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Alfie, mind you, doesn’t like Tommy’s family. Sister’s alright, he supposes, if a bit stuck up, and his little brother is harmless enough, but the rest he could do without. Shame they seem to come included in the price. He navigates his visits at the Shelby household carefully, only staying there for short moments and tries to steer clear of them for as much of the time as possible. The feeling is mutual. Arthur did try to shoot him in the face when he first found out about the nature of his relationship with Tommy, but thankfully he’s shit at shooting so that situation resolved itself.
Then it’s of course the issue of Tommy living in Birmingham, a shithole if there ever was one.
Alfie still goes to fucking Birmingham, doesn’t he, because he’s unfortunately found himself rather enthralled by this blue-eyed little darling who walked into his office months ago broken and bleeding and when Tommy won’t come to London, that’s the only solution. So he does, on occasion have to see them, the Shelby clan. It’s not common for them to spend the night at Tommy’s ancestral home, but since Alfie’s now made some slight and spontaneous changes in his plans, Tommy doesn’t know he’s arriving a day early, and so, he goes straight to the vipers’ nest.
It’s dark when he pulls up outside the rickety house on Watery Lane, and fuck if Tommy would only see sense and move to London, but he’s weirdly attached to his disaster of a family, despite the arguably strained interpersonal relationships therein. Ones which Alfie won’t even pretend to understand.
The door is unlocked so Alfie goes straight inside, knocking on the doorframe and calling out to announce his presence, lest he end up staring down the barrel of a gun. Granted, knowing Tommy’s family, that might very well happen anyway. No one answers his call, but loud voices are coming from the kitchen. He takes a deep breath, reminds himself that under no circumstances can he shoot one of them because that will most definitely not put Tommy in the right mood, and makes his way towards the sound.
Tommy’s brothers are sat at the table, each with a glass of presumably terrible whiskey. Their aunt sits opposite, focused on the newspaper in her hands. John’s wife -Esme, isn’t it?- is working her way through a pile of dishes between sips of a drink, and Ada is sat on the counter with a cigarette between her fingers. Whole lot are here, aren’t they? Well, except the person he actually cares about. Alfie clears his throat loudly, without gaining so much as a glance. It’s a wonder really, how so few people can make so much noise. Arthur and John are both having loud but seemingly cheerful arguments with Esme and Ada interchangeably, and Polly appears to be trying to speak over all of them, while still staring down into her paper. Fucking hell, how Tommy survives living with these people, he’ll never know.
“Good evening,” he says, loud enough to nearly startle Arthur out of his chair.
“The fuck are you doing here, Solomons?” he asks, though it sounds more like an accusation. John looks equally disgruntled. From the aunt, Alfie just receives one of her usual, oddly smug expressions. Esme merely briefly looks up from her dishes. Only Ada manages a more cordial greeting; she at the very least doesn’t look at him with outright hostility.
Well, fuck them, not like Alfie is too happy to see them either.
“I could tell you, Arthur, but I suspect that’ll send you to an early grave, so I’ll spare you the details,” he says. “First and foremost looking for Tommy, aren’t I?”
“Well, he’s not here,” John says, pointing out the obvious and Alfie reminds himself that he not a minute ago promised himself not to resort to violence.
“I can see that. But could you, dear John, tell me where I might find him?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know where he is? Not my responsibility to keep check on him.”
“He’s probably out, doing something that’ll get us all killed,” Esme mutters to the dishwater.
“Check his room, might be brooding up there,” Polly says with a shrug, eyes still on the paper.
Alfie leaves before he can throw something sharp or heavy across the room.
Turns out, Tommy’s not in his room, and with a heavy sigh, he returns once more to the kitchen, where things are as rowdy as when he left them.
“Well, he’s not upstairs,” he says, loudly, to make himself heard over the noise. And they all look as annoyed as last time, as if it’s a fucking nuisance that he’d like to know where Tommy is.
“Look at the Garrison then, bloody hell,” John says and fucking rolls his eyes. “Or the shipyard. How’re we supposed to know where he is?”
“Where was he the last time you saw him, then?” Alfie asks and grips his cane until his knuckles are white and bloodless.
Now, they at least have the sense to look around at each other for answers. Well, except the aunt, who only flips to the next page of her paper.
“The betting shop, perhaps?” Alfie offers helpfully, because fucking hell, he’d expected Tommy’s sister to at least have her head screwed on right.
“It’s Sunday, we’re closed Sundays,” John says. Alfie pinches the bridge of his nose. Bloody hell… He should just go to the Garrison and work his way from there. Even if he has to search through the whole of this shithole town it’d be better than trying to get some sensible answers out of this lot.
“Right has anyone seen him today at all?” he asks anyway, stubborn bastard as he is.
“Watch your fucking tone,” Arthur grunts and grips his whiskey glass a bit tighter. Ada kicks the back of his chair from where she’s sat on the counter.
“I saw him yesterday… evening,” she says. “He was going to the shipyard I think.”
“No one’s seen him since then?” Alfie asks and feels it; the all too familiar, sharp tug of worry at the pit of his stomach.
“He’s a grown man, he can handle himself,” Polly says and takes a sip of her tea.
“So, let me get this straight, you all live under the same bloody roof, right? And now, you’re all gathered here in the kitchen with only one family member missing, apart from the fucking child who I assume is asleep, and no one’s wondered, for even a second, where said family member might be?”
Ada at least has the sense to look guilty. Then again, that might just be wishful thinking.
“You’re all fucking unbelievable,” Alfie says and leaves the kitchen before he uses that very tempting rolling pin on the counter on one of Tommy’s family members.
