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Alfie first calls Tommy ‘petal’ on a stormy evening in April, with the grey daylight slowly dripping into dusk. They’ve just concluded a business meeting and Tommy is already on his way out the door, his mind moving on to other matters. ‘I’ll see you around then, petal,’ Alfie says, like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just uttered the most insane comment Tommy’s heard in a long time. He stills in the doorway of Alfie’s warehouse, disbelief written plainly in the wide set of his eyes as he turns his head to stare. He pauses, trying to get his head around what the hell Alfie just called him, and notices the smirk curling at his lips. Just the sight of it irritates him.
‘What?’ It’s barely a question, more a demand.
Alfie snorts, then chuckles deep in his chest. He clutches his stomach then sputters, ‘Ah, go away Thomas. Go, go. I’ve had enough of looking at your fucking mug.’
Tommy stares for a beat longer, pouring every ounce of irritation he feels at Alfie’s joke into his expression. He knows it’s withering; he’s practised. With a huff (uncharacteristic, he knows, but Alfie always sets him off) he turns back to the doorway, stepping out into the rainy courtyard. He stalks towards his car, trying to ignore the laughter bouncing from the warehouse behind him. He slams the car door shut and cranks the handbrake perhaps a touch too hard as he pulls away.
===
Tommy brushed it off as a one time fluke, but it seems Alfie enjoyed the reaction he got from the first time he called him- Tommy can’t even think the word in the safety of his own mind.
It’s noon on an otherwise unremarkable Thursday when Alfie barges into the Garrison, crowding against the bar and raucously hailing the bartender for a drink. The few patrons who are sad enough to be loitering around a bar at this far from a respectable hour fall silent. An instant tension floods the room with Alfie’s presence. But Tommy isn’t so easily rattled. He heaves himself up from his chair, leaving his whiskey behind.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Tommy announces dryly. He tries to keep the irritation out of his voice. He isn’t overly successful.
‘Ah, Mr Shelby!’ Alfie booms. Tommy expects this and doesn’t flinch. ‘Can a gentleman not appreciate a refreshing beverage at-’ he theatrically checks his watch, ‘One thirty five on a weekday?’ He barely pauses for Tommy to answer, barreling on with, ‘And what weekday is it? It slips my mind…’
Tommy knows what he is trying to do. Or at least he thinks he knows. Admitting it’s barely past midday on a Thursday and he’s drinking hard liquor is tantamount to scribbling his weaknesses across his forehead and parading around town. He refuses to play this game. ‘I thought you were an organised sort, Mr Solomons.’ He nods to the bartender and with satisfaction sees him immediately pop the cork of a fresh bottle of whiskey. He asks Alfie, ‘A drink?’
Alfie sniffs and pointedly looks at his watch again. ‘Nah I’m good, it’s a bit early for whiskey. Wouldn’t say no to a beer though…’ Alfie is obviously revelling in his crusade of antagonising Tommy and he knows his patience is thinning with each comment.
‘I ask again. To what do I owe this pleasure?’ His tone implies it is anything but. Shit, not even five minutes into conversation and he has already lost control of his curated, even demeanour. Vaguely, Tommy can feel the alcohol affecting him. When did he last eat? Not recently enough to hamper any inadvisable alcohol fueled impulses.
Alfie replies, ‘Well, Mr Shelby,’ and he pauses cheekily, and Tommy knows what that grin on his face means, ‘I think you will find, pet-’
Alfie is cut off by Tommy’s fist launching itself at his face. But instead of a blow, he seizes Alfie’s coat by the collar and jerks him roughly forwards. He latches his piercing gaze onto the other man's and levels him a glare of pure venom. The threat is clear. He is daring him to open his mouth and cause a scene in the pub; Tommy’s own territory. ‘I suggest you think very carefully about how you talk to me here, Mr Solomons.’ An icy threat. There is frost on his lips.
Alfie stares in wide-eyed reproach before clearing his throat and answering, ‘I hear you loud and clear. There is a time and a place for such jokes and this is not it.’ After a few more tense seconds and with an infuriating smirk, he adds, ‘You can let go of me now.’
