boot. "It's there, then. Take it or leave it. Fresh milk and eggs, Tommy. And I want you to think about my offer, mate. Because I fucking tried. And you are the only thing I've got left to live for." 

The rage he felt trembling in his tongue didn't make sense to him now. He had become angry over the last three years—he'd driven friends away, driven away men who had once been proud to work for him and take orders from him. But he hadn't expected to be angry at Tommy. He had only ever felt tender toward Tommy.

And yet, standing here looking at the man he had sacrificed everything to find, he felt hard and hateful, a bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted, strangely, to strangle the man with the blue eyes. 

"Alfie." Tommy didn't look up, but it was the first word that sounded honest, and it sent sudden hope surging through Alfie's body. The blue found him, and for a moment it was the old Tommy, familiar as a worn pair of shoes or the smell of a well-loved quilt. His eyes matched the color where the sky broke free from the clouds. 

"I want you to leave," he said softly. 

Alfie went numb on the outside, and on the inside a cavern opened up, a pain like the one he'd felt when his mother died. 

"I have to do what's best for them." Tommy's lips pursed briefly. "I can't lose them. Won't risk it. You need to go." 

Alfie touched the door. "Fuck, Tommy." 

"Go on, Alfie." 

The door pulled away from his fingers and swung shut, and Tommy wouldn't look at him as it closed. 

A dozen things rushed into his mind and mouth now, arguments to make, things to convince Tommy to change his mind. But the bolt slid to, and after a few footsteps he heard nothing. 

The miserable building mocked him. 

As he was about to turn and leave, he saw a face plastered against the pane of the nearest window—a child—Charlie, he thought for an instant, his heart giving a jump—but it wasn't Charlie. It was a little girl, staring at him, with golden hair half falling out of a tiny braid. 

They regarded each other for a long moment. Then the girl seemed to hear something from inside—a voice, probably—and she waved at Alfie and slid down and away, out of sight. 

Chapter 28: in which tommy remembers that patrick was once charlie

It was cold. Dull, aching cold and he'd warmed the children's beds with the same pan he made supper in, burned his hand on it because his head was full of that dullness and that ache and it wouldn't go away. The children slept huddled under one blanket in the spot the pan had warmed. From here they were one thing, a bluish lump in the bluish non-light. 

That was his heart there, in that lump under the blanket. He hoped it was warm enough.

His hand hurt and his throat hurt as he crawled into bed. The floor was like dusty ice, but John was warm.

He was hiding something from John now: the money, and the fact that Alfie had found them. A burst of silent anger sputtered through him—that Alfie would put him in this position now, after all this time—but it died as soon as it was born. 

He did want the milk and eggs. For them. He would tell John he'd taken on some laundry for Anne Kennedy down the street with the six children. That wasn't a lie. He'd been doing half her laundry since her youngest came down sick. Hadn't been paid for it and didn't expect to be, since her husband had a factory job and spent more than they could afford on whiskey, but John didn't have to know that.

He would wait for a day when John was in a benevolent temper and mention it offhand, a matter of course, not something that needed excuse or permission. It wasn't as if he'd gone and found regular work without telling him. Just doing a kind deed for a neighbor—no, charitable. A charitable deed. John liked that word. And the money was because Tim Kennedy was too proud for charity, which he was, which was why Tommy had been taking and returning the laundry in secret during factory hours.

John's body moved and Tommy was startled, gave a shiver he didn't mean.

"Tommy." That warm sticky voice drew him in, and he didn't have to think.

The arms were heavy and pulled him in close. John smelled like wine—he'd been drinking too, every day, but he was self-disciplined. He wouldn't ever drink enough to ruin them.

The wine-smell in the cold dark was like a drug: Tommy's dull head went duller, but it ached less and got lighter. He could nearly float away now. The only thing keeping him down was his heart, trapped under the blanket with Paddy and Molly in the next room.

Charlie. Charlie in the next room.

No, fuck. He couldn't.

"It's a cold night," said John, low and easy. "You're shivering already."

He wasn't sure he was shivering, but he didn't mind getting closer to the warmth John hoarded under his shirt. A tiny guilt-creature scratched at the insides of his ribs because he'd been thinking about how to lie to John and now John was being sweet with him. 

