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fellow-travelers-fic-recs · 5 months ago

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Fellow Travelers Fic Recs | Monthlyish Recap (Part Two)

Some of the favorite fics read by FTFR and/or newly posted in May and June! This is a big one, friends... So, I'll be breaking it up into two parts. (Part One: Here)

😇 🍕 This time around, we have not one, but two very special afterlife AU’s, a pizza delivery driver AU and a few other fantastic recent updates in some ongoing WIPs you might already be keeping track of. You can the most recent chapters posted here: Featured WIPs Rec List

💦 May wasn't so much of a collection as it was a trio of prompts, with “missing years”, “May I…” and “International Wankers Day” being on May 28. You will find them mixed throughout this month's rec list.

🧁 Of course, June 6 was our beloved Catholic boy from Staten Island’s birthday, and there were a couple of fics to celebrate! 🎄 Mary and Tim celebrate Christmas in the 1950s, while 1980s Hawk makes good on a special wish Tim made long ago. ✍️Hawk breaks his promise not to write… While Tim breaks his vow not to give into unholy temptation. 🙏 ☀️ Kenny and Leonard forge a summertime bond before the war ... While Jackson reconnects with dad’s special friend from the cabin, out in San Francisco. 🚗

These are just a few of the many great new fics posted in the past two months. It's been hard to keep up with them all! Check out the links below.

📚 More fic recs can be found at the fic register, here.

Not quite what you're looking for? Tell us what you had in mind, here! → 💌

✨ Show our amazing authors some love with your comments and kudos on the fics you enjoyed after reading! Likes are lovely, but please reblog this post to share this content with your mutuals! ✨

Happy Reading!

🧁 A Wish Your Heart Makes [G, 1K] @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar) “Happy birthday,” she wished, the final notes of the traditional song sounding in his ears. She set the cake on the cleared table, unapologetic about how much she had to have spent on making it. "Make a wish."

Tim stared at the trio of flickering candles marking his twenty-fifth birthday. Maggie's patient gaze rested on him, as knowing as they had always been. She knew what Tim's heart had automatically wished for, what he knew was impossible. But this was his birthday, and birthday wishes were magical.

A snippet of Tim's birthday.

🧁 Happy Birthday, Mr. Laughlin [E, 1K] by @beyondxmeasure | Cyantific Hawk tries to make it up to Tim for missing his birthday. Tim's only wish is a gift they can both enjoy.

A missing scene, of sorts, of the Rehoboth Beach weekend getaway.

🧁 Bring Love's Dreams [G, 3K] @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar) The morning and evening of Tim's birthday in San Francisco, 1957

Canon divergent fluff.

☀️ Only The Lucky Ones Come Home [M, 1K] by @jesterlesbian | captainquint It didn’t make sense. Kenny wasn’t in Italy, he wasn’t in Europe. He was sent somewhere in the Pacific, Hawk wasn’t quite sure. That was the last he had heard. So how could Kenneth Willard be bleeding out at his feet in Velletri?

“You did this.”

The blood in Hawk’s veins turned to ice at Kenny’s words.

Or, Hawk has a nightmare about his time in the war.

⛱️ My Composure Sort Of Slips [E, 4K] by @bre1995 | bre_thomas, @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar)

It all started at the Nomad Bar when Hawk left Tim on his own.

Based on their weekend getaway trip, with a filler scene of what happened in the hotel room before dinner.

☀️i'll set fire to the whole place [G, 500] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup Lucy sat at Hawk’s desk, looking at the envelope, signed with a painfully familiar handwriting. She swore to herself she will never repeat a mistake of reading letters from that man, but with years passed she began to suspect that in that marriage she was bound to make the same mistakes over and over.

⛱️ Nobody gets to heaven if they don't go through hell [E, 5K] by @doodlingawaits | DoodlingAwaits In the past, I held two truths. My love for you and my love for God. One was real and one was a fantasy. It's 1968 and Tim is hiding out in Hawk's hunting cabin. He struggles to reconcile what he truly feels as he finds himself surrounded by reminders of Hawk's betrayal and his love. All the while, he cannot control his more primal desires... and neither can Hawk.

Part 1 of Man's Second Best Friend

☀️ritual and liturgy [M, 525] by @redmyeyes | redmyeyes It’s stress relief, nothing more.

Part 8 of Fellow Travelers

Part 2 of Man's Second Best Friend

⛱️i'm only alive when i'm dreaming of you [E, 918] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup Hawk spends the afternoon picturing Tim kneeling, but not exactly in prayer.

Part 3 of Man's Second Best Friend

☀️ in the night when I start to miss you [E, 2K] by @alorchik | alorchik One night, a shared fantasy, and two souls, entwined across time and space.

Part 4 of Man's Second Best Friend

⛱️ Don’t Pull Your Love Out [E, 5K] by @beyondxmeasure | Cyantific Hawk visits Tim in prison, and it stirs up a lot of feelings, and a lot of memories.

Part 5 of Man's Second Best Friend

☀️ Five Tim Laughlin Recipes by Hawkins Fuller [E, 3K] by @alorchik | alorchik After 35 years together with Tim Laughlin, Hawkins Fuller unveils his collection of recipes.

Or, Hawk shares his notes (written mostly for himself because he would never let anyone touch Tim)

⛱️ Might Drive Me Crazy [NR, 1K] by @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar) Hawk helps Tim get ready for a party. More or less.

☀️that light was too alluring and in your radiance i shook [E, 1K] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup A missing scene between the undressing and the hand job parts.

⛱️ Life Is Just A Memory [T, 1K] by @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar) Sometimes, Hawk remembered the small things. Flashes of memory, impressions. Sweetness. Gentility. Tanned skin and a bright grin across the tennis court. The shine of the sun in his hair and the way it had lit up his eyes just right. The curl of his smile. The flush on his cheeks as he held their trophy. The way he felt under Hawk's arm the only times Hawk could risk touching him in public.

Hawk lets himself remember Kenny.

☀️ look at me, i'm too far gone [E, 765] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup “What is it?” Tim nods at the dark fabric in Hawk’s hands.

“A blindfold,” Hawk answers, enjoying the way Tim’s face goes from confused to excited as it clicks in his head.

Or, a blindfold smut we all deserve.

⛱️ Together As One Let us come [E, 1K] by@ jiuselvtizidaren💠 What happened in the hotel room, in this temporary sanctuary enclosed within those four walls? Hawk had his own plan, but improvisation is the spice of life.

☀️ It's Rude To Speak With Your Mouth Full [E, 1K] by @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar) Hawk was playing with fire, he knew, but the minute Tim had walked into his office, eyes lighting up just from the sight of him, Hawk had been powerless to resist. Whatever his boy wanted, he would have. And when Tim stepped between Hawk's legs, dropping to his knees with the grace of a lifetime of devotion - well, there were definite perks to working late.

Yet another office sex fic.

⛱️ The People who Loved Hawkins Fuller [NR. 2K] by SourLeminade💠 The conversation between Tim and Lucy goes longer than what the show aired. Lucy needs to know what happened and Tim knows he only has so much time left to give her that closure.