Tommy does so with a grunt, half surprised at his own reaction to the situation. Recently, if he can help it, he has been portraying a cold, unaffected character. Alfie Solomons is just so irritating. The man in question chuckles, ‘You’re a feisty bastard, aren’t ya Tommy?’ When he doesn’t deign to reply, Alfie continues in his particular, drawn out tone, ‘Well fuck you too. I guess I will see you around then.’ Tommy is relieved when Alfie turns away and makes for the door, but just as he’s turning to leave he shuffles back a step and murmurs too low for anyone else to hear, ‘...petal.’
Tommy knocks back the rest of his whiskey and ignores the red creeping over his ears. He feels off-kilter, and very far from sober.
===
Just a week later, things escalate quicker than Tommy anticipates when a recent “business venture” goes awry and they meet again under a hail of bullets. Tommy is crouched behind a stack of pallets, hyper aware of the bullets that whiz too close for comfort. The bullets crack against the wall next to him and he flinches away from the chunks of brick that scatter on impact. Dust from the shards settles sharp and rough on his coat, his skin, his trigger finger, and for a heartstopping second he is back there in those dank tunnels with dirt clinging to his skin. He bites down hard on his cheek to dispel the icy fog that threatens to creep across his vision. He can taste copper from his bitten cheek. Smell his own sweat. Hear the blood thundering in his ears. He comes back to himself just as a body thuds heavily beside him which sends a shock of adrenaline fizzing in his veins. His finger is a second away from squeezing the trigger before the broad shoulders and rough beard register in his scattered mind as Alfie. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Tommy hisses between clenched teeth. If he sags slightly against his unexpected visitor then neither of them mention it. This confrontation has rattled him.
‘This is a bit of a mess, eh petal?’
Alfie giggles, which takes Tommy by surprise and he turns his head to stare in disbelief. For a second his heart stops thudding quite so loudly.
‘Did you just-’
‘Oh fuck off Tommy, let’s get this done, shall we?’
It’s only then he notices the obscenely large weapon Alfie has hefted over one shoulder. Shit, he’s off his game today. Tommy’s breath leaves him in a sharp exhale and he rasps, ‘Right then. You lead the way.’
‘My pleasure.’ Alfie says, waiting for Tommy to lay down cover fire before jumping up and letting loose a truly impressive amount of bullets. At some point, he doesn’t know when, Tommy stops firing and claps his hands over his head to spare his eardrums. Between one bullet and the next, Alfie must glance down because he feels a heavy boot knock against his side. ‘Nearly there Thomas!” he roars, as if this is a casual drive in the countryside and not a harrowing shootout. When the chamber clicks empty, Alfie slings the gun back over his shoulder and hauls Tommy to his feet. Tommy waits all of two seconds for Alfie to offer an explanation before losing patience.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he repeats. Alfie just laughs.
====
Before long, instead of the expected adverse reaction of his heart rate increasing and ears blooming rouge, the endearment- no, not endearment - the irritant - has the opposite effect. Tommy relaxes. Such a simple statement, yet loaded with a complex twisted personal history that normally pits Thomas Shelby at the polar opposite of ‘relaxed’. And yet:
‘Oi oi, petal, what do we have here?’
Said to Tommy in the midst of an argument that’s edging towards a full scale brawl, paired with a confident arm slung around his shoulders. Tommy’s response is acidic, yet he can’t deny the wonders it does for his internal composure. A short few weeks ago he would have skinned Alfie alive for calling him that in public, but the man has somehow managed to work it into his usual wild charisma. It’s antagonistic. Accusatory. ‘Petal’ is bait for a fight. But Tommy rarely gives him the satisfaction, beyond a withering glare that sets the record straight for any ignorant parties involved in the conversation who might get the wrong idea.
The first time Tommy slips up and replies, ‘Look here, sweetheart-’ before catching himself with a cough and a blush, they are mid argument in Alfie’s office. He can’t even remember why they were meeting in the first place. Business, he supposes. In any case, he valiantly continues his train of thought, ignoring the infuriatingly smug twitching of Alfie’s lips. They are seated adjacent to one another, having moved from the desk in the office to the pair of armchairs in the corner for the benefit of Alfie’s back. They are so close that Tommy can hear the other man’s beard rasp against his collar as he speaks. Despite their barbed conversation, Tommy is slumped back against the leather headrest, a cigarette in one hand and the other hanging limply over the chair’s armrest.