John kissed him and he tasted the wine as well as smelling it, that faint bitterness under the heavy slide of tongue and lip. A sigh slipped out of Tommy like pain.

"What's wrong?" John murmured. 

Tommy didn't know.

He didn't like the way the guilt felt.

And he didn't like that he'd seen Alfie today. It scared him that he'd seen Alfie.

The scar twinged suddenly, the place where he'd let that man mark him—the mark John had spent months trying to undo, first with a knife, then with cautery, and eventually with his own teeth. Tommy wouldn't take off his shirt anymore unless he didn't have a choice. He never looked at it.

He felt that wild, childish panic flutter in the back of his head and he shut it down hard.

"Tommy?"

He'd gone warm all over, wet and hot with shame. His face burned and he hid it against John's neck.

He heard the smirk in the voice. "You want me tonight, do you, boy?"

Maybe he did. Maybe that was it. That was usually why he felt like this—when he wanted someone.

"You want to be warmed from the inside?"

Through the slog of his hot head he knew it would make him feel better. It would take away the fear and leave him soft and unconscious, a pile of bones in a melted animal skin. It would feel good and John would be pleased and go to sleep, and it would make up for the guilt. And it would warm him up because the air in here was so fucking freezing, like being bared in the street in winter.

He thought of the money hidden in the rip on the underside of the mattress and he was angry at Alfie again. Married and angry, indignant at the disruption of the way things were.

John fucked him and he sweated and they both kept deathly quiet, just the sound of skin against wet skin and the rustle of straw in the mattress and the legs of the rickety bed whining the way Tommy felt.

That healed spot on his shoulder kept burning, worse than the hand he'd burned on the pan tonight. He didn't understand it. It must be the guilt.

John rolled off him and Tommy chased him for the warmth, didn't want to be left alone with his sweating body in the cold air. John had been right: he was warm on the inside now, a deep, aching heat, but his skin was still shivery and he couldn't—couldn't be alone.

The arms accepted him. Held him close. He felt dull and ugly now, and he felt such relief that he wouldn't be left to wrap up numbly in his own side of the blanket. His tongue moved, pushed against his lips, wanted to apologize to John for things.

That would be foolish.

His heart rate gradually slowed to something like normal and the heaviness in his head got heavier until he couldn't see or move or fucking think. He would stay right here where it was warm enough. 

Milk tomorrow. And eggs. 

Charlie.

No. Fuck.

No, no, no, no, no. 

Notes:

Short chapter here but at least we're moving again. Thank you to everyone who has left comments recently. They are VERY appreciated and I hope to get to the unanswered ones soon.

Chapter 29: in which charlie says a prayer

He felt cramped and acidic when he woke to darkness and the sound of Molly screaming from the next room. 

The bigger, warmer body rolled away, wrenching its arm out of his stiff grasp. Cold air hit his stomach like a slap. "In the name of all that's holy, Tom. Can't you make her shut up?" 

Tommy grabbed for his trousers. He got out of bed and caught himself against the wall as the blackness of the room melted dangerously into the blackness in his head. His teeth ached from clenching. 

He lit a candle stub and went to the room where the children were. Molly was sitting up in bed, wailing like the world was ending, and Charlie was bent double with hands on his ears. 

"Shh," Tommy said, lighting the candlestick on the low table and blowing out the stub before taking a seat on the mattress. "Come here." 

"She don't be quiet, Dad." Charlie was nearly drowned out by the sound of his sister's crying. 

"We'll find out what the matter is. What's wrong, ay? What is it, Molly?" 

The wailing against his chest grew louder. Charlie protested equally loudly and pressed his hands harder against his ears. 

"Quiet, now. Are you cold?" 

She shook her head. She did feel cold to him, though. He'd warm the sheets again with the pan. 

"Thirsty?" 

Another shake of the head. 

"She's maybe hungry," said Charlie, suddenly hopeful. He'd been allowed a snack in the middle of the night just once, when he was sick. He never stopped trying. 

Molly shook her head and reached back blindly to swipe at her brother. Tommy caught her hand on the second unsuccessful try. "Hey now, none of that. Did you see something that scared you, Moll?" 

A fresh burst of tears: he was on the money. 