☀️ i'll set fire to the whole place [G, 500] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup Lucy sat at Hawk’s desk, looking at the envelope, signed with a painfully familiar handwriting. She swore to herself she will never repeat a mistake of reading letters from that man, but with years passed she began to suspect that in that marriage she was bound to make the same mistakes over and over.

⛱️ And in a dream I'm a different me With a perfect you, we fit perfectly And for once in my life I feel complete And I still want to ruin it. [E, 404] By @in-our-special-place | Cupping_Cakes “That's not what I'm afraid of.”

☀️ Never be enough to fill me up [E, 537] By @in-our-special-place | Cupping_Cakes He'd been everything a lover should be but never loved the way he should have.

I come along, but I don't know where you're taking me. [E, 551] By @in-our-special-place | Cupping_Cakes But when the tremors subsided and she lay there smoking her cigarette, she was left feeling empty and hating herself for the weakness she felt—for needing Hawks touch so desperately. She knew she should have left him and found someone else who could truly love her, but the thought of losing him, even with everything, was too much for her to bear.

⛱️ It Can Wait 'Til Morning [M, 1K] by @bluebellsinburbank | ConsumingLove (Bluebellstar) Hawk calls Tim late at night.

1950s era almost phone sex.

☀️ god bless all petty thieves [G, 2K] by @thewindyoubargainedfor | thewindyoubargainedfor Tim meets Jackson at the hunting cabin. Years later, he gets a call.

⛱️ stay awhile (baby, you won't regret it) [E, 1K] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup “It’s something I work on,” he says, for some reason sounding apologetic. “I said it’s not a good time.”

“I can help you with that,” Tim offers. “Or, I can do something that will help you focus.”

“You’re not helping me focus on work, for sure,” Hawk murmurs, stepping closer and putting his hands on the desk, bracketing Tim between it and his body.

Or, an inappropriate use of the desk in Hawk's apartment.

☀️ with your hand you kept the real world outside [T, 964] by @startagainbuttercup | startagainbuttercup “I’m sorry,” he hears himself saying. Tim's eyes open wide, like doesn’t understand what Hawk is sorry for, either. “I’m sorry that I can’t give you what you want. You want to be able to kiss in public, like that couple in the restaurant. You want to stay the weekend and leave whenever you want, not afraid that people will see. Maybe you even want to live together, so you don’t have to leave at all.”

Or, a little fantasy after the "Hit me" scene.

⛱️ No more hiding, Hawkins Fuller. Not today. [T, 1K] By @carnivalrow | nightfall_in_winter Hawk can't bottle up his feelings for Tim any longer...

Check out the May/June Recap Part One Here

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#fellow travelers fic recs #ftficrecs #fellow travelers fics #ftfics monthly recap #fellow travelers fics monthly recap #fellow travelers #ftfics may24 #ftfics jun24

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firstelevens · 3 months ago

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⚔️ for the sambucky prompts, if you'd like?

great news for anyone who said they wanted more of this fic because [meme voice] somehow the mr. and mr. smith/spy x family AU returned

⚔️ Hidden Weapons

In the three hours since their meeting with Fury, Sam has rehearsed his next conversation with Bucky at least a hundred times. It would be easier, maybe, if they were in the apartment that they've shared for the past four years, but the mission hadn’t allowed for that.

Instead, Sam has spent the past week setting up in an off-the-books safehouse of Natasha’s, close enough to HQ for backup to get there fast but tucked far enough into the woods that surveillance should have a tough time finding them. He’d almost turned down the mission entirely when Fury brought it up: asset development might have been Sam’s specialty, but he couldn’t very well just show up at home with a baby.

He’d refused to be persuaded for almost two weeks, and then Fury had stopped by his desk first thing on a Monday morning and dropped a file on his desk, heavy enough to rattle the drawers. Sam had opened it to find a picture of his husband, only the man that he’d married wasn’t even forty yet, and the picture in the file was from 1957.

It had been a…stressful day, to say the least, and Sam’s only comfort was that Bucky wasn’t in town at the moment. The contents of that file had weighed on him for days. He was sure he couldn’t have looked at Bucky with all that in his head and not immediately pulled him into his arms to make it clear how proud Sam was of him and how loved he was.

It figures that instead of that conversation, Sam gets to have the ‘so we’re both spies who married each other for a cover and only found out by accident’ conversation. Sam’s only comfort is that at least the baby—Jack—is already tucked up in his bassinet, fast asleep. Baby Cass used to be a barometer for stress in any given room, and after how much Sam struggled to put Jack down earlier, he doesn’t want an inevitably tense conversation to make this any harder on such a little kid.

If it weren’t almost eleven at night, Sam would be brewing a pot of coffee. It’s not like he needs any more nervous energy, but it’s the traditional peace offering after he and Bucky disagree over something. Sometimes, it takes a while for either of them to put their actual feelings into words, but neither one of them was ever comfortable with letting anger hang in the air, so it became their shorthand once tempers cooled and space did its thing: a text or a note or a knock on the door, and an offer of a cup of coffee. There wasn’t a more comforting question in the English language, as far as Sam was concerned. For most of his life, it had just been a word, and now a soft, “Coffee?” meant a hundred things, from ‘I’m sorry’ to ‘you’re not alone.’

Maybe it was silly, given that they were both spies, but Sam couldn’t help but feel like that, at least, had been real.

One of the security cameras flashes a warning to the screen that Sam has propped up against the backsplash, and he peers at the feed to see Yelena turning onto the driveway and pulling up to the house. Bucky gets out of the car, then goes around back to grab a duffel and another case—it looks strangely like a large musical instrument until Sam remembers that Bucky probably carries weapons the way Sam does—, and just before she leaves, Yelena hops out of the car and holds a white box out to Bucky.

He tries to wave it away, but she forces it into his hands and then hopes back into her car, peeling out of the driveway with a screech of her tires. Sam watches for a moment longer as Bucky stares down at the box, his shoulders slumping, and then makes for the front door.

Sam pulls it open so that Bucky doesn’t have to juggle the box while searching for the right set of keys. He gets a tight, “Thanks,” in response, then closes the door as Bucky steps into the house, his entire body going tense as he takes in the space.

It’s excruciating, waiting him out, but Sam manages it. After several long moments of silence, Bucky looks around one last time and says, “There’s a baby swing.”

“Yeah,” says Sam, because he can’t think to say anything else.

“You said it took you two days to build Cass’s swing, and there’s a baby swing here, in Nat’s safehouse.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that you knew about this long enough to buy and build a baby swing,” says Bucky, dropping the white box onto the kitchen island and moving further into the house without a second glance.

Sam watches him move through the space. The duffel gets set out of the way, by the stairs, but the weapons case is left beside the couch. He opens a few doors—hall bath, laundry room, basement—before he finds the coat closet, shrugging out of his leather jacket and hanging it up before stepping out of his boots and setting them on the shoe rack. He seems to hesitate for a moment, his hand on the closet door, before he shakes his head a little and reaches for his ankle.

