#'but alfie's claustrophobia!' you say

[charlie-pippin-faraday]

House of Anubis characters playing Among Us

I know the Among Us fad is over, but I was thinking about this today, so I figured I’d speculate what I think all the HOA characters would do if they all played Among Us, both as crewmates and the imposter

Nina - She is somehow always finding bodies. She's that person who finds and reports them every time so it makes people sus. However, she is terrible at lying, which saves her on this part. This game stresses her out sometimes; every time someone dies she feels guilty that she hasn't found the imposter yet. She wants to help people, meaning sometimes her tasks fall by the wayside. She will also drop everything to go and fix the sabotages immediately, meaning it's often easy for the imposter to trap her and murder her. As the imposter, she's fond of the self-report, mainly because she overthinks it and thinks this is the best strategy to cover up. However this is where the whole "terrible at lying" thing backfires on her, because she will self-report and then can't lie her way out of it.

KT - Everyone always thinks she's the imposter, and she doesn't help herself out because she's horrible at defending herself. And no one believes her when she says she's caught somebody in the act. However, when she IS the imposter, she doesn't last very long because she's terrible at lying and coming up with an alibi for herself.

Mick - He's the first one dead every time. Very slow at tasks. Card swipe is his enemy. And when he's the imposter, he's always caught within the first murder or two. He's not very good at this game.

Eddie - Never does one single fucking task. He's out here to be a hero and run around and catch the imposter, but he constantly forgets that doing the tasks is important to winning. The tasks are also his downfall as an imposter. He has a pretty good time at the murdering part, but he is very reckless about it, and he doesn't know the name of any of the tasks so when someone questions him he gets caught in his lies when he makes up fake tasks.

Willow - Everyone TRIES to kill her because she always leaves herself incredibly vulnerable, but she somehow narrowly avoids death every time. When the imposter is coming for her, she always turns the other way, or someone else enters the room at the very last second. However, she trusts people and believes the best in them, which sometimes ends in her unwittingly vouching for the imposter. She is an absolutely terrible imposter herself, though. She almost never murders people, and when she does, she almost immediately admits guilt and apologizes.

Fabian - This man loves his TASKS. He sees his list of tasks and he is determined to do them no matter what. The sabotages stress him out, but he's able to handle it well. Gets mad at the people who don't do their tasks (*cough cough* Eddie *cough cough*) because if you guys just did your tasks we wouldn't even NEED to argue about who's the imposter, we would just win. Being so focused on the tasks does sometimes get him murdered, though. He's also surprisingly good at being the imposter, mainly because he knows the tasks and map inside out and he's able to come up with convincing lies about where he was and what he was doing. No one ever suspects him, either.

Alfie - King of "wrong place wrong time." Very often he finds a body and then someone walks up on him standing over it. Sometimes he can talk his way out of it, and sometimes he can't. He's also deathly terrified of being murdered; oftentimes he runs away when another person comes near him. Additionally, when he's the imposter, he's less interested in murdering and sabotaging and MUCH more interested in the vents. He LOVES the vents, it makes him feel like a ninja or a spy. Spends the entire time in the vents. Most of the time when he gets caught it's not due to a murder, it's because someone saw him venting.

Mara - She is DETERMINED to catch the imposter. She is the Queen of the cameras, and she spends most of her time parked in front of the cameras scanning every single feed, looking for any sign of the imposter. Don't get me wrong, she does her tasks, too, but she's committed to catching the killer first and foremost. She tries to put herself in charge of every meeting and direct the trial. If she sees you in the act, you better pray for your soul; no one escapes the cold wrath of Judge Mara. She's also going to get real mad at the rest of the crew if they don't agree with her and don't vote her way. As the imposter, however, everything is personal. If you've wronged her, whether in the game or in the real world, she is coming after you. She'll try to do it strategically, but she is going down her list in order of how much she hates you at the current moment. No convenient kills; she'll go out of her way to get her vengeance. She doesn't even care if she gets caught as long as her personal justice is delivered.

Patricia - Little strategy, just rage. If she sees someone near a body or thinks they're the imposter, she is going to throw out STRONG accusations and yell at them until they admit they're the murderer, even if she's wrong and they're innocent. She's also very liberal with her use of the emergency meeting button, she loves that button. She will hit that button on the smallest whim just so she can yell at her suspect. All the others run from her if they see her approaching because they're afraid she's gonna report them with absolutely no evidence. As the imposter, she loves to commit murder and she loves to do all the sabotage. Is there any sort of strategy or thought process involved? No, but it works anyway. She wins every time she's imposter because Eddie is a fucking simp so she exploits him and he believes every word she says and vouches for her in the meetings, leading to the downfall of the crewmates and her imposter victory every time.

Joy - She is very quiet and calculated when playing this game. Very seldom does she actually talk during meetings, which often makes the others suspicious of her. If she's got a hunch, she will abandon all tasks and spend the entire round quietly following that specific person around. And if she figures out who it is, she's not necessarily going to say anything or reveal to the other crewmates what she knows; she wants to see how it plays out. She also never reports a single body. However, acting sus all the time does help her when she's an imposter, because no one ever knows when it's actually her. Very strategic and calculated as the imposter. Doesn't go too fast, picks her kills smartly. Very sneaky. Her imposter rounds are long ones. When asked to defend herself, she's very good at gaslighting and subtly shifting suspicion elsewhere.

Amber - Shockingly good at this game. She's quite observant and somehow seems to always know where everyone was and what they were doing. She also has a knack for zeroing in on the correct imposter. Sometimes she does this knowingly, and sometimes she reveals it when she's reporting her observations. As the imposter she plays dumb, which works for her most of the time.

Jerome - This is his favorite game in the entire world, he's very good at this game. When he's a crewmate, he doesn't actually care if they win; he's there to cause as much chaos as humanly possible. Whether he's a crewmate or imposter, he lies about literally everything. He makes up stories and tosses around accusations, and he's very convincing, making the others fight amongst themselves. Does he ever do tasks? No one knows. You can't trust him one bit in this game. As the imposter, he sabotages everything all the time, he locks so many doors, and he strategically murders people. As a master manipulator and strategist, his tactics are different every time. He's in his element.

[maddie-grove]

Bi-Monthly Reading Round-Up: March/April

PLAYLIST

“Hey, Little Songbird” from Hadestown (The Wager)

“New Slang” by the Shins (Spinners)

“Auto de Fé” from Candide (October Wind)

“Let’s Generalize about Men” from Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (Mrs. Martin’s Incomparable Adventure)

“Juice” by Lizzo (Shrill)

“Love’s Been Good to Me” by Frank Sinatra (Sex and Violence)

“Heroes” by David Bowie (Cracker Jackson)

“Listen to Her Heart” by Tom Petty and the Hearbreakers (The Cybil War)

“Satellite of Love” by Lou Reed (The T.V. Kid)

“Distant Shores” by Chad and Jeremy (Love’s Willing Servant)

“Hast Thou Considered the Tetrapod?” by the Mountain Goats (The Cartoonist)

“Ghost World” by Aimee Mann (Summer of the Swans)

“Floating Vibes” by Surfer Blood (Not the Duke’s Darling)

BEST OF THE BI-MONTH

The Wager by Donna Jo Napoli (2010): Don Giovanni de la Fortuna, a nineteen-year-old nobleman in medieval Sicily, loses his entire fortune to a tidal wave and soon finds himself on the brink of starvation. That’s when the Devil comes knocking with an offer: endless money for the rest of his life if he doesn’t bathe, cut his hair, shave, or change his clothes for three years, three months, and three days. This is a retelling of a lesser-known Sicilian fairy tale and, next to the sublime Breath, it’s Napoli’s best work. Instead of taking the easy route of making Don Giovanni a stupid brat who learns to be nicer and more frugal, she complicates things by making him sweet and resourceful from the beginning, as well as callow and somewhat thoughtless. (His first action after seeing the damage wrought by the tidal wave is to go out and help bury the dead for three straight days.) This makes the message of the book more powerful; if someone deep-down good and intelligent can stand to think more about others and help the less fortunate, then clearly that lesson applies to everyone, not just the worst sort of rich people. Don Giovanni’s unprocessed grief over his long-dead parents and longing for human connection are also very affecting.

WORST OF THE BI-MONTH

Spinners by Donna Jo Napoli and Richard Tchen (1999): In medieval-ish Scotland, a poor tailor longs to marry his sweetheart, a spinner, but her father will only consent if the tailor can show he’ll be a good provider. The tailor tries to make a dress that appears to be made of gold and succeeds; however, he still loses his sweetheart to a rich miller and his health to a magic spinning wheel (as one does). Years later, the sweetheart’s daughter, now a skilled spinner in her own right, finds herself in trouble when a king gets the wrong impression about her being able to spin straw into gold. File this one under “cool idea, half-assed execution.” After a certain point, Napoli seems to run out of her own ideas and just follows “Rumpelstiltskin” to its original conclusion. This wouldn’t be great for any fairy-tale retelling, but the ludicrous “Rumpelstiltskin” needs more reworking than most. Also, the tailor’s sweetheart is such an ableist tool! I’d get it if she chose the rich miller out of concern for financial security, but she just dumps the tailor because the magic spinning wheel basically gave him a supernatural stroke and she thinks it made him evil? You can do better, baby!

REST OF THE BI-MONTH

The Cartoonist by Betsy Byars (1978): Alfie Mason, a quiet eleven-year-old, takes refuge from his unhappy family in the tiny attic of his ramshackle house, drawing faintly absurd cartoons. Then his ne’er-do-well older brother Bubba loses his job, prompting a way-too-excited Mrs. Mason to decide to renovate the attic into a bedroom...so Alfie barricades himself in the attic and throws the family into chaos without saying a word. I first read this book when I was eleven, and even then I found it deeply upsetting. Mrs. Mason seems incapable of seeing anyone but Bubba as a full human being, and she never regrets hurting Alfie or her daughter Alma in order to benefit her eldest. The best Alfie and Alma can do is call her out on it--Alfie through his silent protest, Alma by finally standing up for herself and her little brother--and try to move on. It’s certainly an unvarnished message for a middle-grade novel, but it’s not a bad one, given that some parents are just like that.