"It was a hobgoblin," said Charlie seriously. "A fairy kind with eyes and mean teeth. It got into her dream." 

"Where did she hear of hobgoblins?" asked Tommy, letting his voice grow stern. 

The little boy shrugged his shoulders in an unconvincing show of innocence. "Someplace," he said, then scrambled off the bed and onto his knees. "I'll pray for her," he said generously, forestalling further questioning. 

A creak of the floor behind them told Tommy that John was up. He turned his head to see his husband standing in the doorway, tall and stooped, arms crossed and eyelids heavy with exhaustion.

"She's just quieting," said Tommy. His voice came out oddly husky. "Aren't you, Molly? No hobgoblins here."

She lifted her sticky shiny face and shook her head, taking one desperate wobbly breath before burying herself in his chest again. 

"Hobgoblins, is it?" said John. It sounded like patience, humor. He walked over slowly until he was standing above them. "I'd wager a good supper it was a rat." 

"It wasn't a rat. It was a dream," said Tommy. His teeth hurt.

He wouldn't fucking leave them in here alone if there were rats about, prowling for fresh meat. He'd seen one rat soon after they moved in and killed it, then scrubbed the floorboards with vinegar and put black pepper in the corners of every room. There were no fucking rats near his children. 

John's hand brushed the back of his neck, fondled his ear and shoulder. The touch made him go warm and numb, both better and worse. 

Then Molly climbed up to put her arms around his neck, and John let go. 

She was sniffling now, with the occasional sobbing sigh. The only other sound in the room was Charlie, still murmuring with his hands and eyes crumpled into the side of the bed. They were all quiet, listening to it, and only when Tommy saw the look on John's face did he realize the boy was speaking Romany. 

"What's this?" said John quietly, crouching down to the boy's level. 

Charlie froze, opened one eye, and didn't answer. 

"He was saying his prayers," said Tommy. His ears rang unreasonably loudly. 

Charlie closed his eyes again, looking stubborn, but didn't continue. 

"Go on, then," said John. 

"I don't want you to hear them," said Charlie. 

"You know, Patrick, it was once my business to hear people's prayers." 

Charlie hid his face again halfway. He looked embarrassed. He always found it difficult to speak when embarrassed. 

"Climb back in bed," Tommy intervened. "You can say your prayers tomorrow." 

"He can finish saying his prayers now," said John, patient but implacable. "There's nothing he can say to God that his father doesn't have a right to hear." 

Charlie whispered something inaudible. 

"What was that?" said John. 

"I'm not praying to God," Charlie said louder, clearly upset. 

"Who are you praying to?" 

"My gudli saybiya," he mumbled. 

"What's that?" John's voice was getting sharper. 

"His guardian angel," said Tommy. "That's all it is." 

"He can say it in English, then. Patrick?" 

"It's not my guardian angel." He shook his head, looking at them sideways. "My guardian angel is a boy. My gudli saybiya is a girl." 

John took hold of the back of the boy's shirt and held it firmly. "While you're in my house, you'll pray good Christian prayers. You'll not use heathen words and pray to heathen things. You understand me, son?" 

Charlie looked to Tommy for an answer, eyes big and miserable and angry. Tommy gave him the smallest motion with his head, telling him to comply.

The anger shattered. The boy put his head down and tried with tears in his eyes to wriggle away from the hand on his shirt. "Yes, Papa." 

"Yes what?" 

"Yes I will not...pray to some things." 

"And you'll not use heathen words when you pray." 

"Yes." He tried to climb into bed but John grabbed him and lifted him in instead, tucking the blanket over him. 

Tommy rocked Molly a minute more. She was falling asleep in his lap. He tucked her back in too and smoothed her hair. Her thumb was in her half-opened mouth and her face was still damp. 

"Dad," said Charlie, too loudly. 

Tommy glanced toward the doorway, where John was waiting. "Yes?" he said softly. 

"I never said amen." He sounded distraught. 

Tommy leaned over. "You say it now and you'll be alright." He blew out the candle. 

"A'right. Dad?" 

"Go to sleep, Paddy." 

"But Dad—" 

"Go to sleep." 

John took his arm gently at the door and turned him toward bed. 

"I need to heat up the warming pan." Tommy tilted his head toward the kitchen. 

"They'll be fine." 