At first, Sam thinks he’s taking off his socks, but then he watches as Bucky removes not one, not two, but three knives from a holster at his ankle. He sets all three on the credenza in the hallway, then reaches for his other pant leg and emerges with what Sam thinks might be a collapsible nightstick.

Another knife appears from somewhere literally up Bucky’s left sleeve, and when he reaches back to pull off his sweater, Sam assumes that he’s done.

Sam is very wrong: the cozy blue sweater was slouchy enough to cover up the shoulder holster that Bucky had on underneath, and if Sam trips over his own feet at the sight of it against Bucky’s very tight undershirt, that’s because he’s not used to the floors of this house yet. There’s a handgun braced against each of Bucky’s sides and a small pistol on his back. Absolutely nothing about the way that Bucky moved through this house indicated that he was carrying a small armory with him, but there it is, laid out on Nat’s Art Deco themed hallway table.

(He thinks about all the nights that Bucky came through the door and Sam coaxed him into hanging out on the couch with him and Alpine. Sometimes he wouldn’t even bother changing, just kicked off his shoes and hung up his jacket and slumped onto the cushions with the cat between them. Just how many times did Bucky watch The Great British Bake Off with his knee pressed against Sam’s and a dozen knives hidden on his person? And why is the thought of that making Sam feel very warm?)

It’s a close call, but Sam manages to tear his gaze away from Bucky a half second before he turns around, leaving his weapons—and, to Sam’s dismay, the shoulder holster—on the table.

“Where’s the baby?” he asks. Sam recognizes that voice even if he’s never heard it from his husband before. That’s not Bucky; it’s Agent Barnes, and Sam hates the difference.

“Jack’s upstairs; he fell asleep about an hour ago,” says Sam, trying his hardest not to put on his own agent voice. “I, uh- I put his crib in the room that I’ll be sleeping in. I thought it might be easier.”

Bucky’s face softens just a fraction. Sam doesn’t need to say that he knows how Bucky struggles to sleep through the night. They’ve had plenty of 2 AM cups of tea over the years, and it’s hard to imagine that he’d been faking there, too.

“I’ll go put my stuff upstairs, try to get some rest,” says Bucky, his voice a little rough. “We can come up with a schedule in the morning.”

“You’re not hungry?” asks Sam. “There’s food if you-”

“I’m fine,” says Bucky, his eyes flicking over to the box on the counter for the briefest moment. “Grabbed something with Yelena on the way.”

“Oh,” says Sam. He almost says that he made Bucky’s favorite, but then it occurs to him that Bucky’s supposed love of Sam’s cooking might have been part of the cover, too. He’d made such a big deal out of being a clueless cook, but now that Sam thinks about it, making an asset think that you’re relying on them is a textbook way to foster trust and cooperation. He swallows the hurt that tries to rear up and reminds himself that he was lying to Bucky, too. “I’ll, uh- I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge if you want some later.”

“Thanks,” is the response that Sam gets, and somehow that’s worse than anything else. Three weeks ago, if Sam had made extra of Bucky’s favorite food for dinner and stashed it for later, he’d have been hailed as husband of the year and teased for not knowing how to cook for fewer than a dozen people.

Bucky makes his way up the stairs, duffel in hand, and Sam finally manages to unglue himself from the floor and crosses into the kitchen to put away the food. He reaches for the white box, assuming that it’s leftovers from wherever Bucky and Yelena ate, but he’s surprised to see the logo of his not-so-secret favorite bakery in the city.

The box is heavy when Sam pulls it towards him, and with a glance back at the stairs—he hears the shower turn on and decides belatedly that he doesn’t care if Bucky sees him, anyway—he slices the tape that’s holding the box closed.

Inside is a cake, but not just any cake. It’s a raspberry mousse cake, Sam’s very favorite, and there’s a little white chocolate disc on top with just one thing piped on it.

‘Coffee?’

#sambucky #I'M NOT COMING UP WITH A TAG FOR THIS AU THAT'S HOW THESE THINGS GET OUT OF HAND #I meant for this part to feature Bucky holding the baby but fate had other plans #zainab does ask meme things #abarbaricyalp #my fic #sambucky mr and mr smith au

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iowiymiw · 1 month ago

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It is kind of insane that Desk Set (the romantic comedy from 1957)'s screenwriters Phoebe and Henry Ephron were the parents of Nora Ephron of When Harry Met Sally fame, but also its kinda very unsurprising at the same time too. They are two romantic comedies that understand the most important factor in a rom-com pairing: "Can they hang out?" and the best way to show it is for the film to be just 90% of them hanging out

#.txt #desk set #when harry met sally #such an easy solution you’d never think it

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sneakyblinders · 2 years ago

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this line of work pt 1

A/N: this will be part 1 of a few part mini series (read part 2 here!) featuring tommy and bee aka our darling couple <3 (keeping it as one part would've been far too long.) warnings: blood, violence, pregnancy, mentions of childbirth, angst, language, alcohol, tommy kissing women he shouldn't be. not canon. a part of my tommy & his darling wife au <3 7.6k words. i take no credit for the gif!

1957

Tommy slammed his palms down on his desk, rage boiling in his blood. He walked to the front of his home office, towards the door. Several maids were dusting, conversing quietly between themselves. “Where the fuck is my wife?” he yelled.

They looked at each other, panic coursing through their minds. “We’re not sure, Mr. Shelby, we haven’t seen her since this morning,” the older of the two said softly.

“Well, go fucking find her and tell her to come here now!” he yelled, storming back into his office, slamming the door, making everything in this corridor of the Shelby Manor rattle.

The maids scurried off down the halls, rushing to find Bee. They find her in the kitchens, elbow deep in kneading a loaf of bread. “Mrs. Shelby,” the younger maid said breathlessly. “Mr. Shelby is upset, he says he needs you immediately.”

Bee’s brow furrowed, checking the time. Only ten thirty. What has happened. She goes to the sink and washes her hands. “We can have one of the bakers finish that, Ma’am,” the older maid said, eyeing the nearly finished dough.

“No, no I’d like to finish it myself,” she tells them. “I love doing it. Thank you for finding me,” you tell them, throwing them a sympathetic smile.

She makes her way down the halls to her husband's office and pushes open the doors. His face is red with anger, and by all the smoke in the room she guessed he’d gone through about three cigarettes in the time it took the maids to find her.

He points a finger at Bee. “Why the fuck,” he starts, tone low and dangerous. “Would you keep something like this from me?” he asks, waving a piece of paper at her.

Bee’s brow furrows, confused. “What is it?” she asks, not taking his meaning, not sure what he’s accusing her of not telling him. She tells him everything.

“Don’t fucking play that with me!” he yells, slamming the piece of paper down.

Her blood begins to boil, walking over to him and taking the piece of paper from his desk. Sloppy handwriting was scrawled on the page, a request for a meeting with the two of them, regarding your youngest daughter, Claire. It was signed by a “Paul Davidson”. “I don’t know who this man is,” she tells him, eyes wide. “What’s wrong, Thomas?” she asked him. His back is turned to her.