Shrill by Lindy West (2016): In this memoir, Lindy West reflects on her personal experiences with fatphobia, the general strangeness of having a human body, abortion, the ethics of comedy, and Internet trolls, among other subjects. This book was genuinely inspiring and amusing to me at a time when I greatly needed a lot of confidence and some laughs, and for that I am eternally grateful. The humor can feel very social-media-circa-2015, but there are worse things than a book capturing a specific moment.

Cracker Jackson by Betsy Byars (1985): Eleven-year-old “Cracker” Jackson Hunter realizes that Alma, his beloved former babysitter, is being physically abused by her husband. Even though his divorced parents forbid it and Alma herself warns him against angering her husband, he tries his best to help her, with mixed results. By all rights, this middle-grade novel should be a tonal mess--Jackson and his best friend Goat get involved in some legit Wacky Schemes--but instead it’s a moving portrait of a kid who has to deal with gut-wrenching adult realities while also navigating sixth-grade drama. I also loved Jackson’s three parental figures. They’re all flawed--Jackson’s mom is a worrywart about stuff that doesn’t matter, his dad can’t hold a conversation with him without lapsing into Dracula impressions, and Alma sometimes treats him more like a peer than a kid--but they all clearly care about him and try to make things okay. 

Not the Duke’s Darling by Elizabeth Hoyt (2018): Years ago, a horrific murder and a dubious attempt at revenge tore apart the lives of Christopher Renshawe and Lady Freya de Moray. Now he’s a widowed duke with severe claustrophobia and a blackmailer on his case, while she’s an undercover spy for a secret society of Scottish witches who help women. (Awesome.) (Also some of them are lesbians.) When they end up at the same house party, she vows to keep hating him for wronging her family, but does that last long? No, because they’re reasonably good at communicating and can appreciate each other’s goals! This spooky Georgian romance didn’t knock my socks off, but it’s a good start to Hoyt’s new Greycourt series and it has a light touch with the serious issues it handles.

Mrs. Martin’s Incomparable Adventure by Courtney Milan (2019): Violetta Beauchamps, a sixty-nine-year-old* bookkeeper, is cheated out of her pension by her landlord boss. In desperation, she hatches her own retirement plan: swindling Bertrice Martin, a wealthy seventy-three-year-old widow, by pretending to be her insolvent nephew’s landlady. Bertrice has refused to pay her nephew’s debts on principle, but she’s willing to make an exception if Violetta will help pester him into vacating his lodgings. Shenanigans and old-lady romance ensue. This mid-Victorian-set romance novella is like an ambiguous image (for example: that picture that’s either a vase or two faces in profile). Look at it as the tale of two L.M.-Montgomery-style elderly women falling in love, and it’s delightful; look at it for deep social commentary, and it’s pretty simplistic and sometimes even callous. I enjoyed it, but it only works on certain levels.

Summer of the Swans by Betsy Byars (1970): Lately, fourteen-year-old Sara Godfrey has been feeling awkward and out of charity with everyone: her absentee father, her plainspoken aunt, her beautiful older sister, the other kids at school, and even her little brother Charlie, who has been mostly nonverbal and easily disoriented since sustaining serious brain damage during a childhood illness. When Charlie goes missing in the night, though, her only thought is to find him. Despite loving Byars, I avoided this Newberry winner as a kid because it looked kind of boring. It is a little sedate in a classic-American-coming-of-age-story way--part “The Scarlet Ibis,” part Judy Blume--but I still loved Sara, who is always ready to throw down, and I found the depiction of Charlie to be surprisingly sensitive for the time. (The language is outdated, but the passages from Charlie’s POV aren’t condescending, plus he isn’t killed off, as I initially feared.) The descriptions of the coal-ravaged West Virginia countryside are also very evocative.

The TV Kid by Betsy Byars (1974): Lenny, a preteen living with his single mom at the kitschy Kentucky motel she owns, struggles in school and has no friends. (His family moves around a lot and he probably has a learning disability.) He has two sources of solace: watching TV and sneaking into the abandoned lake houses in his neighborhood. One day, though, his favorite hobbies get him into trouble. This was one of my favorite Byars books as a kid, even though I was not familiar with the TV landscape of 1974. I liked it a little less this time, but not because it was dated; instead, I was disconcerted by how pro-getting-bitten-by-a-rattlesnake it is. Also, a significant portion of the story is devoted to a child suffering horrible pain from a snakebite, which is harder to take as an adult reader. Still, it’s got some of that classic Byars melancholy.

The Cybil War by Betsy Byars (1981): Eleven-year-old Simon has had a crush on his classmate Cybil for years, because she does awesome stuff like advocate for more active roles for girls in the yearly school pageants. He’s not inspired to act on his feelings, though, until his awful best friend Tony decides he likes Cybil and starts talking shit to her about Simon. There’s a lot to like about this book. Cybil, with her nonchalant confidence and kindness, is a wonderful character, and Simon’s thorough admiration for her is adorable. I also like how Byars ties Simon’s complicated feelings about his deadbeat dad to his efforts to navigate small-scale fifth-grade drama; both weigh heavily on him, and Byars is never condescending about this. Yet the book’s not Byars’s best, mostly because of the lack of generosity towards Cybil’s fat friend Harriet and, to a lesser extent, Tony. 

Sex and Violence by Carrie Mesrobian (2013): Seventeen-year-old Evan doesn’t do serious relationships, instead preferring to hook up with girls and ghost them when he starts having feels. (His family moves around a lot and he’s got some trauma.) Then one girl’s jealous ex orchestrates a horrific assault on them both, leading Evan’s distant widowed dad to take his traumatized son back to their Minnesota hometown. It turns out okay. I liked this novel a lot more once I accepted it as an intentionally messy coming-of-age novel, rather than an issue novel...but it was still a little too messy for its own good. I felt like I was supposed to condemn Evan for having casual sex, something that’s both morally neutral and natural enough for a teen who moves every year, yet the narrative all but endorses his contempt for lower-class girls. I was also uncomfortable with the revelation that Evan was a survivor of statutory rape. It seemed like he was being punished by the narrative only for hyper-sexuality that clearly stemmed from trauma--with a physical assault with some strong sexual implications, no less--but let off the hook for his thoughtless middle-class-boy prejudices. I did feel for him, though, and that carried me through most of the book.

October Wind by Susan Wiggs (1991): In late-fifteenth-century Spain,  Cristóbal Colón (aka Christopher Columbus) tries to convince Queen Isabella to fund a westward expedition. Meanwhile, nobleman Joseph Sarmiento learns an enormous secret about his background and must decide whether to alter the course of his life. During this time, Rafael Viscaino, a young scribe, strives to rise in the world while his friends, aspiring doctor Catalina and cheerful but troubled half-Roma Santiago, have their own struggles. This historical novel (which just barely qualifies as a romance) has a lot of potential, but it wastes too much time on Columbus and Isabella, plus it gives them more credit than they deserve. Wiggs should’ve focused on Joseph, the sexiest and most likable character, and made more of his eventual relationship with Anacaona, a Guanahani woman. Or else she should’ve just made it a poly romance with Rafael/Catalina/Santiago, which she comes this close to doing.

Love’s Willing Servant by Avis Worthington (1980): Left penniless by her father and betrayed by her childhood sweetheart, Lettice Clifford decides to take herself to her sister’s home in colonial Virginia and get a rich husband. She’s surprised to find herself sharing a ship with Geoffrey Finch, a neighbor who has been betrayed by his evil twin and sold into indentured servitude. When his indenture ends up getting bought by her brother-in-law, they grow closer, but multiple creepy people and Bacon’s Rebellion threaten their love. Maybe I’ve just seen too much, but I was pleasantly surprised by the relative inoffensiveness of this Old School romance. Geoffrey is a reasonable person, there’s not a sexual assault every other chapter, and the racism issues are more “the black characters should be more central” than “this is just a defense of slavery” or “calm down with the n-word, Quentin Tarantino.” These small mercies aside, I also enjoyed the absolutely bonkers plot and the use of historical details. I didn’t care much for Lettice, though, because she’s usually either boring or kind of a dick. 

*Nice.

[whentommymetalfie]

A/N: so, here’s a thing I’ve been chiseling away at the past few weeks. First I had a whole other, lighthearted little thing going on, but then this dramatic plot reared it’s head and I changed direction. And yes, I am constantly finding new ways of trapping Tommy in different rooms. 

Summary: An accident in a warehouse leaves Tommy trapped in the cellar with three of Alfie’s workers. He’d rather not spend more time than absolutely necessary with some of them. And especially not in a room that feels smaller with each passing second. In the dark awaiting rescue, there isn’t much else to do besides talk.

Trapped in the dark awaiting rescue, there isn’t much else to do besides talk. 

Pairing: Alfie/Tommy

Warnings: homophobia, ptsd, claustrophobia 

Wordcount: 6300 

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16181144

“Well, fuck me,” Tommy sighs as he surveys the damage in the warehouse, taking in the blackened walls and the burnt out carcasses of boxes and vehicles.

“Later, sweetheart,” Alfie whispers in his ear, a hand slipping down his backside to grope him. “Bit messy here. Know you don’t like getting your clothes all dirty.”

Tommy tries to look disapproving of the comment, he really does. But judging from Alfie’s leer, he’s not succeeding.

“Yeah, suppose you’re right. And work comes first, doesn’t it?” he says and firmly pulls Alfie’s hand away from his arse. Spending the afternoon overseeing the cleanup in a burnt out warehouse is perhaps not the most riveting thing in the world, but it’s definitely necessary.

It’s well past noon when Tommy eventually looks at his watch.

“The people working in the cellar should probably be taking a break.”

“Just give me a minute and I’ll take care of it,” Alfie says, glancing up from a wad of papers. “I don’t want you going down there.”