"It's freezing cold." 

"They have a blanket. Tommy." The hand gripped his elbow harder. 

Tommy stopped moving. His eyes didn't want to obey him, to blink or to look up at his husband's face. 

"You've been teaching him things behind my back." 

He shook his head numbly. 

"I've told you I want none of that filthy talk in my house." 

"It's not filthy." 

John smiled grimly. "You know, that boy takes after you." 

"He's..." 

"He's what?"

"He's three years old," Tommy managed thickly. "He's a fucking kid." 

"And is that too young to learn to behave himself?" 

"You've taken him away from my family." Tommy didn't know himself; the words poured out of him like nonsense in a bad dream. "You took them from the kids and the kids from them. I want them to know something. I want them to fucking know." 

John was quiet. Then, with sickening compassion in his voice, he said, "If your family gave a damn about you, Tommy, they'd have come looking a long time ago." 

Tommy's vision went black with pure rage for a moment, but it dissolved into small black pieces that scurried away through the dim room, and he felt faint and ill. 

He bit his tongue, physically, and felt relief that he hadn't said aloud what had come into his mind: Alfie's claim that Ada had been looking for him. 

It didn't feel real that he'd seen Alfie earlier today. It was a fever dream, a thousand miles off from his life now. 

But the money was there in the mattress. He would check tomorrow and make sure. 

"Come to bed," said John wearily. "You only think it's cold because you're half naked." 

He was; he looked down at his arms and stomach as if he'd never seen them before. They were blue and black in the low light, and strangely shaped. 

They moved under his gaze like water.

He'd sent Alfie away over the water, back to England. Alfie had Charlie's Black Madonna and the christening blanket. It was Alfie's blood on the blanket. 

He followed John to bed and laid down stiff and miserable. He felt too sick to sleep. 

Chapter 30: in which tommy thinks too much

By dawn he was himself again, and they said nothing about last night. He felt nothing, made oatmeal for breakfast, and saw his husband to the door.

John looked up at the pale gray sky as if he disapproved of it. "By the way, I don't want you going to the Smithfield Fair this weekend." 

Tommy said nothing.

"I know you've been behind my back." A patient sigh. "And taken the children. From now on, you'll not do that."

Tommy cleared his dry throat. "They like to look at the horses."

"I don't want them associating with those people. Vagrants and vagabonds...I saved you from the likes of them." A touch on Tommy's forearm made him flinch. "You'll not go back to that kind of life and drag my children with you." With a meaning look and a squeeze of the arm, he turned and trudged down the alley. 

Tommy leaned against the doorframe briefly.

He hadn't meant to flinch. 

His head buzzed quietly as he walked back up the stairs to their rooms where the children were, miraculously, still at the table eating oatmeal. As soon as he shut the door, something flared up inside him. 

Smithfield was the only place he ever got the chance to see Traveller or Romany folk in this godforsaken industrial city. There were rogues among them, sure, but there were rogues among the aristocracy too. They came to town for the horse fair first Sunday of every month, and they brought their children with them (and their horses, just as dear to them as their children), and they were all good Catholics like anyone else. It was a chance for Tommy to get the children out of the house and breathe fresher air. To get out of the fucking slums and the smoke and the mud. 

What right did John have to talk like that? Those people. Your kind. That rabble. These vermin. Never an end to that sort of talk with him, was there? That man had grown up in an Irish charity orphanage and he had the gall to talk about "those people," as if he didn't know what it was like to be looked at like a blight on the face of the earth for no fucking reason. 

"Dad," said Charlie. The boy was staring at him with sober eyes. "Has the rent come due again?"

He must have looked less numb than he imagined. "No." The room seemed to spin and shrink around him and lose some of its color, and with the color went the anger.

He would not go to Smithfield Fair.

He turned to the dishes in the sink. "No, the rent's not due yet." 

He glanced back to see Charlie narrowing his eyes in disbelief, but the boy didn't argue. 

This was Alfie's doing, he thought to himself as he wiped the first bowl clean. He hadn't been upset before Alfie came. Damn him and his harebrained schemes for happiness. Take the kids and run? Sure, and swallow the fucking moon while I'm at it. 

A lump formed in his throat, as if he had indeed tried to swallow the moon and it had gotten stuck. 