He whirls around, furious, hands slamming on his desk. “What’s fucking wrong, is I know our daughters tell you everything. You knew Claire is in correspondence with a man, so it is beyond fucking me, why you would fail to mention that the man who is pursuing our daughter is a fucking no good gangster from Liverpool!” he seethes, jaw clenched so tight she thought his teeth might chip. “You have some things to explain to me.”

She stood up straight. “Thomas,” she told him, lips in a tight line. “I have never once, in all the years we have been together, kept something from you. I have always been honest and forthcoming. I did know Claire was in correspondence with a man, yes, but I did not know who he was. She didn’t tell me. So,” she told him calmly, setting the piece of paper down on the desk. “Pull your head out of your ass, which is the only logical explanation I can think of for the way you’re speaking to me,” she told him, lips pursed. “Do not come anywhere near me until your head is firmly back on your shoulders and your temper under control. You will not speak to me in this way. I will talk to Claire,” She told him, voice firm.

Bee walks out of his office, slamming the door and walking up the steps to their youngest daughter's room leaving her husband staring blankly at the door before falling into his chair with a sigh.

Bee didn’t bother knocking, she knew Claire would be awake and dressed. She was her father’s child in that regard. “Knock, please?” she said, tone annoyed as she turned to face her mother from her vanity table.

“I’m not in the mood for formalities,” Bee told her harshly, eyeing Claire in the mirror as she adjusted her earrings. “You have some explaining to do.”

She wrinkled her face. “About what?”

“About some man named Paul Davidson writing your father,” Bee says, and the color drains from Claire’s face.

“He did?” she says, not meeting her mothers eyes in the mirror.

“He did, and your father is furious,” Claire closes her eyes and sighs, resting her forehead in her palm. “So unless you’d like to face the wrath of the king, I suggest you start talking,” Bee tells her sternly.

“I didn’t know he was a gangster at first,” she admits, turning to face her mother. “I met him at the fair, and he won me this box,” she tells Bee, pointing to a heart shaped, crystal box. “We’ve been writing ever since.”

“He’s taken with you, then?” Bee asks, sitting on the foot of her bed.

“I suppose so,” she says shyly.

“Cut the shit,” Bee sneers. “Your father is three steps away from asking Johnny Dogs to bring the car around and take him to Liverpool today. Start speaking plainly, now.”

A tiny bit of fear flashed in Claire’s eyes. She typically didn’t have to be this stern with her children–Tommy typically shouldered the unpleasant parts of parenthood for the both of them, something she was grateful for. The oldest two were nothing like the twins, who were nothing like the youngest two. Each of them were very different sets of children, which had proved to make parenting very difficult for her and Tommy. But Claire and Anthony… they were different children, requiring a much stronger hand than the older four.

“He’s–he’s been here,” she tells Bee and rage flashes through her eyes, mouth dropping open. “He’s snuck in the evenings, when you and Daddy are riding in the pastures or at the Garrison dancing,” Bee’s mouth dropped open further. “Nothing’s happened!” she hurriedly says.

“Bull shit!” Bee yells, eyes wide. “Claire, I was not born yesterday, please.”

“We haven’t had sex, if that’s what you’re worried about! He’s a good man, Mum!”

“I don’t care if he’s a good, bad or awful man, I am upset that you didn’t tell me as soon as you knew! You know about your father’s history with these things,” Bee tells her and her face flushes in embarrassment. “And if he found out he was in this house, he’d cut him from throat to crotch,” Bee adds.

“Please, don’t tell Daddy,” Claire pleads with you, walking over to where she sits. “Please, Mum, he’ll be so upset.”

Bee looks her in the eyes. “Claire, I have never kept things from your father and I certainly won’t start now. I will have to tell him, and I am not sure I can persuade him to change his mind on what he intends to do to Paul.”

Claire shakes her head. “You can always change Daddy’s mind! You just have to look at him and he folds!” she tells her mother.

She wasn’t wrong, usually. But this time–this was different. “Claire, Darling, I am afraid this might be a little different.”

“How?” she asks, tears in her eyes.

“This is concerning your safety. Your father got out of that line of business for a reason,” Bee explains.

“Yes, because you threatened him!” she exclaimed.

Bee sighed. She wasn’t wrong again, but she was missing important details. “Yes, I did threaten him, but do you know why?” Claire shook her head no as Bee pulled the skirt of her dress up her legs, revealing a nasty scar the size of an American half dollar on the side of her thigh. Claire winced, seeing the bullet wound scar. “That was a bullet meant for your father that I took,” Bee says, dark eyes flaming in anger. “And that is why I threatened him. He almost died, several times because of that life, Claire. I almost died. You never had to experience it because he was out of it by the time you were born–and it almost killed him to get out of it, but he did. So I hope you understand why wanting to run to a man who still lives that way is a slap in the face to both of us.”

Claire swallows the lump in her throat. You turn to walk out of the room, but she stops Bee. “Mummy, please! What if this is my chance to have a love like you and Daddy do!” tears threatened to spill onto her cheeks.

Bee’s voice does not waver as she tells her, “Not everyone gets our kind of love, Darling. And for that, I truly am sorry.”

That evening at dinner, the air was tense, Tommy still not having apologized for his outburst to Bee. She’d excused herself and gone upstairs and bathed, spreading her favorite lotion over her body and pulling a light blue nightgown on. It was long with lace trim and a deep neckline.

Bee sat at her vanity, spreading Ponds on her face when Tommy entered your shared room, face filled with fatigue. “Hello, Gorgeous,” he rasped, walking slowly over to his wife, gently putting his hands on her shoulders, bending to press a kiss where her neck met her shoulder.

“Thomas,” she addressed him sternly, avoiding the effect his kisses still had, even after all these years.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed into her skin, pressing another kiss into her shoulder. “Please, talk to me,” he whispered. “You know I can’t bear it when you’re upset with me.”

She turned around to face him. “Don’t ever speak to me that way again, Thomas.”

He shook his head. “I won’t. I know you don’t keep things from me, I’m just so angry with her,” he says. Bee stands to her feet and begins to work at removing his cufflinks. He looks down at her, wondering how in the hell she’d put up with him for this long.

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to tell you,” she says, setting his cufflinks down on her vanity and moving to unclasp his sleeve garters. It was 1957, he could get tailored shirts, but he said he quite prefers the garters. She likes them, too. “They met at the fair and have been writing ever since,” she took a deep breath. “She has, apparently, snuck him in here when we’ve been out,” his eyes snap to hers, an exasperated look on his face. “She tells me nothing has happened.”

“Oh fuck me,” he mumbles, turning away from Bee, running a hand down his face. “This is a nightmare,” she refrains from chuckling at her husband's distress. “This is recompense for all the terrible things I thought about you when we were courting, isn’t it?” he asked, a hand on his hip, the other arm extended out towards the wall, palm open. He looked so tired. “Fuck where did we go so wrong with these youngest two? They’re going to be the death of me, I swear.”