Tommy rolls his eyes.

“The firemen said it’s safe. And we can’t really have people working there if we won’t go down there ourselves.”

“You know that’s not what it’s about.” Alfie lowers his voice as he looks up at Tommy again, eyes soft. “Just don’t want you pushing yourself too hard with these things, love. Closed spaces and the sort. Pretty fucking eerie that cellar, too.”  

Tommy ignores him and sets for the stairs, Alfie’s mutters following him, “Yeah, yeah, do whatever, as usual. Stubborn little thing. Fucking hell, just go ahead…”

The smell of smoke and charred wood overwhelms him as he descends to the cellar’s first floor, only growing stronger as he continues down yet another level. But there are worse smells, and it’s distracting him from the feeling of being swallowed by the earth.

When he sets his feet on the floor and takes in the narrow corridor stretching before him, and the ceiling hanging low over his head, Tommy briefly curses himself for going down here in the first place. But he doesn’t linger on that thought, unwilling to admit that Alfie may be right even to himself.

A rumble above him sends his heart racing.

Then he remembers that this part of the building is situated under the train tracks. It’s a freight train thundering by above, and the whole room seems to shake under its weight. His steps are perhaps a bit more hurried than usual as he walks down the corridor.

The storage room is a not quite as unpleasant as the burnt out hallway, being lit by a few lightbulbs running on haphazardly installed electrical wiring. Tommy finds David, Ishmael and Ollie working on getting it cleaned up, lugging the debris into a corner.

“Afternoon Mister Shelby.” Ishmael greets him with a wave that almost has him dropping the box that he’s trying to stack on the pile.

Before Tommy can respond, something comes swinging behind him and his reflexes save him as a blackened wood beam narrowly misses his head.

“Sorry princess, didn’t see you there.” David’s back is turned against him as he dumps the beam down onto the pile with the others, but Tommy can hear the fucking smirk in his voice.

Tommy fixes him with an icy stare. “Didn’t quite catch that, David.”

David turns and flashes a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, nothing important Mister Shelby.”

They stare each other down for a long moment. The tension in the room grows and Tommy is pretty sure Ollie has stopped breathing altogether. Fuck it -he doesn’t have the time or the energy for this. Better to just take care of it when they’re at the bakery. Or anywhere but a rundown cellar.

“You should probably take a breather,” he states, and sees Ollie relax visibly. “Been down here a little too long already.”

None of the men are hard to convince.

Glad to be escaping the cellar again, Tommy makes his way back through the corridor with Ishmael and David trailing behind him, having what seems to be a rather heated discussion. He recognizes the curse words at least, because Alfie uses them whenever he burns something in the kitchen.

Another train crashes by overhead, the rumbling sending tremors through the building. The walls shake as the whole structure complains under the weight. And they continue to shake. The noise echoes above them. Around them. Wood cracking, tumbling rocks… A deeply ingrained feeling of dread shoots up his spine. The sound of a tunnel collapsing.

For a moment Tommy is wavering in a foggy state of confusion, unsure whether this is all in his head or not. But then he sees the frown on Ishmael’s face. No, it’s real. Not some figment of his imagination. Real danger.

Run for the stairs, or back into the room, where the concrete walls could provide some protection? He’s got less than a second to make the call.

The stairs are too far away.

Turning and grabbing both Ishmael and David in one motion, Tommy pushes them backwards.

Struggling, David hisses at him, “Get your fucking-“

Tommy cuts him off. “Back in the room, now.“

Maybe it’s the sense of urgency in his grip, or maybe the panic is visible in his eyes. In any case, Ishmael and David let themselves be ushered backwards.

A thunderous sound erupts behind them; walls collapsing, wooden beams breaking and thousands upon thousands of tons of rocks falling. Tommy feels the weight as it lands on the floor, the concrete vibrating with the force…

David curses loudly when something hits his shoulder, stumbling beside him. Tommy drags him up, pushing Ishmael in front of him. In through the door. He gets a glimpse of Ollie’s wide eyes before the light goes out and they’re enveloped by darkness. David’s weight drags him down. The furniture is tumbling down around them and he’s knocked to the ground as something lands on his back.

Another moment of ear shattering noise.

Then everything is quiet.

And pitch black.

His cheek is pressed against the cold floor and he breathes, breathes, fills his lungs with air, he can do that, he’s not buried.

There’s a shrill ringing in his ears.

He pulls himself up onto shaking knees, whatever debris that landed on his back falling away. He can move. Not buried. Breathes. Breathes- he can taste blood in his mouth. He chokes out words, still.

“Everyone alright?”

Pained groans.

“Care to… elaborate?” Tommy swallows, nails digging into his palms. Keep calm. Fight back the instinctive response of panic.

“I’m alright.” Ishmael first one to speak up. Ollie gives a similar muttered answer.  

There’s a string of supposed curses somewhere to his right.

“David?”  

“Fuck, fuck, goddamn fucking hell-“

Tommy fumbles across the floor until his fingers meet with the solid shape of a body. David lets out an undignified shriek.

“Calm down,” Tommy says firmly, gripping his upper arms and squinting in the dark to catch a glimpse of his face. “You hurt?”

“Think that piece of rubble knocked my fucking shoulder out of its socket.”

“But your head’s alright? And your back?”  

David mutters some foul words, but eventually gets a yesout. Tommy squints in the dark and feels something wet on his palm.

“You’re bleeding from somewhere.”

“It’s fine,” David growls and pulls himself loose, hissing in pain. “Get off.”

Tommy lets his hands drop to his sides.

“Are we trapped in here?” Ollie draws in a ragged breath. Then another. And another.

“Try to slow your breathing, Ollie,” Tommy says, switching focus. “It’ll help.”  

“How are you so fucking calm!” Ollie shouts, a hysterical twinge to his voice. “We could- we could die down here- What if the air runs out and-“

“Calm the fuck down, Ollie,” David snaps. “Fucks sake…”

Tommy crawls over to where Ollie’s frantic breathing comes from, hands trailing up his arms and grabbing his shoulders tightly.

“Hey, listen to me now, just breathe. In slowly, hold it, and then out- simple as that, alright?” He uses the same tone as he would speaking to a frightened horse. “You can count. That helps. In on one, two three, four-“ Tommy draws calm, even breaths into his lungs. Ollie’s hands shoot up and grasp his wrists, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Tommy lets him.

“We’re not going to run out of air,” he says firmly. “People upstairs must’ve noticed the fucking cellar caving in. They’re already digging through the rubble. We’ll be out of here in a few hours, at most.”

“How the fuck... do you know... anything?” Ollie gasps.

“I worked in the tunnels, during the war, remember? Dug ourselves out when one of them collapsed. So I reckon we can survive sitting tight until they come to help us.”

The air whistles as Ollie drags it down his lungs through a too tight throat, and Tommy can almost feel the sensation in his own body. Forcing himself to continue heeding his own advice, he gradually hears the panicked breaths slowing.

Ollie finally releases his wrists and Tommy pulls himself upright, using the wall to find his way towards the caved in corridor. Think rationally. Shut down all the emotions and just act. Just like in the tunnels.

Even though his eyes have grown slightly accustomed to the darkness, he still can’t see anything but vague outlines of objects. Searching his inner pocket, he retrieves a lighter.

“You had a lantern in here somewhere, right?”

“Should be over here,” Ishmael mutters and shuffles around. “Yeah, it’s here alright.” Tommy makes his way towards the sound –the fewer of them walking about and risking stumbling over something, the better.

Soon, a warm, flickering flame illuminates the room. Tommy takes a moment to process the situation, focusing on this rather than the panic lurking right below the surface. Ollie is pale as a sheet, eyes still too wide, but is at least not bordering on complete hysteria anymore. Ishmael seems calm enough. David has propped himself up against a wall, one of his arms slung across his lap and with a steadily growing bloodstain colouring the jacket sleeve. He refuses to meet Tommy’s gaze.

“You should be lying down,” Tommy states and steps over his legs on his way to the corridor. “If you faint. Don’t need to add any injuries here.”

“A nurse now too, are you Shelby?” David mutters and gives him another glare.  

Tommy just walks onwards towards the door. “I’m a man of many talents.”  

David mutters something scornful about ‘women’s work’, and the implications aren’t lost on Tommy. He knows perfectly well what David thinks of him. Although he’s usually a bit more discreet  with his aversion, keeping it to the odd glare or some muttered mockery when Alfie is beyond earshot at the bakery.

The door is ajar and he pushes it open slowly, holding up the lantern to illuminate the carcass of the hallway. Dirt, bricks and wooden beams have created a wall reaching all the way up to the ceiling, just a little ways down the corridor. Close call, then. A moment later and they would’ve been crushed under that. Not a sound can be heard from the other side, meaning there must be a substantial amount of debris between them and the people hopefully working on digging through it.

If the entire corridor has caved in, it may take days before someone comes…

What if they think the entire cellar has collapsed? Would they bother digging their way through all that rubble then?  

The thought sends a jolt of fear through his guts.

No. No need for that.  

Alfie would do it. He’d never leave Tommy down here. Even if he only hoped to find a broken body underneath the debris.

A train passes overhead again. It makes the wall shake. His throat closes up for the briefest of moments before he pulls himself away from the edge. The rest of the cellar could just decide to come down over them, but that’s not something he’s about to tell the others.

Returning to the room, Tommy sets the lantern down on the floor and seats himself by the wall. He keeps his distance to the others.

“No chance of moving that rubble ourselves?  Ishmael asks.

Tommy shakes his head. “We’d just be wasting our energy. And it’s too dangerous- they’ll have to stabilize the other end before they start-“ his trails off. Can’t be bothered to explain all the fucking technicalities. “We’re just going to have to wait.”

Ishmael gives a slow nod.

A strange silence fills the room. All that’s heard are the ragged breaths of the four men as they each lose themselves in their own thoughts. Tommy desperately tries to keep his under control.

