#moses parting the red sea used frequently in fics for what tommy does in a crowd i thought; yeah perfect a crazy reason to use it

[divinekangaroo]

Monsters Vs Aliens (Giantess Premise) fusion Peaky Blinders, Tommy x Lizzie, for everyone who's contributed to the fanon that Tommy really likes tall women...

*

Music and chatter from the church fading, Ada pushed through the wagon circle, the parked cars. Tethered horses whickered uneasily in the shade of trees. A little further, buildings out of sight, she found a solitary white shoe, strap broken.

‘Lizzie!’

Months of conversations, mutual counselling, doctors and more months of balancing medications, a new house and a holiday just after Ruby was weaned. Ada might’ve had doubts still about her brother, but didn’t think Lizzie would run.

‘Lizzie!’

White flickering through the trees, deeper. Ada went as swiftly as she could in her own heels. If Lizzie hadn’t run, then maybe someone took her; certain people paid attention when politicians with certain backgrounds made unwary public announcements about looking forward to weddings and things like that.

Then Lizzie clawed her way to standing, kicking over a clump of mushrooms, long hair loose from the flower crown and now full of leaves, dress dirty, and both feet bare and stained brilliant green with the long lush grass she’d just come through.

‘Look at the state of you.’ Absconding or abduction off the agenda, the next crisis lined up: less than fifteen minutes to walk the aisle. ‘What the hell happened?’

‘I don’t know. I went for a walk, clear my head. What’s— Oh, my God. Ada. So dizzy.’ Lizzie sniffed, clutching Ada’s hands. ‘I didn’t miss it, did I? I didn’t fuck it up?’

‘Of course not. Come on. Do you have your other shoe? All right, Polly will work it out, and the hairdresser’s still here, it’ll be all fixed in no time.’ Fuck. Neither she nor Polly would have shoes that fit Lizzie’s giant feet. Ada gnawed a nail; maybe one of the Lees. She’d ask Johnny.  ‘Are you all right, Lizzie?’

Lizzie looked at her, a little wild-eyed. ‘I’m fine.’

*

Arthur cleared his throat, again. Tommy tucked his watch away, again. He glared at his brother, ready to say something slicing about punctuality, when the string quartet finally raised their tune.

Instead of falling silent at the appearance of the bride, half the church whooped and hollered, wolf-whistling. The other half promptly joined in competition, petals, hymnbooks and pamphlets volleying both ways across the aisle, the opposite of hostility, as the canon drowned in the chaos. Johnny patted Lizzie’s arm and darted over to the string quartet, grinning, a chat and wide gestures. The four nodded, discussed, and immediately started – a fucking shanty?

Lizzie cackled, gleeful, as Johnny scurried back, hooked her arm again. The boisterous pews fell into line with the new tune, stomping and clapping, shouting in rhythm.

—wedding on the meadow, the finest ever seen—

Tommy watched wide-eyed as his wedding, his fucking wedding, everything exactly as Lizzie wanted and absolutely no hidden agendas, slipped entirely out of his hands.

—priest spake words as sweet as the breeze, ‘neath those ancient, whispering trees; blessings from t’fae and the leprechaun's smile—

Sauntering mostly up but sometimes down that aisle, casual as if at market, Lizzie waved and laughed, ‘Maggie, you made it! Donna-aa! Michael, look at you, all shiny!’ She paused multiple times to chat and embrace people, kissing cheeks.

Tommy stared at her feet, which were bare and grass-stained. Somewhere over his shoulder, he could feel Arthur nearly killing himself not to laugh. Charlie ran circles around Jeremiah that even Polly couldn’t contain.

‘S’good,’ Arthur said, conciliatory, as finally Lizzie reached the altar and everyone fell silent after a final spasm of stomping. ‘S’happy, see, brother? Remember happiness?’

Tommy stared past Jeremiah’s shoulder at the man suffering on the cross.

Eventually, they reached the part where they were supposed to face each other and speak the vows. Mind unacceptably blank, Tommy found himself hard-pressed not to reach out and cup Lizzie’s cheek, which would be a suitable stalling action. Brush whatever that little smudge of dirt or makeup was from the corner of her eye.

Frowned. He would have to reach up. A few inches here and there, all right, but she didn’t even have shoes on.

Much further up.

Tommy stepped away. ‘Lizzie. What’s happening?’

Her face fell in response to his. ‘Tommy? Why are you shrinking?’

‘It's not me. It’s you.’

Lizzie’s shoulders hit the rafters and she hunched in reaction, ducking her head, dress splitting down the seams. Tommy staggered, Arthur already with an arm around Charlie and pulling Tommy away from the near-radius of whatever this was, the flash of Jeremiah in his robes sweeping to the far wall. Ruby, Ruby – no, but she was all right, in Polly’s arms at the church rear. The nearest pews cleared in a rush, some screams, as Lizzie’s heel pushed through them, one knee down and the other knee tucked under her chin, dress and boned undergarments suddenly exploding in confetti shreds. The flower crown fell like autumn leaves, and Lizzie curled tighter to avoid any further damage to the architecture.

After a while, the screaming slowed. Stopped, deprived of the originating shock. Not to mention they were a fairly hardy crew, his and hers. Lizzie uncurled slightly, those huge green eyes wide. Fixed on him in horror. She must be so embarrassed, she was barely able to stay modest, curled like that.