Bee walks over to him and removes the braces from his shoulders while he unbuttons his shirt. She fetches his sleeping clothes from the drawer and hands them to him. He shucks the rest of his clothes off, pulling his comfortable clothes on. He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for a cigarette. She climbs on the bed behind him, fingers starting to massage his shoulders. He melts into her touch.

“She wants to have a love like ours,” she whispers to him and she feels his body sag as tears threaten to spill onto her cheeks.

“I want all our children to have that,” her husband tells her in a small voice. A voice so small she almost didn’t recognize it.

“I do too, sweetheart,” she pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, arms wrapping around his shoulders, hands resting softly on his chest. “We certainly have set the expectation for love rather high, hm?”

Tommy sharply inhales. He reaches back to touch her thigh. The one with the nasty scar. The nasty scar that she would wear as yet another symbol of love and devotion. “Do you remember that day?” he asked.

She replied, “How could I forget?”

It was April 6, 1924. The Shelby Foundation’s first annual fundraiser gala. Everyone who was anyone was there. The entire family attended, dressed in their newest and finest clothes. The alcohol and food flowed freely, the best live music in the country was hired and paid well that evening. It was hosted in the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery. Bee wore a beautiful pale yellow gown to offset the dreaded Russian sapphire Tommy had given her a few nights before. The dress cascaded over the growing bump of their second child.

Tommy had nearly made the two of them late, unable to resist how beautiful Bee looked–her hair done perfectly, lipstick a light pink, only meant to accentuate the natural color of her lips. He’d made love to her sweetly, taking his time devouring every inch of her, whispering sweet words of praise and adoration in her ear. Afterwards he helped her redress, and the two of them nearly ran down the steps of the Manor to get to the car to make it to the city in time.

Bee had been proud of this party she’d organized. Hundreds of people were there to donate to the Shelby Foundation, a cover organization which Tommy intended to funnel money through for some business he was in contract with the Russians about. He had promised her, after she’d yelled at him for using the city's poor and abandoned children as a marketing tool for financial gain, that he would donate a portion of his own income to the orphans of the city.

People flocked to Bee and Tommy, congratulating them on the new step in Tommy’s career, and thanked Bee for the beautiful party that she organized. They congratulated them on their second child, many people not knowing about her pregnancy until that evening. Tommy beamed with pride when people would comment on how beautiful Bee looked that night. His wife. It was her who did all of this. It was her who motivated him to be more, do more. It made him hungry for success. Crave it. Prove to all the sorry bastards who told them he would never have it all, that he could have it all. And she was by his side, doing it all with him.

The Duchess, Tatiana, approached them. “Mr. Shelby, please introduce me to your wife, I have heard much about you!” she eyed Bee, a girlish grin on her face.

“Duchess Tatiana Petrovna, my wife, Mrs. Bee Shelby,” Tommy said, eyes dull as he tried to avoid the eye contact the duchess was giving.

Tatiana held her hand out and Bee shook it, smiling at her. “How do you two know each other?” Bee asked, eyeing her husband, who gazed down at her lovingly.

“Mutual business, that’s all,” he told her, hand on the small of her back.

Bee was called away to speak to a woman about a cash donation and after, Tommy came to find her. “Darling, you look beautiful–” he started.

She waved him off. “Why was she making eyes at you?” She asked him, anger rolling in her belly.

“The Russian deal,” he began, holding her hands in his. Bee nodded. “She is one of the people I am in contact with. I have to work with her on this. Unfortunately they have requested that she seduce me as a part of the cause, which,” he held up a finger to her lips. “I have told her it is pointless, to which she immediately replied that it made sense that her attempts would be futile after seeing you tonight,” he leans in towards her. “Darling, she says this necklace is cursed,” he whispers. “Please, take it off.”

She laughed slightly. Bee never understood some of the superstitions Tommy believed. Curses, witches, fortune tellers. She knew it was a part of his heritage, things he and Polly held close, but had never experienced them the way he had. “What will you do with it?” She asks as he reaches behind her neck to unclasp it.

“Throw it somewhere far away from us,” he says, pecking your lips.

At that moment, a waiter stops in front of the two of them, several paces away and pulls a gun from behind his towel that was draped over his arm. “Thomas!” She gasps. Tommy drops the necklace as she reaches her arms around him to throw both of them down on the ground, trying to be as careful as she can about her belly; the man screams something along the lines of ‘For Angel’. Out of the corner of Bee’s eye she sees Arthur tackle the man to the ground, the gun firing right before Bee and Tommy land to the ground, searing pain shooting through her leg.

There are screams of terror that echo off the walls of the museum. John, Finn and Michael scramble over to the gunman, several of them holding him down while others find objects to throw at him.

Polly runs to Bee, lying on the ground in Tommy’s arms. He’s screaming for someone to get an ambulance. Polly runs to the phone, pink dress trailing behind her. “My love, my love, stay with me, yeah? Please, please don’t go, please,” Tommy begs her. Her hand reaches up to grab his wrist as she writhes in pain in his arms. Her legs felt sticky from the blood pouring from her thigh.

“Thomas,” she manages to get out.

“Please, don’t leave me here,” he begs her, tears in his eyes.

She didn’t remember much after that.

Bee woke up what felt like days later, in a hospital room, Tommy rushed over to her bedside, grabbing her hands with his, pressing urgent kisses to her knuckles. “Thomas?” She croaks, throat dry.

“My darling,” he cries, tears spilling over his cheeks onto her hand, her lap. “My love, my love,” his shoulders are heaving, eyes rimmed red from a lack of sleep and an abundance of crying.

“Water,” she croaks. He reaches for a pitcher at her bedside and pours her a small cup, bringing it to her lips. He wipes away the little bits of water that gather at the corners of her mouth with his thumb. An intense pain in her leg shoots through her, making her wince. “My leg,” Bee says, tears in her eyes from the pain. She moved to put a hand on her belly, and it was much flatter than she last recalled. “The baby,” she said in a panicked voice.

“You were shot,” he explains, smoothing her hair back from her face. “The Italians–you remember that mess?” he asked. She nodded. “They tried to kill me the other night and–you got in the way,” he said, more tears spilling onto his cheeks. “The doctors had to sedate you,” he continued. “Had to get the baby out,” he says, choking back tears. “She’s here, she’s small and weak but she’s fighting.”

“What did you name her? When can I see her? Are you alright?” She asks, rattling off questions one by one, trying to see if a bandage adorned his body anywhere.

“I am shattered, my love,” he says. “It should be me,” he tells her, chin trembling.

“I would do it again, Thomas,” she tells him weakly.

He shakes his head. “What did I do so right to deserve you, hm? My perfect angel, my perfect wife,” he says, pressing another kiss to her knuckles. “I love you, I love you,” he whispers it to her over and over. A chant, a prayer, a reassurance to himself. It’s the last thing she hears as she drifts back off to sleep.

A week later, Bee was deemed well enough to return home, with baby Katherine in tow. There was a large group of people congregated in the foyer of the Shelby Manor, which Frances was trying desperately to tame. Tommy’s entire family gathered, everyone arguing and screaming at one another as to who would get the biggest ass chewing from Tommy. Bee’s family simmered in silence, seething with a deep hatred for this life, for this man who dragged her into this.