Ollie suddenly lets out a chuckle. “Lucky that we’ve got you down here with us, Shelby. Solomons will be doing everything to get us out. Wouldn’t want to be up there with him now. Bet he’s fucking livid.”

Tommy snorts.

“Sure hope you put out last night,” David jeers, a snide smirk on his face. “If our fucking lives depend on… yeah, whatever you let Solomons do to you in the bedroom-“ Something comes flying through the room, hitting his uninjured arm with a thud and David curses and shoots a glare in Ollie’s direction.

“For once in your fucking life, shut the fuck up,” Ollie spits. “Don’t waste the oxygen on that bullshit.”  

“Ollie, it’s fine,” Tommy says blankly and leans back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling and the shadows flickering there. “It… doesn’t matter.”  

Not now. Not here, in the damp, cold darkness. Caught together in a cellar, slowly suffocating- what does it matter?

David lets out a scornful noise, but stays silent after that.

Tommy wishes he could smoke. He reaches into his pocket and runs his thumb over the lighter. It’s the one Alfie bought for him.

Soon enough, Ishmael produces a flask that’s passed around, and the content is so strong it tears at his throat when he swallows. He’s got a creeping suspicion it’s not just the everyday rum. It only takes a few minutes before a thin veil settles over his senses. Not enough to numb them. Not nearly. And Tommy wants to just drain the flask. Fucking pass out and escape from this-

He tries to focus on his surroundings. The people in it. Just like in the war. Make sure everyone else is safe and sane –as much as anyone can be during the circumstances, at least.

Ollie has closed his eyes, muttering something quietly under his breath while Ishmael stares blankly into the flame of the lantern. Not without reluctance, he glances at David, discovering he’s gone alarmingly pale. The stain on his jacket sleeve doesn’t seem to stop growing. Seems unnecessary, that he should die from a fucking scratch on the arm, even if he’s a piece of shit.

Sighing, Tommy moves to his side.

“Take that jacket off-“

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

David’s comment is met by a biting reply from Ollie that Tommy can’t understand. He bites back another sigh and tries to channel some sort of inner strength. Some of Polly’s sensibility perhaps…

“We’ve got to get that wound sorted. But if you prefer to bleed out that’s fine by me.”

David reluctantly lets Tommy pull the jacket off. The shirt underneath is slashed too- Seems like something’s pierced it. But the object in question is gone now, leaving a gaping wound that oozes blood. Unwilling to put himself through more of David’s taunting comments by asking him to take the shirt off too, Tommy uses his own shirt and winds it tightly around the injury to stop the blood flow.  

He doesn’t get a thanks, but he doesn’t expect one either.

Shrugging into his jacket again, he reverts back to his spot by the wall, already feeling the loss of the extra layer of clothing. Fuck, why is it always so fucking cold everywhere?

Silence fills the room again.

Tommy closes his eyes for just a moment, tries to imagine that it’s just any old room. If he’d like, he could walk out the door at any moment…  

Ishmael is the one to finally break the silence, “If we never get out of here-“

“We are getting out of here,” Ollie snaps.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, just trying to create some distraction here before your fucking eyes fall out of their sockets,” Ishmael scoffs. “If we never got out of here, what would your biggest regret be?”

“Getting stuck in this cellar with you lot,” David grumbles. Ishmael rolls his eyes and sets them on Tommy, who feels forced to answer. He does so with a shrug.

“I don’t do regret.”

But his mind wanders. As much as he’d like to think that he doesn’t indulge himself with dwelling on the past, there are probably quite a few of them if he starts digging through his memories.

The latest being that he didn’t kiss Alfie when they parted ways earlier.

Or not listening to him and staying out of the cellar altogether.

When was the last time they did kiss?

They kissed… this morning. Alfie lounged around in bed as usual on weekdays; tried to keep him there too by refusing to let Tommy out of his embrace. “Just a few more minutes, love.” And Tommy squirmed out of his arms, giving him a chaste kiss before leaving the bedroom to make tea.

If he’d known this was how the day would end, he would’ve stayed.

“Well, I call bullshit on that.” He just barely hears Ishmael’s voice. “I for one regret never traveling to the seaside. Should’ve taken my girls there sometime-”  

Perhaps he does regret things. But if he never got out of here, what he’d really want is just more time. With Alfie. Not too long ago, the mere prospect of living another thirty- forty, or god forbid fifty years, seemed absolutely terrifying, like an endless sea nothing just stretching before him. Now, all he wants is more time…

“Let’s put it this way then: what’s the very first thing you’ll do when you do get out of here.” Ishmael’s voice come from so far away now. “See I’m going home to my kids. Tell them I love them. Kiss my wife. That sort of thing. Oh, and I’m making a solemn promise never to enter any dilapidating basements.”

Ollie hums in agreement.

“Yeah, will probably be doing something of the sort.” David’s voice is a little softer now.  

“What about you then, eh, Shelby?” Ishmael wonders.

Tommy hopes it’s not visible, the way he snaps out of the thoughts.

“Smoke.”

Ishmael groans and Ollie actually rolls his fucking eyes.

“Don’t give me that shit,” Ishmael snorts. “Go on, all equals down here aren’t we?”

Tommy suddenly feels so fucking fed up. With all of them. With everything.

“Fine, I’ll go home and suck Alfie’s cock,” he snaps. “Is that what you want to fucking hear?”

Go home, take a bath while Alfie cooks dinner, fall asleep on the sofa with his head in Alfie’s lap…

But why would any of them believe that?

Why would he want to tell them?

Ishmael laughs, loud enough to make Tommy fear the ceiling may just come down over them after all. Ollie snorts out a laugh too. David sits in stony silence.  

“That’s more like it,” Ishmael chuckles. “Sounds like a proper evening to me.”

Tommy stares up at the ceiling.

“I think you’re really cute together,” Ollie suddenly slurs. He’s been holding onto the flask for some time, and Ishmael takes it away from him and tosses it to Tommy, who takes a long swig.

“This is what hell is like,” he mutters under his breath and digs his fingers into his eye sockets, earning another laugh from Ishmael.

Conversation moves to slightly less jarring topics for a while. Ishmael talks about his oldest daughter learning the violin, laughing heartily as he explains just how terrible it sounds. “But just you wait. Bet with some practice, she’ll be brilliant.”

The rum has gone straight to Ollie’s head, and he talks about his fiancé at length…

Tommy mostly listens.

Another train. Another minute of the structure groaning around them –metal shifting and wood cracking. Tommy resists the urge to cover his ears or curl up into a ball. He swallows down the sour bile rising in the back of his throat.

David cackles drily, wincing in pain as his shoulder is jostled. Their eyes meet through the dim light.

“Regret getting into this lifestyle now, do you Shelby? Not as fucking glamourous as it seems from the outside?”

“For fucks sake, leave him alone.” It’s Ishmael speaking up. Tommy wishes he’d just be silent.

“All I’m saying it’s a bit different here at the bottom of the ladder. As opposed to between Solomons’ posh sheets.”

Tommy blinks slowly.

He’s spent almost his entire life at the bottom of that fucking ladder. David doesn’t know.

Why should he be bothered to learn anything about his boss’ new pet?

“You’re free to think whatever the fuck you want, David,” he says coldly. “But I’d appreciate if you kept it to yourself. Or I might regret dragging you out of that corridor.”  

He bores his eyes into David’s until the other man lowers his gaze to stare at the ground.

For just a moment, Tommy wants to tell him. About sleeping on a mattress on the floor for years because they couldn’t afford a bed.  Or going hungry for so many days that it eventually just ebbed out to a dull ache. Running barefoot in the snow in threadbare clothing…

“Well, it’s sort of an interesting question actually. I’d always fancied myself a chimney sweep, if I hadn’t ended up, well, doing this,” Ishmael pipes up. “Bet it’s a nice view from up there.”

“Could’ve just been a regular baker. That would’ve been fine,” Ollie says, before nodding at Tommy. “What would you have done then?”

Tommy shifts in his seat, not feeling particularly inclined to share anything about himself. But the air is getting thinner by the minute, each breath only giving him the slightest bit of oxygen-

If he doesn’t talk, he’ll lose himself in his own head.

“I wanted to work with horses,” he says and fastens his gaze on the ceiling. “But then our father left. The war came. And someone needed to… take care of things. Make proper money. Suppose if things had been different, that’s what I would’ve liked to do.”

Every word feels like peeling off a tiny bit of himself and he already regrets saying anything at all.

He waits for another jab from David. The ceiling resembles a dirt road on a scorching hot day, littered with jagged cracks. He looks down again.

David’s eyes are glazed over, an odd little smile ghosting over his lips.

“I used to pass by a stable on my way to the factory when I was little,” he says. “There was this horse there. A black mare. Most beautiful thing you ever saw. Would’ve liked to get my daughter a horse like that some day.” The flame in the lantern reflects in his eyes as he adds quietly, “Wish I could’ve given her a better life. I’d like something… more for her. Suppose that’s what makes it worth it, all this shit.”

“Yeah. Suppose so.” There are a lot of people Tommy wishes he could’ve given a better life. The words just slip out.

David raises his eyebrows.

“You have a kid?”

“No. But I’ve got… a whole lot of siblings.” Tommy smiles faintly, the mere thought feeling like a comfort. “My youngest brother is twelve. When I was his age I didn’t even have a pair shoes. Suppose some things are better now.”

David looks at him. And it perhaps his eyes are not quite as full of spite anymore.

Tommy clears his throat and takes another swig of rum before reluctantly handing over the flask to Ishmael.

The hours drag themselves by.

Tommy forces himself to stay focused on the conversation. It flows a little easier now. Maybe it’s the shock, the alcohol, or some subconscious fear that they may in fact die down here, but they’re all too tired to bicker. Instead they talk about their children. Their wives. The sort of things men in peril resort to, in an effort to remember something better.

Tommy constantly has to fight to say something. Anything. He tells them a little about his family. It’s easier, that, not talking about himself. David’s outright hostility has faded a bit, but Tommy’s always painfully aware that there are things he’s not allowed to talk about. Parts of his life which will be met with that revulsion. It shouldn’t bother him. It doesn’t, usually. But something about the situation has made his skin thinner, and he feels oddly vulnerable. He still talks, using his words sparsely and focusing mostly on what the others are saying. 