When he slips and calls Alfie sweetheart, his heart thunders in his ears. He stills before forcing himself to calm and carry on with the conversation. He thinks he’s gotten away without a comment until Alfie casually drops into conversation, ‘You know the one thing you cannot control, Tommy, is your ears. They light up like a fucking flare when you get flustered.’ Tommy barely restrains from whacking him and instead soldiers on through the conversation (with pink-tinged ears) as if nothing was said at all.
====
Tommy has grown used to their relationship; he has held his own so far, matching Alfie’s jibes with his own cutting replies and keeping up with the other man’s boisterous approach. He thinks today might be different, though. There is a layer of ice beneath his skin. He gets this feeling sometimes like he has drawn back into himself; his mind a cool, damp cave he seals himself inside and sits within the frigid pitch black. Times like this, he runs on autopilot. His usual cold demeanor is useful to fall back on when his eyes are a shade too vacant, when frost creeps over his face, his chest, his legs, and he remains, hollowed, inside himself.
The best way to cope with this that Tommy has found is to do something. He was scheduled to head to London the next day anyway, so he takes off a day early. Alfie won’t be expecting him this early, but he has been turning up more often anyway under the guise of ‘business’. That one word has covered all manner of true motivations recently, one more won’t hurt. In truth, if he has read the other man correctly, he suspects Alfie won’t mind at all.
Tommy loses track of time on the train. By the time he reaches Alfie’s office, and is then redirected to his town house, it is early dusk. The short winter day already threatens twilight. Even as the house’s front door cracks open to reveal the reassuring sight of Alfie, Tommy cannot drop the rigid pose he has maintained all day. He offers a mechanical nod in greeting.
‘You alright, Tommy?’ There’s a beat whilst their twin exhales plume fog-white into the air, and Alfie continues, ‘Blimey, if looks could kill, I’d be dead three times over, the way you’re staring at me.’
Alfie is trying to goad him, but he must realise his ribbing falls flat. Instead of trying to aggravate him further, he guides Tommy into the house with a steady hand between his shoulder blades. They reach the living room, and Alfie moves his hand to gently squeeze the base of Tommy’s neck, urging him to rest on one of the plush armchairs scattered around the room. There is a fire softly snapping in the hearth, but Tommy feels carved from stone and won’t sit.
It is verging on awkward; both men are standing at an impasse until Alfie exhales with a noisy gust of breath and asks, ‘What are you playing at Tommy, eh?’
Tommy swallows against the icicles in his throat to offer, ‘I’m- it’s cold, Alfie.’ His voice breaks and falters on the name. Hoarse and cold.
‘Oh. Well, shit.’ Alfie considers him for a long moment. ‘If I haven’t misread you, Tommy, I reckon- I reckon what you need is a hug. Best thing for a blue night like tonight, trust me.’ And Tommy barely hesitates before leaning closer. He folds himself against Alfie’s chest, taking the weight off his feet and trusting that Alfie will support him. Solid arms don’t mend the rips and tears that line his aching body but they do bring him closer back to himself. His faraway mind gathered back against his soul.
For a while, Tommy gets lost in the burst of warmth he feels in his chest, his throat, his face. Gradually, he feels less like a marble sculpture and more present in his movements. He makes to rock back his body weight onto his own feet but a hand splays across his head and keeps him leaning against Alfie’s shoulder. The feeling of a warm palm against his head opens a well of emotion that threatens to rise and overwhelm him. He cautiously pushes against the weight, but he doesn’t have the will to fully resist.
‘Nah petal, there’s time yet.’ Alfie responds to Tommy’s restless movement.
Tommy feels some embarrassment at his vulnerability, but he doesn’t shy away. Instead, he wraps his arms around Alfie’s back and indulges in a smile.
===
It is absolutely freezing outside, with a thin crisp of frost blanketing the streets of Birmingham. Alfie has come up for the weekend, supposedly to trap some less established criminals into business partnerships they can’t refuse. However, here he is instead, walking close to Tommy and for all appearances, needling him into an argument. He’s only teasing softly, though, and Tommy has found it much harder to fake irritation when he can’t even cross his arms for effect. His hand is being firmly held by rough, calloused, warm hands. He half-heartedly tries to extract himself, but Alfie tuts and draws him closer.
‘It’s ‘cause it’s cold, petal. Your hands always look like a corpse an’ it’s worse in this fucking frigid weather.’
Tommy tries to mask his amusement with an eye-roll, but it softens his reply with uncharacteristic warmth, ‘Whatever you say, sweetheart.’