Tommy brought Bee in the back way, carrying her up the steps to their shared room, handing the baby off to Frances. He ensured she was comfortable, fluffing every pillow twice and putting plenty of blankets and books within her reach. “Don’t move a muscle out of this bed unless I’m here to help you,” he told her, wagging a finger.

“I won’t, I won’t,” she told him, exasperated at her husband already.

“Get some rest, I'll tame the crowds,” he told her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Bring your family up in an hour and a half,” she told him, eyeing the clock. “I have something to say to them.”

He nods. “Okay,” he tells you, pressing another kiss to her forehead. “Anything you say, Darling. Just say it and it’s yours.”

Tommy descended down the stairs, hearing his family screaming at one another. When he reached the foot of the stairs, Bee’s sister, Emile, nearly flew across the foyer at him, a harsh slap landing on his cheek.

“You bastard!” she screamed, fists hitting his chest. “Look what you’ve done to her! Are you happy? Are you happy you’ve successfully ruined the best thing in your life?”

Everyone went quiet. Edward, Bee’s brother, pulled Emile from Tommy, a sobbing heap. “No one wants to get the call we did, Tommy,” he says.

Tommy nods. “I know,” he says before turning towards his family. “Michael, Polly, I’d like to speak to you,” he said, motioning towards his office.

Arthur and John gave each other a look, Ada raised her eyebrows. Polly and Michael struggled to keep up with Tommy’s pace as he walked through the halls of his home towards his office. He flung open the heavy doors, inhaling the familiar scent. He sighed as he walked around his desk, filled with papers, letters, and various correspondence that had come flooding in over the last week and a half he had been away.

“How is she, Thomas?” Polly asks nervously, sitting down across from him. “How’s the baby?”

Tommy exhales, pulling a cigarette to his lips. “She’s tired and in pain but she’s home. The baby is weak and small but she’s fighting. She was four weeks early.”

Michael cleared his throat nervously. “Will she be able to keep her leg?”

Tommy lit his cigarette. “Dunno yet,” he said, hands shaking at the thought. He spoke to them regarding their end of the business. “After all this business with the Russians is over, we’re going completely legitimate,” he tells them.

Michael nodded his head. “It’s for the best, Tommy,” he said. Polly agreed.

“Alright, meet me up by our chambers in about an hour and a half. She wants to see all of you,” he said. “Send Arthur and John in.”

Arthur and John slowly stalked in, right as tears threatened to fill Tommy’s eyes again. He eyed the wedding photo of you on his desk and thought of your sister's words. He had ruined you. He had known all along he would be your demise.

“How is she, Tom?” Arthur asked.

Tommy looked up at them, anger pouring from his eyes. “She’s fucking fine.”

“We uh–we cut Angel Changretta,” Arthur told him. “Finished ‘im off. In the hospital last night.”

Tommy nodded. “Good,” he lit another cigarette. “Find the old man and bring him to me,” he thought for a moment. “Does he have a wife?” They didn’t answer him, but by the looks on their faces, he knew the answer. “Shoot her and bring him to me alive. I want to do it myself,” he said, jaw set tightly.

“Uh, Tom,” John began. “Mrs. Changretta was a teacher at our school.”

“Yeah, she’s a good woman, Tom,” Arthur continued.

Tommy narrowed his eyes at them. “Then if she’s a good woman, she’ll go to heaven, eh, Arthur?” Arthur wouldn’t meet his gaze and neither would John. “After this business with the Russians is done, all legitimate business will take priority, and everything illegal will be phased out,” he announced. Arthur and John’s necks nearly cracked to look at him.

“Since when?” John asked, indignation in his voice.

Tommy slammed a fist on his desk, rage boiling over. “Since my fucking wife, took a bullet, meant for me!” he screamed, eyes icy. “She wants to see you all soon so fuck off before I shoot the both of you myself,” he says dismissing them.

John and Arthur eyed the floor. “Come on, John,” Arthur says quietly.

“Yeah, yeah alright. Always second class now, eh, Arthur?” John sneered over his shoulder as they walked out of the office.

If they thought Tommy’s outrage was difficult to handle, they had no clue of the wrath they were about to face.

Everyone gathered in the hallway of the Shelby Manor that housed Tommy and Bee’s chambers. It was a sacred wing of the house no one really ever dared enter unless they wanted to subject their senses to their voracious lovemaking. Tommy had gone in to check on her a few moments before, telling her if she wasn’t feeling up to it, he would tell them all to come back later.

“No, no I want to get this over with,” she said. He opened the door to their room as she laid in the bed, feeling rather small. “Get in here, all of you,” she said, her voice making her sound larger than she felt. “You too, Ada,” she said, noticing Ada lingering in the doorway. Tommy stood with his family, ready to face his wife’s wrath alongside them.

“You look good, sis,” John offered.

“Shut the hell up,” she snapped. Everyone’s eyes widened. “I would like to know,” the tone of her voice was dangerous, no one having heard this side of her before. “When it was, that we decided to make war over who a secretary is stepping out with in her romantic life? Hm?” her jaw was set, lips in a straight line. “Because last I checked, unless there is something any of you would like to admit to me or your wives, none of you have had any kind of hold on Lizzie Stark in years,” Tommy, Arthur and John shifted uncomfortably on their feet. “So I am unclear on what the reason was that one of you blooming fucking idiots, decided to cut Angel Changretta!” She roared. “Someone answer me!” Bee screamed, head pounding. “Do any of you really think a turf war over a whore-turned-secretary is worth our lives? This isn’t the way it was five years ago! We all have children now, families we have to think of!” she yells, tears in her eyes. “So in saying that, you,” she points at Tommy. “Will call off the rest of this fucking mess with the Italians,” her finger moved to John. “And you are going to make a treaty with them, and you!” she points to Arthur. “Are going to make sure he doesn’t fuck it up.”

They all eyed her with wide eyes. John chuckled nervously. “By who’s orders?”

“The woman who may not get to keep her leg, that’s who.” she says, tone deathly. “Get out of my house, you all disgust me,” she waves them off. “And!” She shouted as they turned to leave. “If I can keep my leg,” she pointed at all of them. “The first thing I am going to do when I am able to stand is call all of you in for a meeting and kick all of you in the shins. Twice. Get out.”

They all hurried to file out of Tommy and Bee’s chambers, heads down.

Tommy spent weeks groveling at his wife’s feet, taking her scornful looks and hateful words. Guilt ate at him every moment knowing it should be him in her position. He would do anything to reverse the roles. She had wailed and cried, wanting to see the baby, wanting to hold her. Tommy insisted she was too weak still, which created more tears and resentment.

One night during a particularly bad spell of pain, she gripped his shirt, tears and fire in her eyes. “If you do not get out of this life, Thomas, I will take our children and leave. They cannot live like this. And neither can I.”

“You don’t mean that,” he said, terror filling his eyes.