Can’t just shut down. Has to keep it together.

It’s utterly draining. The thin air, the darkness, the moving shadows… and he doesn’t want to be here- wants to be with Alfie, where he’s safe. Loved. Not constantly reminded how strange he is, how wrong he is-

He bites the inside of his cheek. Digs his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. Anything to keep him grounded. He can’t lose it. Not in here, not in front of these people-

Ollie has been talking about his fiancé’s cooking. “Who takes care of that at your place?”

It takes a while before Tommy realises the question is directed at him and he blinks. Clears his throat.

“Alfie. I can’t cook for shit.”

“You could hire someone.”

“We don’t… want people in the house.” Tommy leaves it at that. Then he smiles a little. “And Alfie likes to cook.”

He pictures Alfie standing by the stove, humming something to himself as he stirs in a pot.  

“He any good?” David sounds genuinely curious.

“Yeah.” The flame in the lantern has grown smaller. Soon they’ll have to sit and wait here in the dark. Tommy lets his mind wander. “One time… I found him just staring off into space, all wide eyed… He thought he’d baked one of his rings into the bread.” The memory makes him let out a faint laugh that eases some of the strain in his chest. “But it had just fallen down onto the floor.”

He can’t look up at the others, regretting letting his resolve slip enough to say that.

But Ollie laughs.

“Always losing stuff, isn’t he? God, my job got so much easier when you turned up and took over the task of ‘finding missing shit that Solomons definitely, absolutely, left in one place but that’s somehow disappeared into thin air’.”

Both Ishmael and David laugh too. A warm, genuine laughter.

Tommy is suddenly grateful that Ollie is there. And he’s grateful all together not to be alone.

More time passes. The hours melt together into a string of foggy darkness, the light of the lantern fading steadily.

Eventually, they’re all too exhausted to keep a conversation going. Definitely a bad sign. Tommy stares down at his pale hands. Tries to swallow. But his mouth is so dry. How many hours have they been down here? Eight? Ten? It’s impossible to tell.

When the light inevitably goes out, a new kind of silence settles in the room.

David’s voice is oddly unsteady when he speaks up, “What if…” he swallows thickly. “What if we’ll have to die in the dark?”

“No one’s dying.” Tommy says as firmly as he can manage. “Not here at least. You’ll be home with… your wife… and your kids in- in just a few hours.” He fights to keep his voice calm, hoping the others can’t tell how hard his heart is beating. “It’ll be alright.”

Ollie has reverted back to his quiet muttering in the corner.

Tommy closes his eyes. Pulls his knees up to his chest, burying his face against them. No one can see it, in the dark. What does it matter if he looks pathetic?

He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.

When the shovels begin scraping he has to fight the urge to retch. It’s okay, it’s not real- it’s just in his head-

But after so many hours, that mantra does little to help…

“Well, I’ll be damned, seems like we’re finally getting out of here.” Ishmael’s voice floats through the fog, pulling him out.

“Took them long enough.” Ollie’s laugh has a slightly manic twinge to it.

It’s not in his head, because the shovels are working away at the wall of rubble out in the corridor. Tommy stands up, the world spinning before his eyes, and has to hold onto the wall for support.

“Stay in here,” he tells the dark figure that he presumes is Ishmael. “The fewer people out in that hallway the better.”

When he exits the room, he hears it clearly. Shovels scraping against the debris.

Voices. He can hear voices.

It’s just like the tunnels.

A shovel breaks through a crack right by the ceiling. A rock tumbles down, leaving a hole the size of a fist through which a warm stream of light seeps into the corridor. Tommy has to fight the urge to either run for cover or climb up there and start tearing away the rubble himself.

“Hello? Anyone in there?” An unknown voice calls from the opening, echoing between the walls.  

“I’m- we’re here,” Tommy calls out.

The sound of falling debris. A new voice.

“Tommy?”

Alfie’s voice.

“Yeah.” He’s not sure if Alfie can hear him, his dry throat muffles the word.

Cursing, orders for someone to hurry the fuck up-

“Thank God, thank fucking God-“ Alfie’s voice is oddly thick too, cracking slightly. “You hurt?”

Tommy tries to answer, he really does, but his throat refuses to cooperate and all that comes out is some broken noise.

“Tommy? Just hold on, we’ll be there- For fucks sake mate, give me that thing- bloody useless-“ Alfie continues muttering curses.

Another rock falls away, and now the hole is suddenly big enough for a person to fit through and so much light shines into the corridor that Tommy is blinded and has to close his eyes. There’s an onslaught of rocks tumbling down the pile. More curses.

Then, he’s pulled into a tight, warm hug. He buries his face against a familiar chest. Wraps his arms around an equally familiar neck and clings to it. Alfie’s safe voice and scent and whole presence just envelops him. His breathing hitches as he draws too much air in at once.

“Shh, it’s alright, love, I’ve got you, you’re safe now,” Alfie whispers and rubs his back. “You’re okay, yeah? Nothing’s gonna hurt you.”  

Suddenly he’s shaking so hard he can barely stand.

But that’s alright. Safe- Safe- he’s safe now.

He can be weak here. Alfie holds him together.

“Hey, you okay? You hurt somewhere?” When Alfie pulls out of the hug to get a better look at him, Tommy kisses him. Alfie’s lips under his own feels like the first truly real and solid thing in hours… Alfie breathes new life into him. Grounds him again.

Eventually Alfie beaks the kiss, gently grabbing his shoulders to give him a onceover.

It’s now that Tommy takes in the sorry state of Alfie’s clothing, the mud caking on his trousers and covering his shirt. “Don’t tell me you’ve been fucking digging?”

“Fuck, of course I have,” Alfie sniffs and rubs his eyes with the back of a dirty hand. “Think I’d just sit around and wait? Bloody hell. Clearly you don’t know me at all, love.”

“Your back will be killing you tomorrow,” Tommy chastises fondly. He nestles back against Alfie’s body, ignoring the grime as he hides his face in his shirt again.  

“Trivial thing, innit? Furthermore, I think I’m deserving of a proper backrub after coming to your rescue.”

Yeah, Tommy reckons that he is.

“Oi, lovebirds, can we… get out of here now?” Someone calls from the room behind him.

Tommy suddenly remembers, and tries to tell Alfie. “David’s injured and- and Ollie’s on the verge of a mental breakdown or something-“

He should look up, but Alfie’s hand is heavy on the back of his head, so he remains right where he is, face buried in Alfie’s shirt.

“Shh, we’ll take care of it. It’ll all be fine, sweetheart.”

Alfie stars barking orders, a torch is passed through the opening in the wall of debris, Ishmael shows up in the hallway-

“I should…” Tommy mutters, he should- what should he do?

Alfie just hushes him and holds him a little tighter. “It’s alright, your part’s done, love. We’ve got it from here, yeah?”

It’s all a bit blurry after that. And afterwards, Tommy can’t even remember how he got out of the cellar.

Up in the warehouse, a frenzied energy has hold of the room. People are milling about, firemen, nurses-  it’s a bloody circus. Tommy sees everything through a veil of exhaustion. His knees feel weak, and he’s dizzy, suddenly.

Ignoring all the people surrounding them, Alfie wraps an arm around his shoulders and leads him through the crowd. Tommy takes deep gulps of air, drinking it in and replacing all the stale dampness from the cellar.

It’s early morning when Tommy finally finds himself at home again. In the sofa. Clean, warm, and forcefully swaddled in blankets as Alfie fusses over him, mostly wandering about and muttering things under his breath as he tries to find a pair of socks for Tommy’s cold feet. Or yet another blanket. But eventually, after making him tea and toast –the only acceptable food at this hour according to Tommy- Alfie comes to sit with him, and Tommy can finally relax completely. He knows that Alfie needs to vent about the whole thing, and that for a few days, he won’t be hearing the end of it. But when he asks, Alfie just kisses his forehead. Tells him they’ll talk more after they’ve slept for a bit.

“Know you need some time, love. That’s alright. Just glad that you’re here, safe and sound. All that matters right now, innit?”

…

Things are different afterwards. Between him and the others. Not that they talk about what happened –they’ve all got people at home for that sort of thing. But they exchange little pleasantries every now and then. Not to excess, because Tommy still prefers to not spend his days chattering. David keeps his distance. But at least he’s stopped glaring.

Tommy realises just how much has changed one day when Arthur shows up at the bakery.

He’s is just on his way to the office when he hears raised voices coming from the entrance.

“For fucks sake, he’s my brother!”

“And how do I know that?”

“Because I fucking said so! Why would I lie?”

“We have all sorts coming ‘round here. Think that you being his brother and all should understand that we’ve got to keep a certain standard when it comes to security.”

Tommy makes his way through the dim interiors of the bakery towards the entrance. Arthur is standing opposite Ollie, arms crossed and forehead drawn into a frown. Mimicking his pose, Ollie is giving him a similarly grim look.

“Arthur,” Tommy says as he approaches. “Didn’t expect you to turn up here.”

“You know this man, Mister Shelby?” Ollie wonders.

“I told you I’m his brother,” Arthur snaps. “And for fucks sake, mate! We’ve met!”

Ollie thoroughly ignores him, still turned to Tommy.

“He is,” Tommy confirms, briefly entertaining the thought of denying it just to see what would happen. After another suspicious glare, Ollie steps aside and lets Arthur pass him.

Arthur follows Tommy.

“The fuck’s up with him,” he grunts and glances over his shoulder at Ollie, who’s watching their retreating backs with narrowed eyes.

“After the whole affair with Changretta, we’ve upped security a bit.”

“Yeah, sure, makes sense I suppose,” Arthur grunts.

“Want the grand tour?” Tommy asks and leads the way through the bakery, and Arthur lights up at the suggestion.