Alfie wasn't what he needed. (Molly handed up her bowl and spoon and rubbed her eye with her hand, getting oatmeal in her wispy golden hair. He told her to hold still and brushed it out with his fingers.) He'd broken down when he was with Alfie. He'd wanted to kill himself. He hadn't thought of doing that for a long time now. 

What he needed was stability, and he had it with John. He knew what to expect. Wasn't always pleasant, but he knew. He knew his place, who he was, what his duties were. His children had a father, and he only had to provide his body to one man. In times gone, he would have thought this life a happy dream. Just one man, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. 

If John hadn't taken him in, he'd have gone to prison, and likely he'd be dead. Viable omegas didn't survive prison. He would have been back in a hell like his childhood, and it would have been a tossup whether his body or his mind gave out first. He'd always been prone (damn him) to his mother's fits and fancies. 

That's what had happened when he was with Alfie Solomons. He'd been out of his head. Somewhere amongst all the blood and fever, he'd lost track of reality; he'd been influenced to think he was something other than what he was. Upon coming home, he had awoken from that delusion. He'd become realistic. 

Molly tugged at his leg. "Dad, why we can't pray to God." 

He looked down. "You can pray to God." 

"Why we can't pray to good angels?" 

"You can pray to the angels." 

"Why we can't pray to Saint Sara?" 

Because your papa is a bigot and a fucking hypocrite, he thought. 

He knelt down to brush some more oatmeal out of her hair. "You can pray to her, but we don't speak any Romany words in front of your papa. Understand? Both of you." 

"Will we get a wippin'?" asked Charlie. 

"Not if you don't speak it in front of him," said Tommy. 

"I pray to Saint Sara that I never get a wippin'," he said. 

Tommy wished he had as much confidence in anything as Charlie seemed to have in the effects of his prayers. 

Molly covered her ears. "I don't like it." 

"Nobody's getting a whipping," said Tommy. "We have washing to do." 

---

He spent the rest of the morning on the back steps hunched over the washtub, scrubbing laundry and thinking about Smithfield Fair. 

He attacked the washboard with muscular force, bruising his forearms and building the ache in his shoulders. Between the cool water and the children shrieking like tin whistles as they played nearby, he didn't notice his skinned knuckles until he went to wring out John's last dubiously-white shirt and saw fresh red blooming dangerously close to the collar. 

"Fook," said Molly's voice, and he looked over at her curious blue eyes and realized she was echoing him. 

He shook his head. "No, not fook." He put a finger over his lips. "Nobody says that word." 

She crinkled up her face in a way she often did, and just now, for the first time, he realized it looked like Alfie.

The pang that went through him was brief and brutal, a thin sear that was not quite heat or cold but some mingling of them both. With a sudden headache, he dabbed his bloody knuckles on his trousers, threw the not-quite-white shirt over his aching arm with a few others, swiped eight or nine clothespins from the steps, and got to his feet. 

Yesterday at this time, Alfie had been standing where Molly was now. 

It wasn't fair, was it, that she'd never know Jewish words the way John wanted her never to know Romany words? She would know nothing of her father's people because Tommy had fucked up his own life and hers by extension. 

He would take her one day, maybe, to Widow Coplan who ran the kosher boarding house. Pay the woman to pray over her, maybe teach her a few things. The amulet Tommy's mother had tied around his neck had never done him any good—had gotten him a beating or two from outsiders, in fact—but it was as much part of him as his ancient anger or the freckles on his skin. He had never doubted belonging with his family and folk the way he doubted this life he was in now. Much as he hated his upbringing, he'd never fucking belonged here. 

He hung the last few things and started shoving the pins down on the line with vicious force. He caught his broken knuckles and swore again. 

"Dad, what's the matter of you?" asked Charlie. 

The children were staring. 

And Alfie was there in Molly's round-eyed little face, reproaching him. Something of him must be in her blood as well: Tommy could almost see it there, simmering endlessly, watching him from every vein under her skin.

He sniffed, ran a hand over his face, and took a slow breath. "Go play," he said. "Go on." 

Charlie shrugged his shoulders and ran back to his mud pond and sticks, and Molly followed. The air in the alley grew very heavy all at once, and the soap-scented breeze burned Tommy's nose. He blinked up at the blue-white sun and was afraid of his own eyelashes.