“I mean every word, Thomas. I didn’t sign up for this.” She winced in pain.

“You knew what I was when you married me and you still chose to walk down the aisle and say your vows. You saw me long before our vows and you still wanted me. You don’t get to back out now,” he snarled.

She shook her head. “I didn’t sign up to take bullets for my husband who’s idiotic family makes war over who a secretary steps out with.”

No one had heeded her warnings of ending the war with the Changretta’s, and the family lived on the edges of their seats day by day. Bee was a sitting duck, waiting for the moment someone was bold enough to approach their home and attack her.

Tommy’s eyes filled with hurt at her words. “What can I do?” he asked, anger subsiding to fear.

“Get rid of her,” his wife snarled, grasping at her leg.

The next morning, Tommy walked slowly into the betting shop, approaching Lizzie’s desk outside his office. “Lizzie,” he said softly. “I need to speak with you,” he eyed the other secretaries who were trying their best to not listen in to what he was saying.

Lizzie looked up at him quizzically before standing to her feet and following him into the office. He shut the doors behind them.

“Sit, please,” he told her, reaching for his bottle of whiskey. She sat down.

“How is Bee?” she asked nervously.

Tommy shook his head. “Don’t speak of her,” he nearly whispered, pouring himself a glass full of whiskey.

Lizzie’s eyes widened. “Is she alright?”

Tommy chuckled, bringing the glass to his lips. He swallowed half the glass in one go, setting it back down on his desk with a thud. “No, Lizzie, she isn’t. She hasn’t seen her son in nearly three weeks, and she has yet to hold her baby girl. They cry for her every night. Her family is ready to drag her back to London and she has cursed my name every day since she woke up. She is not alright.”

Lizzie looked down at her hands in her lap. “I tried to tell Arthur, at that party at the Manor a few months back. I loved Angel,” she said softly.

Tommy planted both his palms firmly on his desk, shoulders broad, the fabric of his suit jacket straining against his frame. His eyes darkened. “You were literally,” his eyes narrowed at her in hatred. “Sleeping with our enemy.”

“There was a truce! It had been in effect for years!” she argued back.

“Yeah until John got wind of it! The truce was over after that, Lizzie! You’ve left me with no choice!” he shouted.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Lizzie,” he sighed. “I have to fire you.”

Her jaw dropped. “Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?” she asked. “They killed the man I loved!”

“And his people nearly killed the only good thing in my life!” he shouted, face red. “And she is moments away from leaving me as soon as she can because of all this now please, don’t make this harder than it has to be!” he yelled.

She stood up, her hips pressed against the front of his desk. She reached a hand out to touch his face, and he had to stop himself from leaning into it. “What has she made of you, Tommy?” she asked him, sympathy dripping from her voice. “What power she holds over you,” she mused aloud, thumb rubbing gently against his cheek. “The power all women wish to hold over the man they love,” she shook her head softly, tears running down her face. “What has she made of you?”

She dropped her hand from his face and walked out, Tommy’s head drooped to hang between his shoulders. He sank into his chair and sobbed.

A doctor's appointment a week later confirmed the good fortune of Bee being able to keep her leg. She was still on crutches and unable to walk for extended periods of time, but her prognosis was good. Tommy was elated at the news, sliding the doctor a few extra pounds, to which she rolled her eyes. She was finally allowed to hold the baby, and she spent most of her waking hours in her room with the baby, admiring her small features.

For the first time in their marriage, she’d subjected Tommy to separate bedrooms. She tossed and turned throughout the night and constantly felt the need to stretch, and somehow, Tommy always got in the way. And she was still mad at him.

He looked at her like a kicked puppy when she’d told him she had asked Frances to make up the spare bedroom and had hobbled down the hallway, closing the door before he had a chance to fight her on it.

He missed her. He understood her anger, her frustration, but dammit he missed her. Missed hearing her voice. She only ever really spoke to him when it was absolutely necessary. He missed her laugh, her lips on his. Missed falling asleep next to her, eating dinner with her and Peter. She’d taken to eating dinner earlier, before he got home most nights. The loneliness he thought he had long left behind him began to seep back into his bones.

So when Tatiana made her arrival at the Shelby Manor, he was weak.

He had returned from an outing with his brothers, a day of hunting and discussing plans for the rest of the Russian deal. He had delivered the news to his brothers that their father, sorry son of a bitch he was, was dead. A part of him was relieved, another part sorrowful. He returned, and his heart lifted when he smelled a familiar perfume—Bee’s. He thought she had come to greet him in his office.

His face fell when he saw Tatiana, the Russian Duchess in his chair. “I came to inquire about your wife, Mr. Shelby,” she said, eyes wide, tone laced with seduction. “It was a terrible thing that happened to her at your beautiful event, truly.”

“She hates me, but she’s alive. Which I will take,” he said, leaning against a bookcase as she stood up to fetch him a glass of whiskey.

“She will not hate you for long, no? Perhaps a little while, but once you cover her from head to toe in diamonds she will forgive you,” she smirked, walking dangerously close to him. “I went to Paris and found her perfume. I liked it, and I thought you might too, Tommy,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him, dragging her fingertips across his chest.

He sipped his whiskey. “I’m not going to fuck you,” he said, eyes betraying his words.

“Could’ve fooled me, Mr. Shelby,” she giggled. “If you won’t fuck me then what will we do tonight together?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

He drank until he was thoroughly drunk that night—for the first time in a long time. The Duchess was giggly, stripped down to her slip and bra. He had told her stories of Bee. Goofy, silly stories. Stories she’d probably die of embarrassment if she knew anyone other than Tommy knew.

He had told her the story of when Bee had woken up in the hospital, how she’d told him she would take the bullet for him again. Tears welled in his eyes, whether from the alcohol or the overwhelming urge he had to run to her, he couldn’t tell. But in that moment, Tatiana leaned in and kissed him.

He allowed his lips to meld against hers for a moment before snapping to his senses, pushing her away. “I—I cannot betray her in this way,” he said.

Tatiana looked at him through her lashes. “You really love her?”

He nodded his head, wiping her lipstick from his lips. “With all I am.”

She jumped up, grabbing his gun and running towards the stairs. Running after her, she skipped towards Tommy and Bee’s bedroom. “Let me show Mrs. Shelby!” She giggled, turning a corner a little too sharply and sliding on the hardwood. She giggled a little louder, causing Sara to pop her head out of the door down the opposite end of the hallway in the children’s wing.

“Go back to bed, Sara, please,” Tommy pleaded, running after the Duchess.

Sara’s eyes widened as she shut herself back in her room. Tommy heard his bedroom door creak open and a frustrated grunt from the Duchess. “Where is she, Tommy? Thought she might like to see me,” she said, pulling his suit jacket closer around her shoulders. He wondered to himself when she had managed to pull that on.

“She wouldn’t, she’s fast asleep by now and she’s a bear when she’s woken up, please, let’s go back downstairs,” Tommy pleaded as she began to empty bullets from the chamber of his gun. “What’re you doing?” He asked.