He shows Arthur around the distillery while his older brother tells him all the news from Birmingham. Though every once in a while he pauses to meet the suspicious glances from Alfie’s workforce.

“Why are so many of them glaring at me?”

“They’re not glaring.”

“They definitely are,” Arthur insists, and then lets out a chuckle. “Have you been talking shit about me?”

Tommy shrugs. “Maybe you just have one of those faces that pisses people off?”

Arthur gives him a hard shove, only to moments later have his arm caught by a hand. David has turned up seemingly out of nowhere.

“What’s going on here?” he says sharply, and looks between the two of them. “Is this man bothering you, Mister Shelby?”

“Always,” Tommy smirks.

“Oh, for the love of- I’m his fucking brother!” Arthur exclaims. Tommy nods in confirmation and motions for David to let go of Arthur.

“Can’t be too careful.” David stalks off, giving Arthur a warning look that could almost rival Alfie’s in intensity.  

Arthur stares at him with utter disbelief.

“Fucking hell, does everyone here have a bloody stick up their arse?” he mutters, but then makes a thoughtful pause. “Though… suppose I’m glad you’ve got people looking out for you when I’m not around. Good there’s several of them, too. It’s a fucking full time job.”

Now, it’s Tommy’s turn to glare, making a valiant effort to avoid Arthur’s hand when his older brother reaches to ruffle his hair. He fails.

Arthur is grinning now. “Stop pouting.”

“I’m not fucking pouting.”

“You definitely are.” Arthur makes even more of a mess of Tommy’s hair. “How about you show me something besides the inside of this place? I could use a pint.”

“Fine,” Tommy complies. “But Alfie is coming too.”

Arthur heaves a sigh. “Fine. Bring that menace along.” He gives Tommy a sly look. “As I said, always good to be at least two. Maybe we’ve got at least a fighting chance keeping you out of trouble then. ”

Tommy goes to fetch Alfie, but not before shoving Arthur into a barrel.

[goldenheartcreates-blog]

Imprisoned: Underfoe--Claustrophobia p. VIII: Black Clouds of Serendipity

     You scramble backwards, falling back and clawing at the floor in your attempts to get as far away from Jaxon as possible. Jaxon cackles mean-spiritedly, watching you crawl away in terror.

     "Oh, who's the invincible one now?" Jaxon jeers as he hugs his sides, laughing even harder. On your back, your head touching the wall, your lungs heaving as if you've just run a marathon, you watch Jaxon laugh at you. A moment goes by.

     "Look at this loser. I almost don't want to kill you anymore! Almost." Jaxon begins to collect himself, and you notice a faint red glow in his eyes. You can feel the spirit of Chara inhabiting your old enemy.

     He finally takes a step forward. "While I'd love to keep tormenting you, I've got places to go and plans to fulfill. So every minute you don't tell me what you're planning, someone else you love dies. Like... Chara, tell me some names of people I could kill. Toriel, You said? Or Al... Alfy... Alpha... What the hell did you just say, a name? What kind of name is that? Whatever, I'll find that out later. The point is that I'll kill someone, so start talking."

     Your words sputtering like a broken car engine, you manage to tell Jaxon that you don't have a plan just yet.

     "Wrong answer." Jaxon readjusts his grip on his knife handle. "I wonder who might live in a cute little house like this-"

     You scream at Jaxon, telling him that you really have no plan other than trying to clear his path of victims.

     "Clear my path of victims? So you're not even trying to kill me, I see. That's a smart choice. But unfortunately for you, that's not a good enough answer." Jaxon sidesteps past you and back into the hearth room.

     You decide to trick him. If Toriel heeded your advice, she should be long gone. But Jaxon seems to think that there's someone in this house. If you can lead him on, he'll waste valuable time searching for nothing. You sit up, screaming random phrases of the begging-you-to-stop variety, and Jaxon responds with more cackles.

     "If I can't touch you, then you can't touch me. Scream for mama all you want, boy." His pitter-pattering footsteps fade into the hallway.

     You smile in spite of yourself. Jaxon doesn't know it, but he's just been played for a fool.

     But now what? You've bought yourself at least a few minutes, but how can you use them?

     Let's see... Once Jaxon figures out that there's no one in the house, he'll be quick to leave. He'll meet the people of Snowdin in five minutes, if you're lucky. And he won't be in a merciful mood. You've got to go warn the town, and by extension Sans and Papyrus.

     And to warn them in time, you need to figure out how to pull out of this vision- space. Now.

Author’s Note:

Do I ever have an excuse for posting late? This time it was procrastination. Sorry guys! Good thing I only have nine followers.

(It’s not a good thing. Heck no, it’s not. Ignore that last bit.)

Well, looks like Jaxon forgot Frisk’s cryptic taunt in the 18th paragraph of the last Underfoe update, so he’s off to kill a Goatmom that’s not even there. You’ll find out what became of her in the next Underfoe update, probably. Maybe in the update after that update. Who knows. 

[whentommymetalfie]

Gun in my hand -chapter four

A/N: I don’t really have anything to say. ANGST. One more chapter left after this, and then there’s an epilogue/sequel (one shot) of sorts. 

Chapter one, chapter two, chapter three 

Summary: In his captivity, Tommy fights a losing battle against his own demons. Alfie and Luca meet, and things are of course bound to go straight to hell. 

Pairing: Alfie/Tommy 

Wordcount: 5100

Warnings: Descriptions of violence, claustrophobia, PTSD, racial slurs

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313621/chapters/34917635

Tommy is floating in an endless sea of darkness. Weightless, unable to move, or even open his eyes. It feels like being in that stage between dream and reality, when the mind is flickering into awareness, but the body has yet to catch up. He fights his heavy eyelids, and manages to squeeze his eyes open. Then he blinks, thinking they must somehow still be closed, because everything is dark.

Everything is dark and he can’t move.

The tunnel has caved in and buried him-

The panic washes over him like an icy wave, his heart swelling to block his entire throat. He coughs and gasps for air, limbs flailing as he breaks the invisible bonds that kept him chained. There never were any rocks weighing him down. A tiny sliver of logic breaks through the panic: he needs to calm down. Needs to gain control over his breathing or he’ll pass out again. Curling up into a tight ball, he covers his head with his arms and forces himself to count. In, hold it, out- he’s safe like this. Nothing can hurt him. It’s a soothing lie he tries to believe. Alfie’s voice fills his ears, telling him how to breathe. He just has to listen to it.

In, hold it, out- Slowly… Everything will be alright-

Just breathe.

Everything will be alright…

In, hold it, out-

Finally, the adrenaline ebbs out, leaving him shaking on the cold floor. He experimentally moves and stretches his trembling limbs, searching for injuries. There’s a definite ache throughout his body, as if he’s taken a beating, but nothing worse. Searching his blurry memories, he vaguely recalls the last moments before the darkness: the sound of machineguns, fighting violently against too many pairs of hands, the smell of chloroform. That last puzzle piece explains the lapse in memory, at least.

His head clears slightly, and his eyes adjust to the compact darkness enough to make out the objects closest to him. He’s in windowless room, filled with crates and cargo boxes. Some sort of basement then. Maybe in a warehouse. There’s a steady dripping somewhere behind one of the walls, echoing against the concrete. A leaking pipe maybe. He listens for other sounds, something that could tell him where he is. A train, a car engine, the bustling of a factory... But it’s all silent, except for the dripping. And the occasional crack as the pipes move.

Getting to his feet, he stumblingly makes his way over the floor, hands outstretched. He reaches the wall within mere seconds. The room is small. Soon enough, he finds a metal door and he twists the handle. It’s locked of course. But the room is full of shit –there has to be something he can use. A piece of scrap metal, a wire to pick the lock with… just… something. He starts searching, mind completely set on this.

It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed before he finally has to give up. All the boxes are empty. He curses out loud, immediately regretting it as the sound of his own voice echoes in the room. No use doing this. He needs to save his strength.

Returning to his corner, he sits down and pulls his knees up to his chest in an attempt to preserve some heat. The room is freezing, and they’ve taken all his clothing except his trousers and undershirt. He cradles one of his bare feet between his hands, trying to rub some heat back into it. The action makes his thoughts drift to Alfie; if they’d been at home right now, he would’ve taken Tommy’s feet and massaged them until they were warm again. But he can’t allow himself to think of that now –he needs to focus on how to fix this.

Fuck, if only it weren’t so cold. It makes it hard to think.

He tries to suppress the trembling, curling up a little tighter into his protective ball. It’s a rather pathetic display of weakness, but he can’t really afford to do anything else. If he gets colder, there’s a definite risk the cough will turn into a fever, and he can’t let that happen. He needs to rest. Keep his head clear. So that when the right moment comes, he can do something to change this hopeless situation he’s ended up in.

In an attempt to distract himself from everything –the cold, the darkness… the locked door- he considers what prompted Changretta to suddenly do a thing like this. This wasn’t his original plan, can’t have been. He would be here then, gloating and giving one of his obnoxious speeches. Something has changed, made him go off course. Tommy could use that to his advantage, he just doesn’t know how, yet. But he’ll figure it out. He always does.

Right now, all he has to do is bide his time…

Time passes slowly. Or quickly. Impossible to tell in the dark. But he can tell that it passes, because he becomes thirsty. Tired. Feels his thoughts slip from the logical –how to find a way out, why Changretta has put him here- to imagining increasingly frightening scenarios.

The air will run out.

He’ll never make it out of this alive.

He’ll never see Alfie again.

There’s a particularly large crate by the opposite wall. Tommy stares at it, focusing his attention on all the little nails holding it together. He counts them. Tries to not think about how close the wall is. There are forty of them. He counts them again, only finding thirty-nine this time for some reason. So he starts over. Again and again. In a desperate attempt to keep his thoughts under control.

He keeps doing it until his eyes begin to sting, telling him he desperately needs to rest. And so he tries to sleep, laying down on the damp floor and closing his eyes. If he just gets some rest, the fog that’s clouding his mind will fade and he’ll be able to think again. But the chill has crept through his skin and settled in his bones, making it impossible to relax. Cradling his arms close to his chest, he blows on his icy fingers, letting out a rattling cough as the stale air fills his lungs. But he repeats the action, still, desperate to find some relief from the cold.