He had sworn up and down to John that Molly was his. They had fought about it as soon as the damp hair on the top of her head had dried enough to become golden wisps. Tommy wanted to laugh or puke at the ridiculous memory: the newly-born baby mewling on his chest; Charlie, barely a year old, crying in the next room; John with a coiled threat in his voice holding out the crucifix and telling Tommy to swear on it; and him complying, spinning his self-salvatory bullshit over their three bodies, him and Molly and the crucifix, all bloody and exhausted and more naked than not.

He'd told John that fair hair ran in the family. Plenty of children were born with fair hair that darkened later. Arthur had been a towhead. (He'd stopped to throw up then, and John had put the baby back on him because he couldn't lift her the way his hands were shaking, and then John had told him not to change the subject, which he hadn't done.) Solomons never knotted me, he'd lied then. He was scared by the look in John's eye and by the baby he couldn't take care of without help. He'd decided to lie with his hand on the fucking cross. It couldn't have been Solomons. If this had been Solomons's baby, I would have lost the pregnancy because I'm bonded to you. 

All bullshit. 

Tommy stuck the three remaining clothespins between his lips and crouched down to grab the washboard and tub. A pain in his side made him stop and catch his breath, leaning on the washboard. 

He had lied to John. He hadn't gone into full heat once since they left England.

He'd even been with child briefly last year, but he had lost the pregnancy almost immediately just as he feared he would, because his body knew: the baby wasn't Alfie's. 

It was his terrible secret. 

That was why he felt ill all the time. His body didn't care about the legalities. As a husband, he belonged to John, but as an omega, he was Alfie's. 

He couldn't swallow now. That blue sun had gotten into his head and it was darting crazily, in needles, frantic to get out of his skull. He tried again to swallow and couldn't. 

He bit down on his lips until they went numb around the pins. After a minute he took them out and gasped like a man surfacing from a dive. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

"Charlie. Molly," he called to the children.

They came running. 

They were all mud, up their arms and legs. He'd wipe them down with a rag and the water left in the washtub. He couldn't justify the water it would take to bathe them both; John would be angry. 

"Are you sick, Dad?" A little hand patted his arm. Charlie's face was alight with worry. 

"No. We've got to clean you up now." 

"Why did you call me Charlie?" 

Tommy froze. 

He listened to the echo of his own voice in his head, and there it was. Charlie, clear as day. 

He was losing his fucking mind. 

He laughed dry and quick in his throat, like a horse shaking off the flies. "I'm sorry, Paddy. I got lost in me head. It won't happen again." 

Despair hit him full in the chest as he wiped the mud off his children one limb at a time. He couldn't go to Widow Coplan. He wasn't going to Smithfield Fair. He called Charlie Patrick and he wouldn't even use fresh fucking water for baths. He could think all day about what he wanted to do, and when the time came, he would do exactly what John wanted. 

But he was a liar and a thief, lying to himself and everyone else, stealing one man's child and giving her to another, pretending to belong where he didn't, and the guilt ate away at his insides like a fucking disease. 

"My other brother is named Charlie," said Molly, holding out her arm to be washed. 

Tommy scrubbed at it gently, but his heart gave a flop like a landed fish. "Which brother is that, eh?" he asked calmly. 

"I played with him sometimes," she said. "He got born before me in a different house." 

"Oh, a different house." Tommy smiled like they were making a joke together, pretending things that never were. 

"You know. The house with the...with the bath," said Molly. 

Tommy frowned at the mud on her arm. Hand. Fingers. 

"You know," Molly said encouragingly. 

"We never had a house with a bath," he said. 

"When my other brother got born, Dad," she said, exasperated. "Before he turned into Paddy. That white bath." 

Tommy stood up. His hands were shaking. 

He picked up the washtub carefully and dumped the brown water on the ground. 

"Go on upstairs and put on your shoes, both of you," he said. 

"Are we going to church?" asked Charlie immediately. 

"No, I've got a surprise. Off you go, then."

They were going to the market to buy eggs. They could have eggs with Alfie's money and then he would put both of them in bed for a nap and by then, maybe, he could think clearly enough to stop fucking shaking.