“Something we do in Russia,” she said breathily, turning the chamber before setting the barrel back in place, cocking the gun back and lifting it to her temple.

“Don’t do this, please,” Tommy said, a hand out towards her.

“It makes me feel alive!” She said, finger on the trigger, squeezing.

“No!” Tommy screamed, wrestling the gun away from her. He knocked the gun from her hands, and as he did, she grabbed his wrist, pulling him towards her, the gun clattering to the floor. She pulled him flush against her, their bodies toppling over onto the bed, her lips crashing against his.

“Oh, Tommy!” She gasped when he pulled himself free from her grasp, his hands on her throat—squeezing—tightly. “How did you know?” She asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.

He removed his hands from her throat with an exasperated huff. “I don’t want you,” he snarled, standing up.

She giggled. “Only have eyes for your wife, hm? Is that because of guilt, duty or do you really love her that much?”

Tommy stood in the middle of his room, panting, staring at her in disbelief. Neither of them had heard the door creak open further, Bee standing in the doorway on her crutches. “Answer the question, Thomas,” she demands.

Their necks snap to look towards her and Tommy’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Mrs. Shelby! I was hoping to see you!” Tatiana beamed, walking towards Bee.

She lifts the crutch from your good leg up towards Tatiana, the end of it pressing into her bare stomach. “Don’t come a millimeter closer,” she tells her, jaw clenched. Tatiana stops, the elated expression in her eyes falling. “Thomas, answer the question.”

“Sweetheart, I—“ he stammered. “You know it’s because I love you,” he tells her, taking a step towards you. Bee turns away to walk back down the hall. “Fuck,” he grinds out, following behind her. “My love,” he pleads, cutting her off from her path to her room. “My love, please listen to me,” he says as she lets a crutch crunch down on his foot. He let out a pained yelp as she continued to walk. “It’s not what it looks like,” he says.

“I am still in this house, Thomas! If you want to fuck another woman, how about you do it when I’m at least not in it, hm?” She tells him, slamming the door in his face. His heart sank when he heard her turn the lock.

“Darling! Darling, please. Please,” he croaked, throat dry from all the yelling. He slid down the door, sitting down outside the door.

Hours later, the corridors of the Shelby Manor were dimly illuminated by the orange glow of sunrise. His back was stiff, legs aching. His only source of heat was Scout, who had settled down next to him sometime in the night after the Duchess had fallen asleep in your shared bed. He heard little footsteps pattering down the hallway. “Daddy?” His son, Peter, called.

Tommy sat up, wiping the drool from the side of his mouth. Scout grunted, shifting her position on the floor. “Hello, son,” Tommy said.

“What are you doing out here? Mummy’s in there,” Peter said, pointing to the door.

“Yes, well, Mummy is very upset with me, so she doesn’t want to see me right now,” Tommy explained, straightening Peter’s pajamas. “What’re you doing up?”

“I had some scary dreams last night,” Peter explained. “You were shouting in my dreams.”

Tommy’s blood ran cold knowing what Peter heard weren’t dreams. He pulled his son close to his chest, pressing a kiss against the top of his head.

After safely tucking Peter back in his bed, Tommy returned to his bedroom, where the Duchess lay in your shared bed naked. “Good morning,” she nearly purred, stretching her limbs.

“Get out,” he barked.

“Waited for you all night,” she said again.

“Get out!” He screamed.

She looked at him, gathering her clothes from the various corners of the bed. “Remember, Mr. Shelby,” she whispered. “You may kill the priest. You have my permission.”

Tommy wasn’t sure what scared him more—not remembering the conversation she was referring to, or the look in her eyes.

Bee’s rage was boiling over—a new sort of rage she didn’t realize she had the potential for. It was Tommy’s fault she was in this position and he was inviting other women over to have an affair under the same roof.

A bitter seed had been planted in her heart after she’d regained consciousness enough to remember everything. The love she’d harbored for her husband had turned to enmity. Bordering on hatred. She hated the feeling, but couldn’t shake it. She was almost dead.

She’d refused to open the door that morning before he went out for the day. Refused to acknowledge him. Refused to speak to him.

It would haunt her as one of her greatest regrets.

Bee received a phone call from Ada. Panicked. “Bee, Bee, oh, please, please, you’ve got to help me!” Ada screeched into the phone.

“Ada, Ada what is it?” Bee asks. It had been nearly two days since she’d seen Tommy with the Duchess.

“It’s Tommy—he’s—oh, Bee, I don’t know what’s happened to him. He’s in the hospital his skull is cracked and he’s bleeding out of his ears and nose and—“ she rambled on, tears and sobs making it difficult for her to be understood. “Just please, please come here, please,” she sobbed.

“Where is he?” Bee asks.

Ada tells you which hospital. “Please come, Bee. I know you’re angry with him for all this but he won’t say a word unless it’s your name, please,” Ada cries. “What if he’s dying?” She asks.

“I’m coming, Ada. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Bee tells her. She yells down the hall for Frances, who comes running. “Please tell Simmons to get the car ready, I have to go to the hospital.”

Bee walks as quickly as she can manage through the halls of the Birmingham hospital, the cries of patients making her heart beat a little faster than it probably should have been, seeing as she was still recovering herself. Panic had overwhelmed her on the drive to the hospital. Worry. Worry that if her beloved was dying-she would have spent his last few days being cross with him for something that should have been forgiven already. Guilt ate at her.

She found Tommy’s room, Ada sitting in the chair next to his bed, holding his hand. His face was bruised and bloody, eyes swollen and his entire body soaked with sweat.

Tears fill her eyes immediately. “Thomas,” she breathes, hobbling as quickly as she can over to him, pain shooting through her heart, her leg, her mind. “Oh, my Darling, my sweetheart, what happened?” She asks, sitting on the edge of his bed, cupping her hand to his cheek softly, fingers immediately sticky from the blood.

“My love,” he manages to croak out. “Is it you?”

“Yes, yes, Thomas, it’s me,” she says, taking his hand, running his fingers over her diamond ring. He often ran his fingers over it absentmindedly, knowing every curve and prong. “It’s me, I’m here now,” she tells him. He takes her hand, his grip weak.

“You’re here?” He says in a small voice. A voice so small she almost didn't recognize it.

“Yes, I’m here,” she says. She looks over at Ada, confused at the glassed over look in his eyes.

“He can’t see,” Ada said through tears.

“Thomas,” she cries, tears spilling down her cheeks, some falling to his chest.

“Eh, no crying, please. Don’t be angry with me, eh?” He says weakly.

“I’m not, I’m not, Sweetheart, I’m not,” she cooed. He shakes, body cold and clammy to the touch. “Are you cold?” She asks.

“No,” he grunts. “‘M hot,” he tells her, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Okay,” she says, reaching for a cloth on the side table, soaking it in the cool water. She gently runs it over his forehead, gently moving to his face, wiping the sweat from his skin. “Just rest, my love, please,” she tells him gently.

“Don’t leave,” he says quietly.

“I won’t. I won’t, my love, I promise,” she tells him, pressing a kiss to his hand before he falls unconscious.

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