He doesn’t fall asleep. But he wavers somewhere in between, slipping in and out of some middle land between dream and reality. The room fills with voices. The scraping of shovels. And the stale air suddenly smells of blood and dirt- He refuses to acknowledge any of it. It’s not real.

It never is.

When Tommy opens his eyes again, the crate is a bit closer.

He finds thirty-four nails before he loses count and has to start over. Maybe there only were thirty-four? He can’t seem to remember. The alarming dryness in his throat tells him that more time must’ve passed.

His breathing echoes in the room, and his heartbeat is too loud in his own ears. With every passing second –minute, hour, week- it seems to pound harder against his ribcage. Faster. He’s standing by that edge again, staring straight down into the abyss. And Alfie isn’t here to pull him away this time. Isn’t here to catch him if he falls.

It’s just him, in the dark. Alone.

Surrounded by walls that are somehow moving closer each time he blinks.

He tries to focus on just breathing. Nothing else. As long as he’s breathing, as long as he’s taking calm, steady breaths, it’s all okay. It’s just four walls and a ceiling. If Alfie were here, he’d tell him so.It’s okay, love, I’ve got you. Just breathe. He tries imagining the sound of his voice, his heartbeat, the warmth of his body right next to Tommy’s.

He closes his eyes again. It’s easier to fall into the fantasy then.

The thirst is becoming unbearable, and it should give him an idea of how much time has passed. But he can’t seem to draw any conclusions; his brain is too foggy. It’s not good

Why is no one coming? Why have they just… left him here? He wants to call out, demand someone’s attention. Better that Changretta comes down here and just shoots him than having to lie here alone in the dark.

The nails are beginning to appear blurry. One, two, three- His thoughts are sluggish, scattered. He loses count at just fifteen now, unable to focus any longer than that. But he can’t remember how many there were to begin with anyway, so it doesn’t matter.

What if they’ve just left him here to die? What if he’ll never get out, and the last thing he’ll ever see are those nails?

Cold, dark mud, stretching for miles on end on all sides. He can almost see the weight of it, all the thousands of tons of heavy rocks that threaten to plunge down and crush his ribcage.

And the last thing he’ll hear is the dripping in the pipes.

The sound of shovels and pickaxes.  

The walls are so close now, and the ceiling is lower, hanging down over him as if it’s about to cave in. He wraps his arms around his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he focuses his slipping attention on his breathing again. He has to keep it together. He tries to picture Alfie, smiling at him from across the kitchen table, eyes shining and crinkling in the corners, the way Tommy loves. It’s strange to think that he’s made someone that happy. Since the war, all he ever seem to do is suck the joy out of everyone around him. As if he left all the good pieces of himself in the dirt back in France. But Alfie made him feel like maybe there was still something-

And now he’s going to die here, without ever having told him that.

He’s let everyone down. Alfie. His family. It’s all he ever does.  

But he’s… he’s tried so hard to make things better for them. Yeah, but just trying isn’t good enough now, is it?

No, he’ll get out of this. He needs to do things right by them. Do better. He promised, didn’t he?

Fuck, he must be such a disappointment. His father’s words ring in his ears, louder than the other voices: I always knew you’d never amount to anything.

All you ever do is hurt people.

Maybe they’ll be glad to be rid of him.

Tommy sits up sharply, pushing the unwelcomed thoughts as far away as possible. The motion leaves him reeling, head spinning as his weak body fights to stay upright. But he needs to do something with his hands or he’ll go insane.

You already have.  

Crawling on all fours, he lets his fingers roam the surface of the floor. There has to be something… something useful in this room. Useful in what way, he isn’t sure. All he knows is that if he doesn’t move, if he doesn’t occupy himself with something, he’ll lose it completely.

You already have.

His hands trace the outlines of rough concrete, and suddenly his fingers meet with the smooth, familiar surface of a glass bottle. Just the bottom of it, but it has sharp, jagged edges. Something to defend himself with. Against what? The voices maybe…  A sob in relief escape his throat before he can stop it. Reverting back to his corner, he curls up in a ball and clutches the piece of glass to his chest. It feels like a lifeline. The only real thing in the darkness.

He has completely lost track of time.

They’ve just left him here to die. Who are they? He can’t remember. Why is he here? Can’t remember that either.

It’s possible that he’s already dead. It could very well be hell, this place. And he’s got plenty of reasons to be there.  

He goes back to staring at that crate, counting the nails again. One, two, three, four- How many were there to begin with? Why did he start counting them? One, two, three- It seems like such a useless thing to do. One, two… It’s closer now than it was to begin with. Much closer. It moves when he shuts his eyes; he can hear the walls shifting, the concrete cracking as they close in, inch by inch.

He’s so cold. He’d do anything to feel warm again.

To not be alone.

His fingers trace the smooth surface of the glass.

He doesn’t dare opening his eyes again. The room is so small that if he reaches out, if even just an inch, he’ll hit the wall. Just the expansion of his ribcage as he breathes is too much; the ceiling touches his shoulder every time he fills his lungs. The air will run out soon. He’ll suffocate. Die in this dark basement- this dark tunnel a hundred miles below the surface surrounded by mud-

He makes himself small, small, so small that he becomes nothing…

A pickaxe is working away at the muddy wall in front of him. Soon it’ll break through. Tap, tap. It echoes in his head and scrapes against his ears. He should be working on the tunnel, but his shovel is gone. He wonders where Danny and Freddie are. Maybe he’s sick, and they’ve told him to stay here and rest while they work themselves further down. It feels like he’s sick. Cold. He’s so cold. Tap, tap, the pickaxe sings against the rocks. But when it reaches him, he’s got something sharp in his hand that he can use. Can’t remember where he got it from…

A new, unfamiliar sound reaches his ears. The creaking of a door opening. Voices. New voices. Light fills the room. Fresh air.

It’s like waking up from a fever dream, and he remembers. Where he is. Why he’s here.

He slips the piece of glass up his sleeve right before two sets of hands reach down and roughly pull him to his feet.

Changretta is late. Just like him, the arrogant fucker, to come and fucking go as he pleases. Alfie tightens the grip on his cane in a familiar gesture that usually serves to ground him a bit, watching his breath create white mist as he exhales.

Sometimes, this life of theirs really is just a parody of itself. Sure, Alfie has a flare for the dramatic, but isn’t this a bit excessive, meeting in some gigantic warehouse in the middle of the night?

The building is silent, and he prays it’ll stay that way, that Ishmael and the others have the sense to remain completely fucking still in landscape of crates and parked vehicles behind him. If Changretta catches the slightest sign that he’s not alone, this whole thing will go to hell. It might still. He gives another glance to the balcony that stretches high up in the air alongside one of the walls. It’s too far away. No way in hell that Arthur can get a clear shot from there… He pushes this thought away. No room for doubt now. It’ll just have to fucking work.

“Evening, Mister Solomons.”

Alfie’s attention snaps back to the large entranceway facing the water. Changretta comes strolling into the warehouse accompanied by two men, one armed with a revolver and the other holding a metal pipe that Alfie firmly dislikes the look of. Fucking ridiculous choice of weapon too… Between them, they’re dragging a pale figure, and his heart clenches painfully at the sight. Tommy hangs limply in their grip, his bare feet unable to keep up with the pace.

Feeling his hand twitch as he fights the urge to pull his gun and shoot them all right then, Alfie grips his cane harder. A hole through the head is all that stunt would lead to.

And there’s been enough idiotic mistakes now.

“Ah, isn’t this nice?” Changretta says, opening his arms in greeting. “Been a long time since I was in one of these.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Tend to leave this sort of thing to my employees.”

There’s something very wrong with this man.  

“Thought we agreed to meeting alone?” Alfie says sharply. “Don’t know how it works in that shithole you come from, but that’s usually the way we do it here.” He just runs his mouth, trying to catch a glimpse of Tommy’s face, see how much damage they’ve done… “I come alone, and you do the same- a question of honor, really-“

“Needed some help with the cargo,” Changretta snickers, giving a nod in Tommy’s direction. “I don’t like getting my hands dirty.” His mouth twitches in a display of disgust, and Alfie grits his teeth hard enough to crack the molars. Clearing his throat, he ignores Changretta in favor of Tommy.    

“Tommy, you alright?”

It’s an idiotic question of course, in light of how utterly broken Tommy looks right at that moment. But Alfie just wants to hear his voice. At the sound of his name, Tommy raises his head and blinks sluggishly. His eyes search out Alfie’s, and Alfie meets them steadily, trying to look nothing but reassuring. Tommy’s eyes are remarkably sharp under the veil of lashes, and it ignites a tiny spark of hope in his chest. Not broken. Exhausted, but not broken. He coughs wetly before answering.

“Yeah, don’t-” The words turn into a strangled groan as the pipe collides with his stomach, and Tommy doubles over in pain. Alfie tries not to wince.  

“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” the man who delivered the blow hisses, raising the weapon again and leaving for his companion to hold Tommy upright.

“Oi, we’re supposed to be negotiating here,” Alfie barks. “No need for any violence.” Mildly relieved to see that his words have effect, he looks back at Changretta. “So, we’re here. Both of us. In this fucking dump. So if you just hand over Thomas, I’m sure we can all just go home and forget about this little incident-” He squares his jaw, fingers combing through the beard. “I’ll even forgive smashing my uncle’s old clock. Liked that thing, I did. But it’s all worldly matters, right?”

None of it matters if he gets to have Tommy in his arms again.

“Look at you, making demands,” Luca chuckles. “Think that I’ll call the shots here.”

“What shots would you like to call then?” Alfie feels his knuckles whiten around the cane.