Tommy could see straight up between her legs. He could—

Abruptly, Tommy turned and shoved Arthur’s head down, away from the view, Charlie already tucked faceless into Arthur’s shoulder. Jeremiah had his gaze politely averted. Back, to the shocked watching family and friends. To Lizzie, stunned and terrified.

‘Is that it?’ Tommy demanded. To the pews, threw his arms wide. Couldn’t stop pacing, turning, didn’t know what he was looking for. Answers weren’t likely to be had in a situation like this. ‘Is that fucking it? You lot, sit the fuck back down, on the floor if you have to. We're not done here. Jeremiah, what’s next? In front of the altar, man. Come on. We’re finishing this.’ Forward, he hadn’t come this far to—Jesus, those fucking legs, filling his periphery no matter which way he turned. ‘Everyone shut your fucking eyes! Not you, Lizzie. We’re fucking finishing this!’

No hope for the rings Arthur held out, one hand over his eyes. Tommy put his on, then forced Lizzie’s ring onto his little finger as far as it would go so it wouldn’t be lost, which wasn’t very far at all; such slender fingers she’d had. Then there was still the obligatory. Rapid and fruitless, multiple scenarios raced through his mind, scaling that ankle, climbing hair like a rope, settling for kissing any portion of abundant flesh in near reach, when Lizzie put an end to the mad loop in his head by gently lay her palm flat on the floor, lips writhing in some unreadable expression as their eyes met across the distance.

It was inevitable. Tommy climbed on.

*

Celebration at the wagons in full swing from the sound, Lizzie kicked her feet as gently as possible in the river, trying not to scream, or cry, or something. If she stomped hard enough, the whole river receded from her foot and showed the bare mud below: Moses parting the Red fucking Sea.

It was a dream, wasn't it? Some kind of queer nightmare. The thought might be the only thing stopping her from panicking.

That, and Tommy.

After the ceremony, he’d immediately launched into a rapid-fire debate with Arthur and Johnny deciding what would be cheaper to fix to get her out: the roof, the stained glass window or the wall. They’d decided the wall, then argued more on which wall was non-loadbearing. Johnny dragged in some cousin who did masonry work, and despite the pleas his speciality was dry stone walling in fields, forced him to make a call. Lizzie then pushed the wall out with all the ease of squashing a sandcastle.

They’d gone very silent at that, shrouded in masonry dust, Tommy with a look she’d never seen on him before.

Lucky she’d wanted a celebration in summer, more outdoors than indoors: no rooves or walls to deal with in the short term. Polly rousted the women, kinfolk and Lizzie’s old street friends together without any tolerance for comment or complaint, getting them working on unpicking multiple skirts and restructuring them into a patchwork dress, if barely enough to cover the pertinent bits. After that, Lizzie ate the entire wedding feast, given she’d not eaten breakfast or lunch out of nerves. Johnny rounded the men with an odd kind of glee, and they’d all gone out somewhere for a couple of hours and returned madly drunk with a fortune of live and dead animals, probably stripping the nearby farms, one way or the other.

Lizzie moved so she could see Tommy. He inched closer again.

‘Will we wake up tomorrow, and it’ll all be back to normal?’

‘Lizzie. How would I know?’

He didn’t sound upset in any way. Just steady.

‘You’re taking this very easily, that’s all.’

‘How else should I be taking it?’

‘I just can’t believe I’ve ruined it again. My perfect white wedding. Did everything right, every fucking thing. Ruined anyway, now and after. Wedding and marriage.’ She couldn't bring herself to ask why he'd gone through with it. He'd been almost tearing himself to bits with some kind of emotion in there, until they'd sealed it with that very strange kiss, him crouched on one knee and one hand down on her palm for balance as she'd lifted him, a position as confident and instinctive as if he'd done this before, then he felt along her lips with his hands, until—

After, he'd relaxed.

‘Yeah? How’s it ruined?’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘A bullet would ruin it. This isn’t a bullet.’

So quiet, maybe she wasn’t supposed to hear. Lizzie went quiet, too.

‘Need a bigger house, that’s all.’

Lizzie laughed. Stopped, desperately, before it could become hysterical.  She moved again, trying to keep him in line of sight. She kept panicking she’d sit on him or something horrendous, but he stood so close, little feather-light touches on her shin or, when she was sitting, her thigh, here and there, as if trying to keep her grounded, and every time she moved away he’d inch closer again.

On cue, he inched closed again, that tiny tickling touch along her thigh sending goosebumps chasing all over.

‘Maybe mobile scaffolding.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Tommy?’

‘Yeah?’

‘What am I supposed to do?’

There was a long pause.

‘If you lie down,’ he started. Stopped.

‘You can’t—’

Lizzie caught his gaze. A beat.

He licked his lips. Cracked his neck, which had been craning to look up at her.

‘Oh.'

‘It’s a nice night, Mrs Shelby,’ Tommy said, almost absently, abstracted, and without any particular emphasis.

‘For sleeping out?’

‘Who said anything about sleeping?’

Checking to ensure she wouldn’t destroy a small civilisation in her shadow, Lizzie carefully lay down.

*