He goes to the Garrison, where he finds plenty of drunk patrons and a barkeep that’s not a whole lot more helpful than Tommy’s family, who can only tell him he hasn’t seen Tommy in three days. Alfie is in and out in under a minute, heading towards the shipyard, where he has to stand and bang his cane against the gate until he gains the attention of bleary eyed man that he understands must be who Tommy calls ‘uncle Charlie’ but who might not be an uncle at all. And thankfully an introduction is enough to get him the answers he wants when he asks.
“Sure, Tommy was here last night. Came and went.”
After that, with his stomach tied into knots and his brain running haywire with unpleasant images, Alfie drives to the last place on his list, which is the newly established betting shop and office. Surprisingly he finds the door unlocked, and while the shop itself is dark, there’s light coming from beneath the door to the office. When he opens the door, he finds a dark figure slumped over the desk and he hurries over, heart suddenly beating a whole lot faster than it’s got any right to. As he lays a hand on Tommy’s shoulder -wearing a coat, isn’t he, despite the heat in the office- Tommy flinches and sways upright, catching his head in his hands as he nearly collapses again. His cheeks are flushed, sweat beading on his forehead underneath ringlets of damp curls.
He looks up at Alfie with glassy eyes, brow furrowing.
“ ‘lfie.”
“Yeah, yeah, treacle, lucky for you it’s just me and not one of all the miscreants this town has to offer,” Alfie grumbles and puts a hand on his forehead. As he suspected, Tommy’s fucking burning up. “What the fuck are you doing here in this state? Fever like that you must be feeling like absolute shit.”
Tommy leans into the cool touch of his hand and his voice is slow and slurred when he answers, “Had to finish some… things…”
“What fucking things are so important that- no, you know what, you don’t have to answer that, treacle, let’s just get you home instead, hm? Go on, up you go.”
He puts an arm around Tommy’s back, hooks one of his hands under his armpit and tugs him upwards. Tommy, surprisingly, cooperates fully, even huddles closer to him once he’s on his feet, resting his head on his shoulder. Still with one arm around him, Alfie turns the lamp on the table off, leaving the room in darkness, and herds Tommy out of the office.
Tommy shivers in the night air as they step outside and buries his face in Alfie’s chest. Who knew a bit of fever would turn him into such a clingy little thing? Not often Tommy allows Alfie to see that side of him, especially outside the bedroom.
“Got a key somewhere, do you, pet?” he asks and starts digging around in Tommy’s coat pockets. He finds one before Tommy can answer, locks the door, and takes Tommy to the car. Where he then proceeds to help him climb into the front seat. Tommy closes his eyes. He’s still shivering.
Alfie climbs into the driver’s seat and when he starts the car, Tommy flinches in his seat and looks around. Though he settles when he lays eyes on Alfie.
Alfie pulls away from the curb and drives down the dark streets heading for Watery Lane.
“Been in the office all day, eh?” he asks, and receives a hum that he presumes means yes. “But not all night, right, you’ve been home to sleep?”
Tommy furrows his brow and slurs, “Wh’t day ‘s it?”
“Sunday, sweetheart.”
“ ‘ve been home. Last night.”
“Right, right, that’s good to hear, at least. Wish you’d fucking stayed there.”
Alfie swerves to avoid a drunken man stumbling across the road.
“And how long have you been sick, then?”
Tommy shrugs lightly. “Few days,” he says, and then he closes his eyes and Alfie decides that he’ll wait until he’s better to tell him that he’s a fucking idiot for working through a fever like this.
When he reaches Tommy’s ancestral home and stops the car, he sits there for a moment, watching the light coming from the kitchen window. Following a sudden impulse, he climbs out of the car, locks the doors just to be safe and quietly slips into the house. He stays there in the hallway, listening to the sound of voices coming from the kitchen. When a loud, drunken laughter breaks out, he makes up his mind, leaves as quietly as he came, and returns to the car.
He goes to the passenger seat, scoops an unresponsive Tommy up into his arms and carefully lifts him out of the car. Tommy makes a little noise, but doesn’t protest as Alfie moves him to the back seat and lays him down. He takes off his shoes and Tommy immediately pulls his knees towards his chest to curl in on himself. After a moment’s consideration, Alfie shrugs out of his coat and puts it over him. He runs his fingers through Tommy’s damp hair. Feels the heat radiating from his skin, and finds himself watched by those foggy blue eyes.
When he gets back in the car and starts the engine, one of Tommy’s hands reach to grab onto the back of his elbow. He makes a noise that could with some imagination be interpreted as a question.“How about I take you to London for a few days, eh, treacle?” Alfie asks, even as he’s already pulling away from the curb. “So I can keep an eye on you while you get better.”
“Okay,” Tommy whispers meekly and he must be truly fucking gone to simply accept the offer. Though Alfie was, admittedly, counting on that. He glances at Tommy in the rearview mirror. He’s tucked his hands against his chest and is burrowing into Alfie’s coat.
“Don’t you worry, love, I’ll take care of everything,” Alfie tells him. Then he begins the drive home.
…
When the aunt calls him three, three fucking days later, voice stiff, to let him know Tommy is missing, Tommy is in fact peacefully snoozing on the sofa underneath several of Alfie’s best blankets, quiet jazz playing on the gramophone to accompany the rain smattering against the window. Still feverish and weak as a kitten, but in a less dreadful state than Alfie found him in. Alfie at least has the decency to tell Polly that, but hangs up when she starts spouting curses.
Then he goes back to the living room to give Tommy another cup of tea.