He needs to drag this out long enough for Arthur to get a clear shot. But Changretta is standing unnervingly close to Tommy, and the margins aren’t really on their side…  

“It’s quite simple, really-” Changretta reaches into his pocket for one of those stupid fucking toothpicks. ”See, I’m going to put a bullet right between those pretty blue eyes.” He gives Tommy a nod, which is rewarded by an ice cold glare. “And you-“ he points the toothpick in Alfie’s direction. “Are going to stand there and think about past sins.”

Closing his lips around the toothpick, Changretta twirls it as they stare each other down.  

“Think this is how it’s done, eh, Changretta?” Alfie widens his stance slightly, boring his eyes into the other man’s. “You come here, to my fucking city yeah? Barge into my house and smash half of my worldly possessions- And recon you’ll just walk away unscratched?” You come into my house, take the man I love away from me, and think there’s any chance in hell that you’ll get away with it? “See, to anyone else that would just be fucking unacceptable. Though unlike you I’m a very forgiving man.” He allows himself a glance at Tommy, who is watching him with weary eyes. “So I’m willing to give you…  yeah, what would be an acceptable prize? A percentage of the racecourse earnings? Shares in the business?” Tommy’s lips have gone an alarming shade of blue. Must be absolutely freezing “– In exchange for my business associate’s continued relative health.”

Something glints in Changretta’s eyes. A sudden flash of rage that bursts through the cracks in the suave façade. “The fucking nerve of you,” he snarls through gritted teeth, fingers releasing the toothpick to make a jab in his direction. “Trying to negotiate the prize on my brother’s life. Your pikey whore doesn’t even come close to making up for it.” Letting out a disdainful scoff, he regains control of his features. “But he’s all you’ve got. So he’ll just have to do.”

He gives a nod to the man holding the metal pipe, and Alfie tenses up as a muscular arm swings the weapon against Tommy’s ribs, making his entire body curl inwards on itself in pain. Two more jabs in quick succession, and then the henchman lets up.

“Keep going.” Changretta just spares him a glance, keeping his eyes on Alfie to watch his reaction. “Make him scream.”

Alfie has never seen anyone enjoy another human’s suffering like this.

Tommy barely makes a sound as the blows rain down on him. A hitch in the raspy breathing. A stifled gasp. But nothing more. It seems to rile Changretta up. Alfie watches the scene unfold with maddening helplessness.

“Tell me to shoot him.” Changretta says coldly, staring straight at Alfie. “Just say the words and I’ll spare him this.”

Tommy’s ribs break with the next blow. It feels like he can see the bones cave inwards. Changretta pulls his gun, looking expectantly at Alfie.

Alfie’s throat has closed up.

He never thought it could be so loud, the sound of hard metal against a fragile, human body. It’s never been this loud before, surely.

When the pipe hits the soft part of his stomach, a high pitched whimper finally escapes Tommy, and it breaks Alfie.

“Stop, bloody hell, stop-“ he can hear the desperation in his own voice. “What do you want? You can have the business. The whole fucking thing.” The words just pour from his mouth and knows he’s blowing this. But he’s already shown his hand, and he’s out of cards. “Every fucking racecourse in London-“

The one fucking negotiation his life that actually matters, and he’s blowing it-

Changretta holds up a hand, and his henchman backs down. Tommy just hangs limply in the grip of his companion, head bowed and shoulders sagging.  

“Wasn’t that nice to hear?” Changretta sneers and winds his fingers into the mop of dark hair to force his head up. “Every racecourse in London… for a good fuck. You really must be something else in bed. Too bad I didn’t get to experience it.”

Tommy takes a raspy breath, struggling to focus his gaze on the other man.

“Fuck you,” he rasps out, spitting a mouthful of blood at his feet.

“Strange choice for your last words.” Changretta cocks the gun, puts it against Tommy’s forehead and-

Everything suddenly happens at once.

Alfie hears himself cry out a desperate no, hand reaching for his gun, just as a bullet whistles past Changretta’s shoulder and buries itself in the floor a few feet away. It draws his attention away from Tommy.

And in the brief moment of disarray, the man holding Tommy loses focus, letting his hands slip.    

One moment is all it takes.

With a strength Alfie can’t fathom how he can possess, Tommy twists out of his captor’s grip, whirls around and slashes something across his throat, all in one impossibly agile motion. A fountain of blood sprays down onto the grimy floor, and the man collapses.

Alfie has never been quicker to reach for his gun and throws the shot without fully aiming. But it hits its target, and the second man joins the first on the floor. Changretta takes a shot at Tommy. He misses. Tommy throws himself at the significantly larger man, tackling him to the ground and the pair struggle as Alfie runs towards them. A bullet shatters a cargo box next to him, narrowly missing his head, and he’s is forced to turn around to take down the perpetrator.

Absolute chaos has erupted in the warehouse. His ears pick up shouts in both English and Italian and shadows are flashing by in the labyrinth of cargo as both sides run for cover. Apparently, he’s not the only one who brought backup. The gunfire thunders against the high ceiling and metal walls, making it impossible to distinguish where it comes form  

But he hears the shot being fired right behind him, and his heart clenches as he turns to face the inevitable.      

The sight isn’t the one he expected.

Tommy is standing over Changretta’s unmoving body, gun in hand and soaked in blood. His whole body is shaking, but the eyes are filled with sharp steel as he stares down at the Italian. Changretta is just lying there. Spilling his brains all over the dirty warehouse floor. Strange to think that a regular bullet could do the trick… Almost a bit anticlimactic.

A sharp pain cuts through his side, and Alfie thinks it must be one of the nerves in his back acting up, disregarding it as his entire being is focused on Tommy, whose hands are steady as he aims the gun at something behind Alfie. He fires a round into some poor sod who must’ve been standing there.

He hasn’t heard the shot. And it’s not until he sees the reaction on Tommy’s face, his eyes widening in fear as they fasten on Alfie’s midriff, that he understands something is wrong.

Alfie looks down. Brings a hand up to his side and feels the warm, thick liquid soaking through his shirt. Struggling to understand the situation, he looks over his shoulder at the man lying slumped a few feet away, who must be the responsible party. The one Tommy just shot. Just another fucking henchman. Isn’t that ironic.

“Now, that’s just fucking rude,” he mutters and sways on his feet, clutching at his side where the blood now is pumping steadily from the wound. A loud ringing fills his ears, drowning out the sound of scattered gunfire.

Then Tommy is by his side, wrapping an arm around him as his knees buckle. He lowers him gently down onto the floor. Shouldn’t be doing that, Alfie thinks. Must hurt like hell, what with the broken ribs and everything.

“It’s going to be alright. Don’t worry, I’ll fix this-” Tommy croaks, putting both hands onto the wound and pressing down hard. Fuck, that hurts. Alfie makes a face. “Arthur, give me your jacket.”

Yeah, can’t exactly use that shirt of his. Already soaked in blood, innit? Someone’s arm appears in view, handing Tommy a jacket that he pushes against Alfie’s side.  

“Get an ambulance. Or a car. Hurry,” Tommy orders someone he can’t see. Probably Arthur. Or John. There’s a slight crack to his voice.

“You okay?” Alfie asks, feeling his throat fill with blood. He turns his head to the side and coughs. It’s Tommy who should be lying down. All bashed up he is. Alfie should wrap him up in his coat, sit with him in his lap and whisper soft reassurances in his ear. Tell him it’s okay now, he’s safe. And Alfie will never let anyone hurt him again.

Instead he’s lying here, bleeding out onto a dirty warehouse floor.

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

“Bullshit,” Alfie coughs.

He’s got no idea what is happening around him. If Changretta’s men have all fled. How many of his own that are still alive. All he can see is Tommy, who is looking down at him with wide eyes. He looks scared. Alfie doesn’t want him to be scared.

His vision is clouded by darkness, edging closer by the second. And his eyelids are so heavy. He hasn’t really died before, so he can’t tell if this is what it feels like. But it probably is. And fuck, after everything Tommy’s had to endure, now he’ll have to sit here and watch Alfie die too.

“You’ve got to promise me-“ Fuck, why is it so difficult to talk? “Promise to take care of yourself, alright?”

Now, Tommy shakes his head. But he has to promise. Even though Alfie knows for a  fact that he won’t.

“You can’t say things like that.”

Something about the desperation in his tone makes Alfie realize that yeah, he’s dying alright.

He doesn’t want to die. He wants ten, thirty, fifty more years with Tommy. Maybe he should be grateful that he got nearly two. More than people like him deserve, probably.  

“See, just because I’m not there, you-“ his throat fills with blood and he struggles to swallow it down. There’s so much he needs to say. “Can’t just check out. You’ve got that mess of a family- they need you, alright? And-“

Tommy shakes his head again, and something drips down onto Alfie’s cheek. He’s crying. And Alfie doesn’t want him to cry. Not now. There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Now he wants him to smile. One of those smiles that makes his eyes light up. Alfie should say something funny.

“Now you listen to me, Alfie Solomons,” Tommy voice comes from somewhere far away. “We’re going to get you to a hospital. They’ll patch you up. And then I’ll pester you every day for the rest of your fucking life about this dramatic outburst.”

Alfie smiles. Or tries to at least, though it mostly comes out as a pained grimace.

“See, if you should fucking dare to die on me now, I’ll take a bloody shovel and I’ll tunnel my way straight down to hell and drag you back up, do you understand?” Tommy cradles his head in his lap, muttering something about where the bloody ambulance is.

Alfie wants to tell him he loves him, one last time. But the world is a cruel and unforgiving place, and he can’t even open his mouth. And he’s so tired, suddenly.

He hears shouting, and Tommy’s eyes snap towards the sound. Grasping weakly at the hand holding his, Alfie wills him to look back down. Because if he’s fucking dying, Tommy’s face is a very pleasant last view.

“Alfie.” He can see Tommy’s lips moving, but they don’t’ match with the words. Everything is blurry. Far away. “No, Alfie, stay with me, alright? You’ve got to stay awake.”

He hears his name being repeated. But he can’t see anything.

He tries to picture Tommy smiling, wants to rest in that memory.

“Alfie!”

Everything turns dark.